Sepia and Silver (Tragic Silence Book 3) Page 5

  I allowed my grandfather to lead me away from the carriage, through the large door into my new home. But behind a composed face, my mind was frantic. I saw Zíta, Erik, József, Ilona, the kindly neighbour who had offered her shawl. I thought of my mother, for the first in a long time. I remembered the Izcacus pinning me down in the forest, and the angel who had saved me from him.

  All dreams; all in the past now. And whether they were living or dead, real or not, I knew it was the end. It didn’t matter that I’d promised I would go back to Hungary one day. I felt, somewhere far in my heart, that I would never see them again.

  CHAPTER VI

  I took tea with my new family around a great flaming hearth in the parlour, trying to hold back my shock at the richness of the drink. I could taste milk and sugar in it, and the flavour almost made me wince. Like the surroundings around me, it couldn’t have been a further cry from my modest home. The rooms of the house were huge, with high ceilings and windows the size of doors, concealed behind thick floor-length drapes of deep red velvet. Practically every horizontal surface was adorned with some kind of decoration, all freshly dusted. I wondered how long it would take to clean the entire place.

  I was introduced to the Cook, Mrs Dean: a rather large woman with a face permanently flushed from working in the kitchen. Then I was acquainted with Christine, the girl in the dark dress, and learned that she was George’s sister: the live-in servant for the family.

  Both women greeted me graciously, Christine bowing her head a little in the same manner she had for Margaret. I nodded to acknowledge her, but then shot her a small smile. She could have only been a couple of years younger than me, and it was something of a relief to see somebody close to my own age, even if she was a member of the staff.

  My luggage was taken to my bedchamber, and I quietly bid goodnight to my grandparents before shutting myself inside. I rested the back of my head against the closed door, looking across my new room. It was on the first floor, and a pair of large doors opened out onto the metal balcony overlooking the street. A fire had been laid in the grate at the far end, and gas wall lamps threw warm yellow glows over my bed: a colossal blanketed thing surrounded by a canopy of green curtains.

  I shrugged my way out of the lawn dress, folding it carefully on a side table, before washing my face and hands at the basin. Then I pulled on a nightgown; climbed between the sheets, and sunk what felt like a whole foot’s depth into the mattress.

  Overwhelmed by its softness, I knew instantly I wouldn’t be able to sleep, and instead dragged the whole top layer onto the floor by the fireplace. I settled down atop it, folding the thick fabric over my body like a cocoon. I would get used to the bed soon enough, I knew; but for now, I had seen enough changes for one day.

  The next morning, I wore the lawn again. Norman set about showing me around the rest of the house, before Margaret whisked me back to my room, to the new wardrobe that my grandfather had ordered in for me. I was taken aback when she pulled open the armoire and chest of drawers, revealing more clothes than I’d ever seen in my life.

  “For heaven’s sake, you can’t wear the same garment constantly, it’s unsightly!” Margaret declared, pulling out a navy blue dress and smoothing it down. “You must change several times a day, you know.”

  My eyes were drawn to the tiny waistline. “I don’t think I will be able to wear that,” I said as politely as I could.

  “Nonsense!” Margaret replied, taking a stiff waistcoat-style garment. “That’s what corsets are for!”

  She ordered me to strip to my underclothes, before wrapping the item around my middle and telling me to hold onto the bedpost. Then she started lacing it up at the back, tighter and tighter, until my breath left my lungs in sharp gasps. My chest strained against the material; I could feel the firm bones pressing against my ribcage.

  “Don’t expect me to be the one who does this for you every morning,” Margaret said coolly. “From now on, you call for Christine. Once she is finished with me, she will see to you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I wheezed.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Mrs Calvin.”

  “That’s better.”

  Margaret tied a final knot in the laces before leaving me to dress again. I stepped into the blue folds, sliding my arms down the length of the sleeves and fastening the high collar under my chin.

  The corset constricted around me like the coils of a snake, pulling my spine perfectly straight. My breaths came shallowly and I soon began to feel light-headed. But I forced myself to ignore it as best I could, reminding myself that I wouldn’t have to wear the thing during the night.

