The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall Read Free

She was so thin, she’d wrapped her apron strings twice around her waist, but the apron still flapped around her like a windless sail.
    â€œNellie,” my uncle said, “this is Florence, the niece we expected to arrive tomorrow. Please bring tea for us all and something especially nice for Florence. Then build up the fire in her room.”
    Darting a quick look in my direction, Nellie nodded. “Yes, sir, I will, sir.”
    As she scurried away, Uncle turned back to me. “First of all, permit me to say how sorry I was to learn of your father’s and mother’s death. To think they died on the same day. So tragic. So unexpected.”
    â€œSensible people do not go out in boats,” Aunt said, and then, with a quick glance at me, added, “Death is usually unexpected. That is why we must endeavor to live righteously. When we are summoned, we will be ready. As Sophia was, poor child.”
    Ignoring his sister, Uncle patted my hand. “We’ll do our best to make up for the years you spent with Miss Medleycoate. You’ll have a happy life here at Crutchfield Hall, I promise you.”
    I did not say it, but the prospect of a happy life with Aunt seemed uncertain at best.
    As Uncle drew in his breath to say more, he was interrupted by the arrival of Nellie, who carried a heavy tray. In its center was a steaming teapot, which was surrounded by an array of sliced bread, cheese, and fruit, as well as milk and sugar for the tea and jam for the bread. Somehow she managed to set it down on a low table by the fire without rattling a teacup in its saucer.
    I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and my empty stomach mortified me by rumbling at the sight of so much food, more than I’d ever seen at the orphanage. At that establishment, we received one cup of tea served lukewarm and weak, a slice of stale bread, and a dab of jelly.
    Nellie’s eyes met mine again, but she didn’t linger. With a nod, she left the room, her feet scarcely making a sound.
    Uncle offered me the bread and jam. “Don’t be shy,” he said. “Take as much as you want. Walking in the cold sharpens one’s appetite.”
    While we ate, I looked around the room. Despite its darkness, I saw it was well furnished with chairs and sofas and shelves of books. Oil paintings covered the walls. Some were portraits of long-ago men and women, their faces grave in the firelight. Others were landscapes of forested hills and grassy meadows. A marble statue of a Greek god stood in the corner behind Aunt’s chair, peering over her shoulder as if hoping for a biscuit.
    â€œAnd now, my dear,” Uncle said, “tell us about yourself. Do you play an instrument? Sing? Draw? What sort of books do you enjoy?”
    â€œI’m sorry to say I don’t play a musical instrument,” I told him. “Neither do I sing. Indeed, my talents in music resemble those of Mary Bennet in
Pride and—
”
    â€œHow unfortunate,” Aunt cut in. “Your cousin Sophia played the piano
and
the violin. She sang like an angel. Such talent she had, such grace.” Her voice trailed away, and she sniffed into her handkerchief.
    â€œYou were about to say something more,” Uncle prompted me.
    Embarrassed by my inferiority to Sophia, I murmured, “I was just going to say that I draw a little. Not very well, I’m afraid.”
    With a worried look at Aunt, I hesitated. “As for books,” I went on nervously, “I love Mr. Dickens’s novels, and also those of Wilkie Collins. I’ve read all of Jane Austen’s books, but my favorite is
Pride and Prejudice,
which I’ve read five times now. I adore
Wuthering Heights
and—”
    â€œDo you read nothing but frivolous novels?” Aunt cut in. “I have read the Bible at least a dozen times, but I have not read
Pride and Prejudice
even once. Nor do I intend to. As for Mr. Dickens—I believe him to be most vulgar.