The roughness of the traveller
The December afternoon holds darkness like a grudge. Leo will not return to the common room for supper. Adele has determined the girl to be melancholy and must spend the evening at play. Karen suspects Adele’s own worry has made her homesick or frightened, and Leo’s presence will lift her spirits. Karen now finds herself at odd ends for the remainder of the day. She takes another half hour tidying the school room, not wanting to waste the fine heat of the fire, or the privacy.
Her mind flickers back to the letter and its subject. An absent father – beloved if she’s to believe Mrs. Nelson’s words. Changed now, if she believes Leo. The rest of the servants have very little to say of their master, or in general. As a governess, Karen is above them in station and so not privy to much of their conversations. Mrs. Nelson keeps herself quite busy with the home – it is in a constant state of readiness for Master Castle whenever he decides to return, and so requires constant upkeep, dusting and linen rotations, “Dinah would run the same eight sets of sheets to rags if I was not vigilant.”
And so, Karen will spend the remainder of the day with a little ghost between the lines of a forgotten letter. It is not the first one she has met. For the first time in weeks, she finds herself walking Lowood’s dark halls, shivering in its unforgiving cold. And there, behind a door, waits a white little body under a thin grey blanket. Its ankles and wrists are covered, but she will know the sharp definition of their bones.
“Karen, you are freezing. Come here.”
“Miss Page?”
Mrs. Nelson’s voice stirs the silence and shocks Karen as acutely as static discharge.
“Mrs. Nelson! Apologies, I only – “
The housekeeper is in the doorway of the school room. When Karen meets her, the older woman’s look of worry melts into a sympathetic smile. “Oh child, you were somewhere very far away, weren’t you? I’ve been calling you, and there you were staring out that window.”
Karen looks up and finds she has come to rest at the tall window that overlooks the garden and Thornfield Lane behind. It is a quiet path and used only for the neighborhood’s few local coaches. She wonders how long she has been caught in her reverie.
“This time of year can be difficult,” Mrs. Nelson offers, “Especially if it’s your first so far from home.”
Karen replies with a smile as if Mrs. Nelson has guessed her heart. This broadens the matron’s own happy look, and she draws a packet of letters from under her apron.
“Now, fresh air is a great cure for anything – so they say. Will you bring these to the post office? You should be home in time for tea.”
___
The moon rises in twilight over the rooftops of St. John’s circle. Karen has pulled her cloak’s heavy collar around her neck and burrowed deep under the brim of her bonnet.
The walk had offered some exercise for her wandering mind. She had allowed herself time to look in a dressmaker’s window at gloves and shawls. There are carts in the street selling buttons, ribbons and fans. Karen makes it as far as the third stall before she pauses at a young girl no older than Leo with grubby fingers and a tray of costume brooches; paste buckles and cloudy gems laid carefully on muslin.
“Something for your bonnet, Miss?”
The girl is small and thin. She looks hungry and anxious. Karen speaks quietly, “Have you eaten today?”
“I eat when I’ve sold something, Miss.”
“And have you sold anything?”
The girl bites her chapped lower lip and shakes her head. A seller two carts away calls to Karen to leave the trash where it lies and shop with quality. This raises a red flush in Karen’s cheeks. She snaps a sharp look at the merchant and, turning back to the child, fishes a penny from her reticule.
“I know what it means to be hungry – food shouldn’t be a condition of sale.”
The child pauses. She searches Karen’s face then plucks the coin from her gloved palm and nods. Karen returns the gesture and stands. As she stalks past the merchant she gives him a glare that makes the man pale. The adventure is over, the fun of browsing has evaporated. There’s nothing left for her here.
Karen has left her return too late. The sky is deepening and she must hurry home before full darkness descends. In her mind’s eye, she sees the route back – a long trek through main streets or a short, nipping path along cart alleys and narrow lanes. If she stays on the main road, night will have risen long before she arrives back. If she dares her luck, the shortcut will see her home just after sunset.
Karen pulls her the cloak closer around her shoulders, draws her mouth into a firm line, and turns down the first of six crossing sub-streets. She hurries, chasing the fading light with swift steps. There is mud in the cobbles and moss grows in the brick footers and stoops of the buildings. Above her a handful of sparrows dip and circle, chasing the sun back into the bay beyond.
Then a shriek and clattering hooves. Karen circles, crashing directly into the dense block of a horse’s massive chest. She bounces back, stumbles on her feet but keeps her balance. The same cannot be said for the animal or its rider. With a roar, both man and horse reel back and land with a discomforting thump.
There is a beat of silence, followed by a shout.
“DAMN YOU, BEAST!”
Karen claps both hands over her mouth to stifle a cry. She flushes hot, recognizing the spats and wool coat of a gentleman. He lies in an unceremonious heap with one leg under the horse. His hat is on its side a few steps from her foot.
The gentleman lifts himself on an elbow and stares over the bulk of the horse as it heaves itself up. He scowls, a thunderous look made darker by his heavy black beard and fierce brows. Barking echoes down the lane walls and a thickset grey dog with broad shoulders and a great, square head skids into the middle of the scene. His horse and dog caper, raising a din that clatters against the tight brick.
“Are you injured, sir?” Karen, at last, finds her voice. She reaches lamely to offer a hand, although the man has already begun to right himself. He grunts, then yelps in pain as he tries his ankle. It will not hold.