  I spent the next few weeks slowly being integrated into the household. I was desperate to explore the city in daylight, but Norman explained to me that it simply wasn’t ladylike for a young girl to be going about any business unaccompanied by a chaperone. To that end, a grouchy old woman was hired, who I was commanded to address always as Miss Lockwood. She didn’t speak much, and sometimes I even forgot she was there. However, even though there was no call for Margaret to become involved since she was the lady of the house, she wasted no time in accompanying me as well.

  Not wanting to upset her, I agreed to her company as courteously as I could, but I suspected it was simply because she was nosy rather than truly interested in me. I hadn’t failed to note how she was yet to grant me any kind of compliment or pleasant gesture. Despite my attempts to be friendly, it soon became clear, in some silent language of sneers and unsmiling expressions, that she disliked me. Her hostility confused me, but decided that the best I could do was learn to abide her, as she was me.

  As winter drew on, she kept me inside the house most days, tutoring me in English custom. She taught me etiquette and elocution, working at me until I could feel a little of the Hungarian lilt disappearing from my words. She seemed rather surprised with my sewing skills, already adept from helping Zíta and my Anya, and it didn’t take me long to grasp the fine details of embroidery and samplers.

  But I truly hit a standstill when Margaret sat me at the grand piano and began teaching me how to play. The vast instrument gleamed before me, its black lid propped open, the keys blurring into each other. I could barely distinguish them or find the chords, and took an instant aversion to the feel of them beneath my fingers. Mastering it was beyond me.

  “How else do you expect to fit in at parties and be a good hostess, if you cannot play or sing?” chided Margaret one afternoon after a particularly long-winded session.

  “I will talk,” I offered in response.

  “All night? What a bore you shall be!” Margaret shook her head.

  I lowered my eyes, closing them to hide the glare I wanted to shoot at her.

  I didn’t see much of Norman, since he spent most days at his gentleman’s club elsewhere in the city, so for the most part, the house was mainly occupied by me, Margaret, Miss Lockwood, and the servants. I often heard Christine going about her business early in the morning after only a few hours of sleep: sweeping out the hearths and preparing breakfast to serve to us in bed. I had a mind to get up and offer to help her, but I suspected that Margaret would never let either of us hear the end of it if she caught me. So I kept to simply exchanging kind words with Christine whenever she came into my room. And though she tentatively befriended me, she never assumed to address me as anything other than “Miss Eva.”

  “You all pronounce my name wrong,” I said one evening while she was brushing some lint off one of my dresses.

  “How so, Miss?” she asked quietly.

  “You draw out the E too much,” I replied. “It is a much shorter sound: Éva.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry, Miss Éva,” Christine repeated, giving me a tiny smile, which I returned. It still didn’t sound right, but was much better, and I was happy that she at least tried.

  I couldn’t help but marvel at the way Christine and George spoke. Along with many of the people around me, they hardly sounded anything like how I’
d always imagined English would be. I quickly learned that it was a local dialect: fast-worded and with a peculiar rise and fall to its tone. It had taken me a few days to grasp, but now I could understand Christine and her brother well enough, helped by the fact that she made sure to speak slowly for my benefit.

  I watched her in the mirror as I sat at my dressing table. She laid the gown over my bed before coming over to lace up the corset I was already wearing. Six weeks had passed since I’d arrived, and now the Christmas season was upon us, Norman was adamant that I be introduced to his social circles. Tonight was a date that had been marked on my grandparents’ calendar for a while: a party at the house of Henry Jones, a wealthy slate mine magnate.

  “Why do you not have to wear these things, Christine?” I rasped as she pulled tighter on the strings.

  “I’m not a lady, Miss,” she replied. “Am I hurtin’ you?”

  I shook my head, but still gritted my teeth together behind my lips.

  In our reflections, I noticed Christine’s eyes flit to the scar, and she gave a small frown, but didn’t question me about it. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, not wanting to bring up the subject. I hadn’t seen fit to address it previously to anybody, and wished to keep it that way.

