“Never you mind,” the housekeeper said. “I will have your things brought to your rooms. I am Mrs. Desmond, the housekeeper.” She guided us in, clucking a little like a hen over errant chicks. “The family have retired hours ago, and you must be worn to ribbons. Let me just turn down the beds and have hot bricks put in.”
She hurried up a wide, oaken staircase. It was unusual in design, carved with decorations I could not quite make out in the gloom. Animals, I surmised, catching a glimpse of pointed fangs. Across the bottom of the staircase hung a pair of wooden gates, to keep the dogs from the upper floors, no doubt. But there were no dogs here now, warming themselves at the feeble fire. In days long past, there would have been a pack of hunting hounds, perhaps a lady’s spaniel or two, lolling on a bright woolen hearthrug.
Now there were only the bare flags of the hall, upon which stood a pair of tall wooden chairs, enormous things with carved hoods over the tops, and a single suit of armor, rusting sadly in the corner. A large dining table had been set in the center, not half near enough to the fire for comfort, and a collection of worn sofas and armchairs that looked the worse for moth completed the arrangement.
A narrow gallery ran the length of one wall, and I saw Mrs. Desmond’s head bobbing above the railing as she made her way to the private quarters of the house. A few odd bits of weaponry were hung upon the walls, and a tapestry frame—stripped of its treasure—showed where something grand had once hung. Picture frames had left their marks upon the stones, but only the nails were left. The room was a ghost of what it might once have been.
“So much for Charles and Mary Hathaway’s modernizing,” I murmured to Stoker.
He pointed to the swatches of bright new wallpaper that had been applied to one wall. They were various and hideous shades of mauve, all flowered, and I repressed a shudder.
“To do that to this grand old room is a crime,” I observed.
“Then do not look at the new tiles heaped up in the corner,” he advised.
Mrs. Desmond returned then and led us to our rooms. Theseus sprang to mind as she guided us down passages and up some stairs only to descend others. We turned, we twisted, we climbed. Some of the passages were laid with thick carpets, obviously new. These corridors were dotted with palms and aspidistras in heavy porcelain pots, and the walls, decorated with silks or gilded papers, were hung with paintings of fruit and landscapes, and Mrs. Desmond paused in front of each to recite the artist and subject, obviously having learnt them by rote and doubtless at Charles and Mary Hathaway’s insistence. The sharp odor of new paint hung in the air in these corridors, but when we at last reached our destination, it was in a passageway with bare floorboards and doors painted in a faded, bilious green.
“This is the Maidens’ Wing, and here is your room, Miss Speedwell,” she pronounced, flinging open the door. I could sense rather than see Stoker’s lips twitching. Maidens’ Wing indeed! Mrs. Desmond went on. “All unmarried ladies stay here, but at present that is only yourself and Miss Euphemia. She is just down the corridor. And you have only to ring if you require anything,” she said, motioning for me to enter. “Your bag has been brought up,” she added, nodding to the carpetbag being unpacked by a young maid. The girl had already placed my clothing in the wardrobe and books upon the bedside table, and she adjusted the hot bricks under the sheets before bobbing a curtsy and scurrying away to the servants’ stair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Desmond,” I said.
The housekeeper pointed out the location of the bellpull and bustled away with Stoker, who winked at me behind her back. That little gesture warmed me, and I closed the door to take stock of my bedchamber. It had been furnished sometime early in Victoria’s reign, I had no doubt, for there was an austerity to the heavy dark wooden furniture. It was thickly carved with motifs I could not quite make out, and the hangings were a dark ruby red. There was a needlepoint rug on the floor that might have been stitched by Methuselah’s mother, and the cracked bowl of the washstand was lavishly decorated with garish red roses. There were few ornaments, the bulk of them having long been sold, I suspected, and what remained was of dubious quality.
But for all its faded grandeur, the house gleamed, every surface polished and waxed to perfection, every cobweb swept, every mantelpiece dusted. Mrs. Desmond clearly took excellent care to maintain the place, and my comfort had been anticipated. A merry fire burned hot upon the hearth, and cans of steaming water had been carried to the adjoining bathroom, where an enormous and ancient tub stood in pride of place. On a small table by the fire in my room, a covered tray waited. I lifted a dome to release the fragrance of hot chicken pie with vegetables and fresh bread. There were cups of custard, golden and eggy, and I knew if Stoker had a similar tray, he would be making low whimpers of pleasure.
In spite of the luxurious hamper on the train, I was hungry, the cold and wet trip across the moor rousing my appetite. I fell upon the food like a starveling, making short work of the late supper. My ablutions were swift, for the water had cooled as I ate. As I toweled myself dry, I cast an eye towards the bed. It was narrow as the devil and hard as a rock, stuffed with horsehair, I decided after an experimental bounce. The resulting shriek of bedsprings sounded like the proverbial banshee, and I realized that any private demonstrations of affection with Stoker would have to wait until we returned to London. Stoker had, upon more than one occasion, remarked upon my vocal expressions during lovemaking, which tended toward the exuberant and audible. With his natural delicacy, he would never attempt to engage in activities which might be overheard, and I was keenly aware of young Euphemia, no doubt slumbering peacefully somewhere along the same corridor.
I climbed into my high, narrow bed and burrowed into heavy sheets that smelt strongly of lavender. I might have appreciated Stoker’s presence as a platonic bedwarmer, but the hot bricks had fulfilled their purpose, I realized as I sank into drowsiness. There are few comforts as satisfying as a warm fire, a cozy bed, and a delicious meal after one has been chilled to the bone with wind and rain.
Somewhere, in the depths of the house, a clock struck the hour and a floorboard creaked. Rain, which had lashed the windowpane, settled to a soothing hum, and at last, I slept.
CHAPTER
6
I woke to a tapping upon the door. It was early, the watery light just beginning to fill the room as I sat up in bed. Without waiting for a response, the author of the knock entered, a young woman dressed in a sober gown of dark flannel stuff. Her features were bony, her skin pale and starred with freckles. Dark, gingery hair had been plaited and wound to form an untidy coronet around her head. She was tall and slender and carried a tray in her hands. A teapot sloshed as she set it down with a bang.
“Good morning,” she said, coming near to the bed. “I am Euphemia Hathaway. Effie to my friends.”
“Veronica Speedwell,” I said, smothering a yawn.
She poured a cup of tea and thrust it into my hands, a few errant leaves floating on the top. “You are the lady lepidopterist. I have read some of your articles,” she told me, her expression avid.