“Where did you come from?” his voice is gravel and ice. Karen is on edge. She pulls her hand back and steps against the far wall, mind racing.
“Thornfield House. I am the governess.”
His glare softens only above his nose where his brows knit. His eyes are large and dark, heavy-lashed and snapping sparks. Bruises lace along his cheekbones and run beneath the thick beard to disappear under a clean white cravat. The tips of his large ears are red. He may be handsome beneath the beard. He may very well be no gentleman at all.
Karen’s imagination flashes wild headlines of the unknown assailant at the Five Points docks. She has nothing for protection – she curses herself for not at least picking up a rock.
“I’ll go for help.” Karen turns, but the man makes a strained rumble that stops her cold. No, cold is not right for it. His sound raises heat along her arms despite the winter wind. The dog whines, crowding against his master who pushes the blunt muzzle away with annoyance, “Pilot, get down!”
Then, to Karen: “Take the bridle and bring him here.” He nods towards the horse, which is less animal than a saddled mountain. Its eyes roll and it prances heavily on anvil-like hooves. Karen gasps, reaches for the lead, but a fear of being trampled stops her from taking hold.
The man sighs. He shifts on the cold cobbles and loops a long arm over the dog, giving it a reassuring scratch before planting his hands in the mud. With a groan like wood splitting he heaves himself upright enough to catch hold of an iron pipe running from a low window nearby. He staggers, stands, then wobbles awkwardly and wheels out with a shout. The ankle is useless and she cannot bring him the horse.
“Help me to him, then.”
Karen feels the steel in her own glare stop him dead. The man, half covered in mud and losing his balance to the overzealous dog, gives a cheerless laugh at his predicament.
“If you would so kindly assist me, ma’am.”
Karen gives weight to the growing list of disasters facing her. Darkness has swallowed all but the farthest reaches of the sky and Hay Lane is now bathed in blue evening. There is a massive horse, nervous and pacing, between her and a strange man who arrived out of the shadows and now asks her to help him walk.
But, her racing mind supplies, isn’t this how victims are lured to their deaths?
Now it is Karen’s turn to become ice. The bruises, the hardness of his tone, awaken a defensive instinct. Her gloved hands ball into tight fists. She told Cook this afternoon she believed in the strength of Thornfield’s walls. Now she would do what she could to return to them.
Pilot, stump of a tail in motion as he leaps against his master’s knee, does diffuse this scene. Karen meets the man’s gaze. A shock, perhaps a reckoning, lights between them and Karen is spurred to act.
Uncurling one fist, Karen steps forward and offers an open hand. The man slowly reaches his arm across her shoulders as if calming a panicked horse. He takes a moment to settle his full weight against her. Karen staggers; she loses her footing and he pitches forward; his unused hand closes over her waist. His fingers dig into her flesh.
Acting on instinct alone, Karen swings her free arm in a tight arc and buries her fist in his stomach. He makes a sound like a fireplace bellows being compressed. He stumbles back, groaning, and clutches his middle. The dog is climbing his knees with yelps of worry.
Karen seizes her moment to flee, running as fast as she can to the end of the lane, into the open street beyond and then in a straight line for the house. Her feet pound at the packed earth of the road and her too-tight boots bite in protest.
Karen’s lungs are ready to burst. Sweat gathers under her arms and across her forehead. She pulls to a halt at the service entrance by the kitchen and pounds the flats of her hands against the door. Dinah answers and gives a bewildered shout as Karen collapses against her, arms hugging the maid tightly as if drowning.
Within the half hour, Karen has been calmed with a glass of port and a compress that Cook refreshes in cold water under the tap. Dinah and Adele sit at the broad kitchen table, each with a soothing hand on Karen.
“You were saved by the Almighty in that alley, Miss Page,” Dinah announces, then crosses herself. A fresh newspaper is folded between them on the table. Its latest headline trumpets in all capitals: “CONSTABLES SEEK NEW AVENUES IN SEARCH OF FIVE POINTS FIEND”
When Karen’s story has been told three times, and before Cook asks her to begin a fourth rendition, Mrs. Nelson appears at the dining room entrance. The housekeeper wears a look a look of disbelief beneath an overwrought mob cap decked with ruffles. The headgear matches an equally ornate shawl pinned across her shoulders with a heavy jet brooch. The look is a surprising one for Mrs. Nelson, who prefers starched cottons and simple wool day to day.
“Gracious. Where have you been, Karen? Mr. Castle is here.”
The kitchen staff scatters to action at the sound of his name. Karen wrings the compress a last time in her hand and stands, smoothing her dress absently. Mrs. Nelson narrows her eyes, appraising.
“Go and change for the evening. He’s asked to meet you.”
“But all my dresses are the same.” Karen has just two – each a shade of grey chosen for longevity rather than style.
Mrs. Nelson makes a small fretting noise and bustles over to dust and pinch the fabric at Karen’s shoulders. “You must have something better? He’s in a foul mood; his horse fell in Hay lane. He’s terribly bruised – with a twisted ankle as well! Doctor Madani has been with him this half hour. Where have you been?”
At that moment, a boxy shadow running low to the ground appears from behind the baize door. It is a barrel-chested grey dog with a notably square head and a stump of a tail. It spots Karen and gives a small whuff. The blood drains from her face.