  When all my undergarments were ready, Christine helped me into the gown. It was a beautiful piece of work, but I still felt swamped, trying to make it as easy for her as I could by raising my arms. Then she sat me back down again while she brushed my hair into a bun.

  I stared at myself. The dress was white and light blue, with a small bustle drawing up the skirt at the back before flowing out into a train. My hands were hidden inside elbow-length gloves which I rested chastely in my lap the way Margaret had instructed. The colour matched my eyes almost perfectly, and made them seem huge. The neckline was very low, exposing my shoulders, but Christine seemed to sense my discomfort and hid the scar underneath a thick beaded necklace.

  I gave her a smile of thanks. She had a sweet rounded face, bordered by the same thick mahogany hair as her elder brother. And her eyes were an attractive shade of green which always seemed to catch the light, no matter which way she was standing.

  “How old are you?” I asked, suddenly curious.

  “Eighteen, Miss,” said Christine. “What about you, if it ain’t too bold o’ me to ask, like?”

  “It’s not bold at all.” I brushed some flyaway hairs away from my forehead. “I am twenty years old today.”

  “Oh!” Christine looked at me. “It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell anybody? The Master would have surely done somethin’ to celebrate.”

  “This one party is enough,” I said, twiddling my thumbs against each other. “I cannot take too much of this.”

  “Well, Miss, I’m afraid t’ say there’s not much you can do about that,” Christine replied with an apologetic grin. “There’ll be a lot of these in store for you. I can only advise that you try to get used to it, like.”

  I gave a small nod, focusing on the folds in my gloves. Then I thanked her, and made my way downstairs, nervously checking that my bun was still in position. Norman, Margaret and Miss Lockwood were already in the hallway; my grandfather was adjusting his tie in front of a wall mirror. He must have heard me, because he turned around, smiling broadly.

  “Oh, Eva,” he exclaimed, “you look absolutely stunning!”

  I gave a bashful grin, coming to stand before him. “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  He chuckled, eyes twinkling, gently touching his fingers to my chin. “Turn around, my dear, let me get a good luck at you,” he said.

  I did as I was told, feeling the fabric of the gown pull around my legs as I moved in a circle. He made a titter of approval, nodding to himself.

  “Beautiful,” he declared. “Simply beautiful.”

  “Come, Norman!” Margaret snapped, hovering near the front door. “It won’t do to be late!”

  “It’s polite to be a little late,” Norman replied, obviously not fazed at all. “And Harry won’t mind, we’ve known each other for long enough.”

  “Yes, but the same can’t be said of his other guests, can it?” Margaret arched an eyebrow. “Do you want them all to be gossiping behind our back? It shall be enough tonight as it is, introducing them to our new little flower.”

  I glanced at her fleetingly, but the lamplight bounced off the mass of jewels around her face and I had to turn away with a wince of sudden pain. Coloured dots danced in front of me, and I fought the urge to rub my eyes, knowing it would smudge the gentle makeup that had been applied.

  “Are you alright, Eva?” Norman asked; a note of concern in his voice.

  I blinked rapidly, but the sting behind my eyes had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  “Yes,” I muttered. “I’m fine.”

  “A case of nerves, no doubt,” he said, directing me towards the door. “Don’t worry. Henry Jones is a very dear and old friend of mine. And he has a boy about your age, too.”

  That instantly explained why Miss Lockwood was coming with us: so Norman and Margaret could enjoy themselves without having to watch me.

  I nodded politely, pulling a wrap around my shoulders before I let myself be guided down the steps onto the pavement. The cobbles were laced with dregs of frost, and I shivered as an icy wind whistled past the houses. To get away from the cold, I stepped quickly inside the carriage, already waiting on the road. I sat opposite my grandparents, as I had when they had come to collect me from the docks, and gazed out of the windows as we drove away.

