Charlotte Says E-Book

Alex Bell

• Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Red Eye
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 372

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The much-anticipated prequel to the bestselling FROZEN CHARLOTTE, a Zoella Book Club title in Autumn 2016. Following the death of her mother in a terrible fire, Jemima flees to the remote Isle of Skye, to take up a job at a school for girls. There she finds herself tormented by the mystery of what really happened that night. Then Jemima receives a box of Frozen Charlotte dolls from a mystery sender and she begins to remember - a séance with the dolls, a violent argument with her step-father and the inferno that destroyed their home. And when it seems that the dolls are triggering a series of accidents at the school, Jemima realizes she must stop the demonic spirits possessing the dolls - whatever it takes.

Leseprobe

Praise for Charlotte Says

“I love origin stories but horror origin stories? I was sold from the get go … this book is probably scarier than any book I’ve ever read... Give it a read, if you dare.”

Zoe Collins, No Safer Place

“You don’t need to have read Frozen Charlotte to enjoy this book (though I definitely recommend you read both!) This is a chilling prequel that captures the menace and dread of the first book while giving you an insight of how it all started. This is the perfect eerie read that you’ll want to stay up all night to finish.”

Maia and a Little Moore

“The revelation of how the evil little Frozen Charlotte dolls came to have their power is unsettling and chilling, and reading parts of this late at night in a quiet house I … admit to looking over my shoulder more than once!… I’d love to see more historical type novels from Alex Bell in future, and eagerly await her next offering.”

Michelle Harrison, author of The Thirteen Treasures

“This second installment sees us back in 1910, so that we can investigate the origin story of these murderous dolls. And it’s as brilliant at stomach-churning high horror as the first. Perhaps it’s even better… Definitely one for fans of horror everywhere.”

Jill Murphy, The Bookbag

“Creepy dolls, ghost children and needles in eyeballs, what else would you want from a horror novel?”

Bernadette Donnelly, Crack Your Spines

“Both ‘Charlotte’ books hit the nail on the dead, having an excellent balance of fast placed plot, the supernatural, characters you care about, and nasty little dolls…”

Ginger Nuts of Horror

“…even gorier and scarier than the first novel … the harshness of (the historical setting) made this ever more horrific. Wonderful work yet again from Alex Bell!”

Fay Myers (librarian) via NetGalley

“This is horror. Torn between needing to know and fearing for the characters, I read this fast… Compulsive.”

Dawn Woods (librarian) via NetGalley

“I devoured this book in one day. It was so much fun… I want to get a crate of Frozen Charlottes, a box of these books and give one to everyone I know at Hallowe’en.”

C Smyth (teacher) via NetGalley

“This is real horror writing for me – it doesn’t rely on blood and gore, but on an increasing sense of unease and the sort of sinister happenings that make you want to check over your shoulder and keep the light on… Such clever writing … and definitely not just for the YA audience.”

Becky Hawkins via NetGalley

“Wow – I thought the first book was scary … and a fab read – this one is even better and much darker and more graphic.”

Michelle Warner via NetGalley

“What a creepy story with a very creepy doll house… I loved the first book and this was just as good.”

Carley Adair via NetGalley

“Frozen Charlotte was the creepiest of the first batch of Red Eye books. Charlotte Says outdoes it… I will definitely be looking out for more books by Alex – as long as I can read them during the day!”

Barker Jones via NetGalley

For Lauren Griffiths – one of my most very favourite humans.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Exclusive Extract: Frozen Charlotte

Exclusive Extract: Savage Island

More RED EYE reads...

Copyright

Chapter One

Isle of Skye – January 1910

“Don’t be frightened yet,” the voice says. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to be frightened…”

I turn, looking over my shoulder, but there is nobody there and I am alone once again at Whiteladies – that house of confused spirits and cracked china dolls and slaughtered horses. From somewhere downstairs a grandfather clock counts down the six hours in deep, melancholy tolls and, like a magnetic force, my eyes are drawn with a terrible irresistibility to the door at the end of the corridor. Nothing else exists in the entire world but that door. It is closed but I can hear someone sobbing behind it. Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. On, on, on. I must help them. I must open that door. I must do something. Now. While I still can.

I walk down the corridor, and the soot and blood mix together in swirls of black and red – on the walls, on my skirts, on my hands and in the fine grooves of my fingertips. The closed door looms before me, and it hides a secret that will be the end of everything I know and love. Yet still I move closer. I reach for the door but I can never get to it. No matter how many steps I take, the door is always further and further away. My fingers grasp at nothing. Grief makes the air thick and heavy, and I choke on smoke and, all around, there is the smell of burning human hair…

Flames lick at my skin as my hand reaches for the doorknob.

“Charlotte says you shouldn’t open it,” a voice remarks, almost conversationally.

I turn and, through the fire, see little Vanessa Redwing sitting on the floor of the corridor with her back to me. She’s playing with her dolls’ house and I see that she’s wearing her riding habit, her dark curls drawn into a low bun beneath her top hat. From this angle I can’t see her face but I do see the scarlet streak of blood running slowly down her neck from her ear. She hums as she moves her doll from one room of the house to another.

