The Ghost of Crutchfield Hall Read Free Page A

Wilkie Collins is beneath contempt. And the Brontë novel is quite the worst of the lot, not fit for a decent young girl to read.”
    Her tone of voice and stern face silenced me. I fancied even the clock on the mantel had ceased ticking.
    Aunt peered at me over the top of her spectacles. “If the Bible is too difficult for you,” she added, “I recommend
Pilgrim’s Progress.
It should prove most instructive. Your cousin Sophia told me it was her favorite book.” Then, without saying farewell or making an excuse for her departure, she left the room.
    When the door closed behind her, Uncle sighed. “Your aunt is very set in her ways, I fear,” he said. “You may read what you wish. I for one see nothing wrong with your taste in literature. Dickens is my own personal favorite.
Martin Chuzzlewit, Bleak House, Our Mutual Friend
—ah, what untold hours of pleasure his books have given me.”
    I tried to return his smile, but I feared I’d made a poor beginning with Aunt. “I didn’t mean to offend my aunt.”
    â€œDon’t worry. She’ll come round.” He set his teacup down. “She was very fond of Sophia, you know. Absolutely doted on the girl. Still wears nothing but black.”
    â€œSophia must have been perfection itself,” I said sadly.
    â€œNo one is perfect, my dear. Certainly not Sophia.” He picked up his tea as if to end the conversation.
    I sat quietly, sipping my tea and listening to the incessant sound of the wind and the rain. The journey had exhausted me, and I tried without success to stifle a yawn.
    Uncle looked at me and smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to rest and refresh yourself before supper.”
    â€œWill James join us?” I asked. “I was hoping he’d be here for tea. I can scarcely wait to meet him.”
    Uncle sighed again. “James is quite ill, my dear. He never leaves his room.”
    Before I could say another word, Uncle summoned Nellie. “Please show Florence to her room,” he said. “She’s tired from her long day of travel.”
    Almost too weary to walk, I followed Nellie up a wide flight of stairs to the second floor. She opened a door at the end of a hall and led me into a room almost as large as the dormitory where I’d slept with eleven girls. A coal fire glowed on the hearth, filling the room with warmth.
    As Nellie busied herself lighting an oil lamp, I contemplated my new surroundings. A tall four-poster bed wide enough to hold three girls my size. Bookcases, chests, bureaus, a tall wardrobe, all made of dark wood, massive, designed for giants. I felt like Alice after she drank the shrinking potion.
    Under a curtained window was a writing table and a chair, a perfect place to read and draw.
    Lamp lit, Nellie looked at me shyly. “Supper will be served at seven, miss.”
    After the girl left, I took off my wet shoes and stockings and lay for a while on my bed, staring up at the canopy above. Finally, too restless to sleep, I went to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Night had fallen while we’d had tea, and darkness and rain prevented me from seeing anything except a few bare trees close to the house. There were no lights in sight. To one accustomed to the busy streets of London, it was a bleak and lonely view.
    Chilled by the draft creeping in around the window frames, I closed the curtains and retreated to the warmth of the fire.
    Shortly before seven, I pulled on a pair of dry stockings and forced my feet back into my damp shoes, the only ones I owned. I wished I had a nicer dress, but I was wearing my best, a simple frock meant for church. My only other was the orphanage uniform made of coarse material, and a bit small for me. I did what I could with my hair, a wild mass of dark, curly tangles, and left my room.
    At the top of the stairs, I had the strangest sensation that someone was watching me. I looked behind me. The hall was dark, and