bring disaster upon the kingdom-then the police need to know.”
“But the London police think Isabel was the victim of a random attack,” I said. “I doubt that a fantastic account scribbled in an old book could convince anyone to believe otherwise. Besides, nowhere does Isabel name her master.”
All I could add was his assumed name and his description. I knew not where Mr. White was to be found. Of one thing was I certain: He would eventually find me.
“Then what will you do?” Ellen asked.
I knew I must do something, for the book had shown my situation to be much more serious than I had fathomed. That Isabel’s master had subjugated the prime minister signified that her murder and my own troubles were but superficial manifestations of a far-reaching conspiracy, and that the impending disaster must be of vast proportions.
“I must identify and locate Isabel’s master,” I said.
Ellen stared in astonishment. “You? Why, the very idea!” She giggled merrily. “Oh, this must be one of your jokes, for how could you attempt such a hazardous task on your own?”
I could not explain that my only protection against harm was to deliver Gilbert White to the authorities before he found me. Nor could I admit that I wished for revenge upon the man who’d tricked me. I felt a new strength, fueled by anger, and a great determination to bring about his downfall.
“I am not joking. Someone must prevent the disaster,” I said, “and who else is there but I?”
Exasperation colored Ellen’s features. “This is another of your ambitious schemes, then. You should nip it in the bud, or you’re sure to be disappointed.” Her admonition eroded my determination, for who was I to pit myself against a murderer who apparently had the prime minister under his power? “Remember how you wanted to be an author, and it never happened.”
After insisting that she believe this, I could hardly contradict her now. Still, she had reminded me that I had the talent to write a famous novel and thus achieve what no one had expected of me. I sat up as renewed self- confidence flowed through me like an invigorating tonic.
“I must at least try to find Isabel’s master,” I said, “for I am certain that everyone connected with Isabel is in danger from him, and I the most of all because I was her last companion. And I have her journal, which I believe he seeks because he thinks it reveals his secrets.”
“But how can you hope to succeed, when the journal gives no particulars about this mysterious individual?” Ellen asked.
After some thought, I said, “I shall work with the facts about Isabel that we’ve gleaned today. The Charity School she attended is a place to start.”
“It’s been many years since Isabel left the school,” Ellen said. “How can it have any bearing on her recent life?”
“Perhaps she kept in communication with the Reverend and Mrs. Grimshaw,” I said. “Perhaps she told them things that she didn’t tell her mother. Perhaps the school is part of the master’s evil business. Instead of returning home tomorrow, I will travel to Skipton.”
“Such a bold, drastic move!” With a gasp of horror, Ellen flung out her arms as if to restrain me. “My dear, you mustn’t! If the school is indeed associated with Isabel’s master, you could be walking straight into the lion’s den!”
“If it is, then it’s the last place he would expect me to go,” I pointed out. “I shall be safer in Skipton than at home.”
“But what would you do at the school?” Ellen demanded. “You can’t just walk in and start asking questions.”
Indeed, I knew not how to go about obtaining facts from someone who might wish to hide them. Ellen and I argued: She chastised my impulsiveness and unladylike bravado, while I stubbornly upheld my opinions. At last Ellen sighed in weary frustration.
“I see that you won’t be dissuaded,” she said. “I have no choice but to go with you to Skipton.”
There ensued another argument, in which I tried to impress upon her the danger of the trip, while she swore to protect me. I grew strident in my refusal, and Ellen began to weep.
“If you don’t want me, and you insist on going alone, I’ll return home this very evening.” She began packing her trunk while sobbing into her handkerchief.
I was torn between shame at hurting Ellen and irritation at her for turning every dispute into a test of our friendship. But I didn’t relish the idea of confronting strangers at the Charity School alone. I capitulated, agreeing that we would journey together to Skipton on the morrow.
13
Time offers no invincible barrier against the dark forces of the past. New places sometimes possess aspects of places I thought to have left behind me forever; they evoke memories preferably forgotten. This misfortune befell me during my visit to the Charity School.
Ellen and I arrived in Skipton early in the afternoon of 22 July. Skipton is a market town located on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Its ruined Norman castle overlooks the village through which we rode in a hired carriage. We journeyed some two miles into meadowland. The Charity School occupied a shallow valley, hidden from nearby farms by a birch forest. The path through this was too narrow for our carriage, so Ellen and I asked the driver to wait, then proceeded on foot.
“This seems a pleasant place for a school,” Ellen remarked.
Indeed, the trees shaded us from the hot sun; birds twittered around us; the air smelled cleanly fragrant. “But it’s sufficiently remote that evil things could happen here, with no one outside the wiser.”
We emerged from the woods. Ahead of us appeared the school-a two-story, stone structure with peaked slate roofs, ruined turrets, and an arched doorway flanked by mullioned windows. A crumbling stone wall enclosed a garden filled with dark, dense holly trees. Beyond the school’s chimneys I saw the round stone tower of an old windmill, its blades missing. A plaque on the wall bore the school’s name.
At the door, Ellen grasped the knocker and rapped. We had agreed that she should take the lead during this expedition, for I wished to avoid, as much as possible, the notice of the people who had known Isabel White and might have had a part in her troubles and mine. If I effaced myself, perhaps I could induce them to think me insignificant and forgettable.
Presently, the door was opened by a severe woman dressed in a plain black frock, white apron, and white cap. “Yes?” she said. “Have you come to apply for the teaching position?”
“Oh, dear no. I am Miss Wheelwright of Birstall, and I wish to determine whether this school might be suitable for my young cousin.” Ellen’s voice exuded wealth, privilege, and refined breeding. “This is my companion Miss Brown.”
These were the names, and this the story we’d invented in hope of gaining an inspection of the school. The housekeeper-as I assumed her to be-looked us over. We must have passed scrutiny, for she bid us to enter. As soon as I did, the smell hit me: an amalgam of soap, chalk, and damp plaster; of unappetizing foods; of the sweet, rank, urine odor of impoverished children. I was suddenly eight years old again, arriving at the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge. Beyond the vestibule, where Ellen and I stood, a corridor extended between rows of doors. From these issued girlish voices reciting lessons in unison; in them I heard echoes from a bitter chapter of my life.
The housekeeper ushered Ellen and me into a parlor with dark paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. She said, “I’ll fetch the Reverend Grimshaw.”
She departed, and we sat on a horsehair sofa. Ellen squeezed my hand. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she whispered, her eyes sparkling in enjoyment of our adventure.
I managed a shaky smile and endeavored to forget the school where I and my elder sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, suffered the inhumane deprivation that caused my stunted figure and contributed to their deaths.
“My dear, what’s wrong?” Ellen gazed anxiously at me. “You look as white and queer as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