  CHAPTER VII

  It didn’t take us long to reach our destination, but I couldn’t help staring in wonder as the houses grew larger and larger around us. Groups of people stood on street corners singing carols, and the roadsides became leafier, lined with well-kept hedges and manicured trees, stretching over the vast dark field of Sefton Park. I gazed across it, barren and carpeted in thin frost, before the carriage took a sharp left and moved along a winding driveway.

  We finally stopped, and the steps were lowered, allowing us to climb outside. I looked up, and my mouth fell open. In front of me was a mansion of red brick: all manner of roofs sat against the backdrop of tower-like chimneys. Balconies interlaced with brown ivy seemed to protrude from every surface, and all of the bay windows were aglow with warm light.

  “Welcome to Weaver House, dear,” said Norman, coming to stand next to me with Margaret on his arm.

  I glanced at him, too overcome by the size of the building. It was easily three times as large as my grandfather’s. I was amazed to think that only one family lived here. How many children could they have to require so much room?

  I kept my questions to myself as we were led up the wide porch steps and through the door. A huge entrance hall opened around us, with a tiered staircase stretching away and out of sight. The aroma of roasting chestnuts hung in the air.

  Our coats were taken by a footman, who I glanced at curiously, unable to tear my eyes away from his high stockings. But I was snapped out of my reverie when Norman steered me towards a tall moustached man standing nearby, with a polished cane hanging at his hip.

  “Calvin,” the man smiled, clasping Norman’s arm heartily. “How the devil are you?”

  “Absolutely splendid, Harry,” replied my grandfather, before he moved Margaret forward. She offered her hand cordially, and Henry took it, pressing it to his lips. Then he looked at me, and I quickly copied Margaret’s gesture, not wishing to appear rude.

  “Would this be Miss Eva?” he said, kissing my knuckles. “So glad to hear your journey was a safe one.”

  “Thank you, Mr Jones,” I said, and lowered my eyes in respect.

  We were led through into the drawing room, which was already thronged with people dressed in all their finery. Ladies sat on large sofas chattering to each other, while the gentlemen stood near the large carved fireplace with a glass of port in their hands. Intricate chains of paper were strewn along the walls, and in the corner stood a large
fir tree in a pot, decorated with coloured ribbons and tinsel garlands. Some of the branches even held lit candles. Amazed at the sight, I wandered over, running my fingers along some of the ornaments.

  A lot of people came to see me, and for as hard as I tried, the barrage of names and faces were lost on me. I attempted to remain friendlily quiet, moving into what seemed to be the most shadowed part of the room to avoid attention. The heat of the party soon began to overwhelm me and I whipped open my fan, wafting it near my face for some relief. But my plan of remaining inconspicuous was short-lived, because I was approached by Henry, with another man in tow. I instantly noticed how Miss Lockwood moved a little closer.

  “Miss Calvin, you must meet my son,” Henry said, eyes shining. “This is Benjamin.”

  “How do you do?” I inclined my head slightly.

  Benjamin smiled at me, kissing my hand in greeting. I regarded him. He seemed a few years older than me, and wasn’t quite as tall as his father, but the two had a definite look of each other: a pleasant face with large chocolate eyes and blonde hair. He was clean-shaven apart from a pair of neatly-trimmed sideburns, and I could just pick up the lingering scent of tobacco on his breath.

  “Eva,” Benjamin said, drawing out the syllable so much that I almost cringed. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Mr Jones.” I swallowed uneasily and tucked a stray curl back behind my ear.

  “How are you finding life in England?”

  “Affable,” I replied, making quick use of Margaret’s elocution lessons.

  The corset suddenly seemed a lot tighter than normal and I cleared my throat to mask a gasp for air. Benjamin appeared to interpret the sound as a cue for drink, because he glanced over towards a butler and snapped his fingers expectantly. I watched as the butler approached and handed him two tall thin glasses.

  Benjamin offered one to me. I took it carefully, eyeing the fizzing golden liquid inside. I recognised it as champagne: my grandparents had served it once, shortly after I had arrived in the city. I wasn’t too fond of it, but knew I couldn’t refuse now.