Abigale Hall by Lauren A. Forry

Author:Lauren A. Forry
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781785300288
Publisher: Black & White Publishing
Published: 2016-02-29T00:00:00+00:00

16

Coty face powder concealed the circles under her eyes and two tablets of fersolate helped fight her fatigue, but nothing could hide the fact that Eliza had slept less than two hours last night. As she spooned cold porridge into her mouth, she could only hope Mrs Pollard took her exhaustion to be from stress. Rebecca gobbled up her breakfast, no evidence of last night’s excursion upon her. Was she really so much younger that she recovered her strength that quickly? When did Eliza get so old?

‘Finish your meal.’ Mrs Pollard banged a pot into the sink. ‘I need you to close up the Ancestral Parlour.’

‘Mr Brownawell doesn’t want to see me again?’

‘I should think not, especially after your behaviour last night.’

He told Mrs Pollard about the slap. Eliza’s assault would not go unpunished, no matter if it was provoked.

‘Were you mean to Mr Brownawell?’ Rebecca’s eyes widened.

‘No. Of course not.’ She felt his cold skin against her palm, tried to rub it away under the table.

‘You made him extremely agitated. It took ages to put him to bed. Proper sleep is absolutely necessary for his condition, and I lost a few hours of my own thanks to you.’

Eliza waited for more, for Mrs Pollard to mention his injury, her disobedience, but there was nothing. She suddenly felt very light, as if she could float away from the table, and bit her lip to stifle a giggle. She never got away with anything.

‘If he’s sick, why doesn’t he see a doctor?’ asked Rebecca.

‘He has, child, but there’s nothing to be done. It was the coal mines. That filth seeped into his lungs every time he visited his workers. Now there’s no ridding the dust disease, which is why it is imperative he is not agitated.’

‘He did seem very upset,’ Eliza added, the relief making her bold. ‘He kept . . . he kept calling me . . . Victoria.’

Eliza saw Mrs Pollard pale as the implications of her lie took hold. Never had she seen the housekeeper so affected and was pleased it was she who caused it.

‘To the parlour. Go. Go! Rebecca, you stay here.’

Eliza left the kitchen with more energy than when she arrived. Perhaps the fersolate was finally working. Aunt Bess swore by it for a reason.

‘A week, Victoria,’ Eliza whispered to the paintings as she passed. ‘Please give me a week.’

As Eliza cleaned the parlour, she wondered what she would do if she were a ghost. Would she pass peacefully from room to room, watching over her descendants as a loving spirit? Or would she scheme against them, harm those that attempted to disturb her? Maybe the choice was not hers. Maybe it depended on how she was taken from this world. If her life ended as violently as Victoria’s, perhaps the anger of the act would instil in her a hate that was not hers in life, and she would be compelled to lash out and harm the innocent.

As she recovered the paintings, she hoped Victoria could sense her feelings, understand that Eliza meant her no harm.

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