“Charlotte says don’t open the door,” she says again, not turning round.

“Why not?” I ask, my voice a croak.

“Something bad happened in that room,” she says.

“But I must know,” I say. “I have to remember.”

“Charlotte says you’ll regret it if you look,” Vanessa whispers. She turns her head slightly and I sense she is watching me, but her face is hidden by the netted veil attached to the stiff brim of her riding hat. “Charlotte says there are some horrors that burn,” she says.

The fire leaps taller, crackling with spite as it devours the house around us. The heat is almost unbearable; the smoke makes my eyes water; it hurts to breathe.

Vanessa holds the doll up to her ear, as if it’s whispering something to her. Then she giggles softly. “Charlotte says let it burn,” she says, giggling some more. “Let it all burn right down to the ground.”

“Wake up!”

I turn away from her, finally managing to wrap my fingers round the brass door handle embossed with the Redwing coat of arms, the hawk emblem with the cold, cruel eyes that blaze red hot. The brass smokes, burning and blistering my skin, but I don’t care. At last I will get to see what lies beyond, to find out what happened in this room…

“Wake up, miss,” a man said again. “We’ve arrived. We’ve reached the school.”

His fingers pressed against my shoulder and I shoved his hand away before I could stop myself. In those confusing moments between sleeping and waking, it was another man standing before me, another hand on my arm, purple bruises blooming under cruel fingers. But then the image faded and it was only the carriage driver, shivering in the gloom and giving me a reproachful look.

“I’m sorry for waking you, Miss Black,” he said, his lilting Scottish accent making me feel a long way from home. “But we’ve arrived at the school.”

I looked out of the window but night had fallen while I’d been sleeping and there was nothing much to see except the glow of lanterns shining through the fog. The tang of salt and brine reached right into the carriage, telling me that the ocean was somewhere close. There was no scent of smoke or ash or burning hair. And when I looked down at my black kid gloves, they were not sticky with blood.

“Miss Black,” the driver said again, starting to look a little vexed. “We’ve arrived at—”

“I heard you,” I snapped. I had been so close to the door that time, so close to remembering. But it was not the driver’s fault, so I shook my head and added, “Please forgive me. It’s been a long journey and I am fatigued.”

“Of course,” the driver mumbled, already turning away to see to the removal of my luggage.

The cold had bitten deep into my bones while I’d been asleep, and the blood rushed painfully back into my hands and feet as I got up from the uncomfortable bench seat. I was absolutely famished. I’d used my last pennies on a pot of tea and a plate of crumpets while waiting for the ferry in Mallaig but that had been hours ago and now I was dreadfully hungry.

The heel of my boot crunched on the frozen gravel as I stepped out and saw the horses steaming in the lamplight, snorting and shuffling their hooves, anxious to be on their way. The driver must have been eager to leave, too, for he had barely set my trunk down on the ground before climbing back into his seat.

“The school is straight through those gates,” he said, pointing with his whip. “If they’d left them unlocked then I could have dropped you off at the door. But you can get in through them side gates just there easy enough.”

He paused and I wondered whether he was waiting for a tip. Perhaps if I offered him one then he might even get down from the driver’s seat and help me with my luggage. But I had no money left in my purse and I was damned if I was going to beg. So I simply offered him a tight-lipped thank you. He shrugged in response, flicked his whip at the horses, and the carriage trundled away, taking the warm lamplight with it. I was left shivering in the dark outside the black iron school gates, scowling after the retreating carriage as I reached down to grip the handle of my trunk.

It was devilish heavy, and my arms and back ached with the effort of dragging it along behind me. Thanks to the boats running behind schedule, I was later than I had said I would be in my letter, but I thought they might have left the gates open for me just the same. I looked up at them, tall and imposing, with the words Dunvegan School for Girls spelled out in the ironwork at the top. An exclusive industrial school, founded to provide for the maintenance and training of destitute girls not convicted of crime, read the job advert that Henry had sent me. It was, in other words, a place for those who had nowhere else to go.

I found the side gate the driver had mentioned and passed through to the school grounds. The building was larger than I had expected and loomed overhead. The wind whistled through the open tower in the centre, causing the faint echo of a ringing bell to carry through the air. Most of the school was cloaked in darkness, the nearby black windows lifeless and opaque with ice, but a light glowed here and there in the otherwise dark façade. I searched the windows for faces but saw none. The building seemed without warmth or pity or interest in me of any kind. Well, that suited me perfectly. More than anything, I wanted to be left alone. To be invisible.

Unfortunately the fog chose just that moment to turn into misty rain that clung in droplets to my travelling cloak, soaked through the soles of my boots and dampened my gloves, causing them to shrink and cling tightly to my hands.

I had no idea which way I was supposed to go, so decided to make for what looked like a main entrance. My breath smoked before me, and the hem of my black mourning dress became bedraggled and wet from the frosted stones as I dragged my trunk to the doorway. There was no answer when I knocked, so I tried the handle but the door was locked fast.

