Free Abigale Hall by Lauren A Forry Page A

mind. A nervous laugh did little to ease her frantic heartbeat.
    Eliza crawled back into bed and drew the covers up to her chest. Though the curtains blocked the moonlight, she could still see the silver outline of the picture frame. She closed her eyes, telling herself Rebecca was fine, and tried to smell salt water and listen for seagulls. She could not hear the child crying.
    *
    The alarm clock announced the hour with a screech. Eliza silenced it as quick as she could. Six a.m. She could either sleep another half an hour or finally take the bath she desperately needed. With a groan, she forced her body out of bed.
    Carrying a clean dress and undergarments, her old towel and some soap, she crept up the hall to the bathroom then locked herself inside. With her measuring tape, Eliza made a careful five-inch line along the tub. She missed the days when Mother would fill the tub to the brim, and she and Rebecca would spend hours playing in water scented with Coty’s bath salts.
    â€˜If it’s good enough for the king and queen, it’s good enough for me,’ she sighed. The taps, nearly rusted shut, turned after a few hard twists, and the pipes spluttered to life. When was the last time Thornecroft had a housemaid, she wondered. The first water to emerge was brown and carried a stench of sewage, but the pipes soon cleared. Eliza bathed slowly, letting the tepid water massage her aching neck and stiff limbs. Despite the lukewarm temperature, it was better than the cold baths she was accustomed to at Aunt Bess’s flat.
    As she climbed out of the tub, a rasping groan echoed from the hall – the same as she had heard in Abigale Hall. She listened but, like yesterday, it did not repeat itself.
    Shaking off the chill, Eliza dressed then opened the bathroom door only to have it yanked shut, catching her fingers in the jamb. She gasped, pulling her hand back as she listened to Rebecca shouting in the hall.
    â€˜No! You’ve ruined it! You’ve messed it all up.’
    â€˜Rebecca. Open the door,’ Eliza said, cradling her injured hand against her chest.
    â€˜You know you mustn’t do that. You know you have to wait!’ Rebecca started counting.
    Eliza’s hand throbbed, the pain causing her to hold her breath. Tentatively, she tried flexing her fingers. Pain made movement difficult.
    Rebecca reached ten. Fifteen.
    All she wanted was a calm morning. One without shouting or tears.
    Twenty.
    One without . . .
    The door opened. Eliza grabbed Rebecca with her good hand.
    â€˜You know you can’t run about slamming doors! Look what you’ve done.’ Eliza showed Rebecca her already swollen fingers.
    â€˜I need a bath.’
    â€˜You need to apologise.’
    Rebecca kept her eyes on the slight bulge of her cardigan pocket. Eliza extracted the dead mouse. It was cold and stiff now.
    â€˜This is filth. I told you. Do you want to go back on medication? Do you want to go back to hospital?’
    Rebecca shook her head.
    â€˜Take your bath. There’s already water in the tub. Don’t waste it.’
    Without looking behind her, Eliza marched to her bedroom then hefted open the heavy window and tossed the little corpse outside. She heard it land somewhere in the grass then pulled the window back down. The cold morning air had snuck in and, with her hair still wet, she began to shiver. She wanted to wash her hands, but the basin in her room was empty. She rubbed her hand against her towel until her skin turned red.
    As she chose a dress from her wardrobe, she realised how unsatisfied she was with the arrangement of her clothing. She pulled everything out, refolded and refitted it, ignoring the throb in her hand and her clumsy swollen fingers.
    Still unhappy, she took the clothing out again, noticing how much ironing she needed to do. Everything was wrinkled, a shambles, unsuitable for service – the phrase from Father’s letter whispered inside her head.
    She threw