Catherine Fisher: Darkwater

“Sarah will do it instead.”

three

Somewhere outside, under the gray clouds, a gull began calling, a high, anxious mew.

Sarah felt its fear close around her. “Me?” she said.

“You.” Mrs. Hubbard’s tiny black eyes watched her shrewdly. “I’ve watched you, dearie. You’re keen. You could have your own little place one day, just like this.” She glanced playfully at Emmeline. “Five will do. Hand out, and if you flinch you’ll have two extra.” Sarah frowned, watching the little girl’s palm rise up toward her, a small, trembling, fragile thing, pitifully dirty. Its openness beckoned her; part of her longed to crack down on it with the bamboo cane, to feel that quick swish end with the cry of pain. But the rest of her was annoyed. She didn’t particularly care about Emmeline, or any of them. Sometimes she felt sorry for them. But it would be folly to lose her job over this. Five quick smacks and it would all be over.

Emmeline sobbed.

“Are you hesitating?” Mrs. Hubbard snapped.

“Of course not.”

“Good. Don’t forget you’re just a menial here, girl. What are you?”

Sarah was silent.

Suddenly she saw the door at the back was open. There were footsteps, a rustle of silks. The visitors had finally arrived.

And with them stubbornness, that swept over her like a wave, so that she straightened her shoulders and drew up her chin. She was a Trevelyan, and all the pride clamped down inside her for so long came scorching up, a wave of heat in her neck and face. She glared at Mrs. Hubbard’s rolls of fat. And didn’t answer. The instant was huge as it passed; the terrible instant when Mrs. Hubbard—and the class—realized the usual echo wouldn’t be coming.

Mrs. Hubbard’s chest swelled with wrath. Appalled, the class watched. Emmeline’s hand, wavering with weariness, descended and came abruptly up again.

Mrs. Hubbard snatched the cane. “I had high hopes of you. Thought you’d go far. But I know what this is, this is pride!”

She spat the word like venom. “Always thought yourself a cut above the rest, haven’t you, dearie. A snobby little madam. Miss Sarah Trevelyan of Darkwater Hall, that’s what you think you are. But your family were all drunks and tyrants and womanizers. And all I see is a scruffy little pupil teacher on three shillings a week. Your face is red, your clothes stink, and there’s a leak in one of your boots. That’s the truth. That’s all you are.” And at the back of the room, suddenly, Sarah saw him watching her, the stranger from Darkwater Hall, the one they called Lord Azrael. Their eyes met; he looked sympathetic. She jerked her gaze away, silent with fury. “Give the cuts,” Mrs. Hubbard barked, “or take them yourself.”

Sarah smiled, spiteful. “I’ll take them.”

Mrs. Hubbard was sweating. Two threads of hair had unpinned from her glossy bun. She didn’t know that behind her the doorway was dark with fascinated faces. Three ladies, four gentlemen, a faint breeze of perfume and cigar smoke heralding them like footmen. The class knew, without turning.

“You bare-faced, stinking little . . .”

A masculine throat cleared, noisily. “Is there a problem here, ma’am, eh?”

Mrs. Hubbard froze. Her face drained; only Sarah saw her struggle, the rigorous contortion of all hostility down to a single cold gleam in the eye. When she turned, she wore a sickly smile. For a moment Sarah almost admired her.

“Major Fleetwood! How wonderful to see you! Ladies! Please do come in.”

The red-whiskered man gave a beery laugh. “Don’t let us interrupt the necessary, ma’am. Discipline, eh! Know all about it. In India kept a fella just for whipping-in.” He strolled down between the tables and eyed Sarah blearily. “This one blotted her copybook, eh?”

“This ungrateful wretch . . .” Mrs. Hubbard took out her snuffbox, glanced at it, and thrust it back. “. . . was my pupil teacher. I have considered her conduct unsatisfactory for some time.”

“Bad show.” Major Fleetwood scratched his greasy hair. “Trevelyan girl. Got anything to say?”

She had plenty. But she shook her head grimly. Lord Azrael pushed forward. If he said anything, she thought, she’d die.

“Get on with it, ma’am. No use prolonging the agony.”

“The ladies?” Mrs. Hubbard whispered.

“Won’t be too shocked. They have maids, Mrs. H. And dogs.”

Sarah thrust her hand out, furious. It was even dirtier than Emmeline’s.

“Look,” Lord Azrael said quietly. “Whatever it was, I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

“She’s a fat bully,” Sarah said immediately. “And I mean that.”

Mrs. Hubbard went white. Then she brought the cane down, hard.

It whistled.

The pain was an explosion, a hot slash over the thick flesh of her thumb. Tears jerked into her eyes. She kept rigidly still.

Azrael looked shocked. She was glad.

Two. Three. Four.

Pain didn’t repeat, it grew, swelling and throbbing into hugeness, spreading like a fire up her arm, neck, cheek. As the cane was raised for the last stroke, she knew she would twitch, yell, scream, but she didn’t; with a relentless fury she kept every inch of herself still, even when the molten, numbing flame stroked down. Only the slightest of indrawn hisses escaped her.

Five quick smacks, she told herself scornfully. “And that,” Mrs. Hubbard gasped, slightly out of breath, “hurts me as much as you. Such ingratitude, Major! I nurtured this girl. Gave her every opportunity. Even thought of her as my successor.”

“You can keep your situation.” Sarah put her sore hand under her arm. “You were right about one thing. I do think myself above it. I’ll make myself above it.”

She shoved past them, past Emmeline and the slightly unsteady major, past the impressed and fugitive eyes of the class, straight through the cluster of ladies who crowded hurriedly back to make way. None of them looked at her. She was an embarrassment. But as she passed him, the stranger brought his gloved hand out of his pocket and said sadly, “It would be a shame for you to go without your wages.” His voice was low, with a curious friendliness.

“These are my wages,” she said hotly, opening her hand at him.

“I didn’t mean that. Take this.”

He pressed it into her bruised fingers, then turned and limped between the desks. If it had been money she would have flung it after him, but it wasn’t. It was a small rectangle of white card, quite empty on both sides. She crumpled it in fury and stormed out, grabbing her shawl and running, out of the hateful stink of the place, down the lane, racing hard into the salt wind.

And then suddenly she was laughing, stupidly, leaping up onto walls and running along the tops, arms wide, chasing through the panicky sheep, jumping mud hollows and boulders, circling and giggling under the stunted thorn trees. The wind roared after her from the gray wilderness of the sea—it buffeted her and tossed her hair over her eyes, and her cut hand was icy and numb, but she didn’t care.

She was free!

She had thrown it off like a smothering web, the filth, the endless, mindless bullying. And the books. But for an exhilarated hour she didn’t even care about those, racing till she was breathless along the cliff path and down the steep track into Newhaven Cove, all the gulls screaming and dizzying around her head.

She walked out onto the smooth sand. At first her feet sank into the softness of it, leaving a trail of holes from the cliff, and then as it grew harder and more ridged she splashed through it, avoiding the coiled cast-heaps of worms and picking up tiny yellow shells. She threw one far out to sea, thinking, calmer now.

There had to be other jobs she could get. Down at the harbor, gutting fish. It was hard, but she could do it. Or at the china clay works. Then she remembered Major Fleetwood owned them. Not much chance there. Service then. A maid. She was quick. If someone gave her a chance, she’d learn. The thought of endless dirty dishes came to her; she squashed it quickly.