Free Whispers in the Dark by Jonathan Aycliffe Page B

emotions: pleasure, curiosity, and, more deeply hidden, an inexplicable sadness.
    She was dressed in a fine black gown of shot silk, the collar and sleeves edged with violet, as though she were in half mourning. The whole effect, whether intentional or not, was thoroughly Victorian, as though the woman in front of me still lived twenty or thirty years in the past.
    I stood uneasily by the door, not knowing whether to curtsy, step forward, or retreat. She held me with those perfect, unblinking, all-seeing eyes, as though ingesting me by sight alone, in small, satisfactory bites.
    “Come here, child.”
    The softness of her voice surprised and, curiously, comforted me. Its musicality swiftly undermined all my reservations. There was not the least harshness or rebuke in it. At once I felt less afraid than I had been. “Don’t be afraid. I want to look at you.”
    I stepped toward her tentatively, as though afraid my legs would snap and send me toppling on my face. I could not speak. All the time, I kept my eyes on the carpet.
    "Let me see your face,” she whispered when I was only a few feet away.
    I looked up. Her soft blue eyes were regarding me with an expression of mingled curiosity and pity. I felt like crying out.
    “You say you are my cousin Charlotte. Is that so?”
    “I . . .” The words froze on my lips.
    “Don’t worry, child. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t harm you. Even if there be no truth in your story, I should not send you away empty-handed. There is nothing to fear. Speak up.”
    “Yes, ma’am. That is, my father was your cousin.”
    “Your father? And what was his name?”
    Her voice was so gentle, her manner so reassuring.
    “His name was Douglas Metcalf. We lived in Kenton Lodge, in Gosforth. That is, until he died.”
    “I see. You mean Gosforth in Newcastle, of course.” I nodded.
    “When and how did your father come to die?”
    I told her the date and circumstances. Her eyes widened, as though she were hearing of his death for the first time.
    “Child, how do you come to know this?”
    “I’ve told you,” I said. “He was my father.”
    "But. . She hesitated. “But how do you come to be dressed like this? In rags. Surely—”
    “We wrote to you. That is, my mother did. She told you how we had lost our money.”
    Her mouth opened. She seemed alarmed, startled by my revelation.
    “Wrote? Lost your money? When was this?” Her voice took on an urgency that had not been there before.
    "Why, soon after Father died. You did not answer. No one answered. No one wanted to help us. We had to go into the workhouse.” I found it impossible to keep the bitterness out of my voice. While this beautiful woman had been living here in style, my poor mother had been forced to take my brother and me to that terrible place.
    “But, my sweet child . . .”
    She stood suddenly, looking down at me.
    “Tell me this isn’t true,” she said. “That you’re making it up.”
    I shook my head.
    “It’s all true,” I said. I lifted my bag. “I have photographs. Of my father and myself. Of my mother. You can see them if you like. There are letters. It’s all true. Every word.”
    “And your mother and brother? Where are they?”
    “My mother’s dead. She died in the workhouse.”
    Her hand flew to her mouth. She sank slowly back onto the divan.
    “Dear God,” she whispered. “We received no letter. No letter, do you hear me?”
    She looked at me in horror, in what I took for unfeigned horror.
    “Oh, my sweet child. What have we done to you? What have we done?”
    There were tears in her eyes. She reached out her hands, held her arms open. In so many years, no one had opened her arms to me like that. I felt a cry spring to my lips, a dreadful cry of misery and loneliness. And the next thing I knew, I had thrown myself on her and been taken into her embrace.

CHAPTER 9
    It was late that night. I had been handed almost ceremoniously to the tall woman—whose name, I learned, was Mrs.