I sighed and gazed around hopelessly. There wasn’t a soul about, and the night seemed to become colder and colder by the second. It had been a long, tiresome journey – I was bone-weary and hungry, and now I was locked out in the dark. It would easily have been enough to make most other seventeenyear-old girls weep in my place, but I knew what real horror was and this was nothing on that.

I straightened my shoulders and glared at the closed door before me. If I knocked long and hard enough, eventually someone would have to hear and let me in. And I would knock all night until my knuckles were bloody stumps if I had to.

I gripped the brass knocker and brought it down on the door relentlessly, over and over again, as hard and as loud as I could, channeling all the fear and frustration and grief I’d felt over the last few weeks, relishing the aching muscles in my arm and back. At least the pain told me I was still alive, which was more than could be said for my mother…

I felt a fresh wave of longing. I would have sold my soul to have been back in our little rented townhouse with her. Mother could play the part of mysterious medium, purveyor of séances and communicator with the dead extremely well but in private her default was always a ready smile, a cheerful nature and a boisterous laugh. For a moment I could see her so clearly in my mind’s eye, plump and pretty in one of her flamboyant flowery bonnets, her head thrown back as she guffawed at some joke she’d probably made herself.

But then the image dissolved and blew away, like little pieces of ash plucked apart by the ocean wind.

I swallowed down my sorrow. Now was not the time to fall apart.

“The Black women are strong,” Mother had often told me. “The Black women don’t give up, Jemima, no matter how bleak things may seem…”

The front door was suddenly yanked open, startling me. I found myself face to face with a maid, probably a year or two younger than myself. She was extremely pretty, with green eyes and glossy blond hair tucked beneath a white cap. I disliked her immediately. She had a sulky look that many pretty girls seemed to suffer from, and I could tell she wouldn’t hesitate to make things difficult for me the first chance she got.

“Yes?” she said in a hostile tone.

“I’m Jemima Black,” I said. “I’ve come to take up the assistant mistress post. I believe you’re expecting me?”

“You’re late,” the girl replied with a sniff. “We thought you’d be here hours ago.”

“The boat was delayed,” I said. “Because of the weather. There was nothing I could do.”

The girl sighed. “I’ll fetch Miss Grayson,” she said, beckoning me inside.

I stepped over the threshold into an entrance hall. Although nowhere near as grand as Whiteladies, it was nevertheless more impressive than I had expected, with a sea-green tiled floor and a tall wooden staircase that led steeply up to the first floor. I thought of the portrait hall that had formed the entrance to Whiteladies, with its magnificent stained-glass window filled with hawks and all those glistening oil paintings, the face of a dead girl staring back at me from every gilded frame. No matter how unwelcoming the school may be, I was glad to be here, hundreds of miles from London.

I’d grown accustomed to the new electric lighting that had been installed at Whiteladies and had forgotten how gas lamps sucked all the moisture from the room, making the air as dry as old paper. Even the potted plants by the front door were wilting. Gaslight produced a much softer glow than electricity and much of the room flickered in shadow. I could make out the exposed gas pipes, though, running along the ceiling, marring the elegant décor.

“Wait here,” the maid said, then turned and disappeared through one of the side doors.

I had expected the place to be noisier, considering there were twenty or so girls boarding here, all seven to ten years old. But the place was silent. Silent as the grave, I thought, and had to stifle the sudden urge to giggle. I longed for bed and hoped I wouldn’t be kept standing around in my wet clothes for too long.

I took out my pocket watch and was shocked to see that it was almost eleven o’clock. No wonder the place was so quiet. All the girls would be asleep by now. I hoped my knocking hadn’t woken any of them. I glanced up at the staircase to the first floor, where I imagined the dormitories would be, and immediately saw the flash of white nightdresses, pale fingers curled round the balustrades. The knocking had clearly woken the girls after all, and now there were perhaps two or three of them up there, watching me.

I raised my hand in greeting, but there was a startled gasp as they saw I’d spotted them and then the girls vanished, scattering like birds. At just that moment the door on the side of the entrance hall opened and a woman came striding out. I realized this must be Miss Grayson and, despite the fact that Henry had provided me with a colourful description of the schoolmistress in his last letter, my heart sank at the sight of her. She wore a dressing gown, implying that my arrival had roused her from bed but, strangely, her grey hair was arranged in a perfect pompadour – swept up on top of her head and then pinned in place around hidden hair rolls to add extra height and bulk. Her hair must have been long enough to sit on when it was loose, and the elaborate hairstyle did not match the sternness in her watery blue eyes or the pinched expression of disapproval around her mouth. She was in her mid-fifties and life’s many disappointments had clearly twisted her features into a shrivelled look of bitterness. I’m quite certain that she’d resolved to hate me before she ever set eyes on me.

“Miss Black, I presume?” she snapped.

In my heeled boots I was tall for a girl but Miss Grayson still loomed a head taller than me in her itchy-looking woollen slippers.

“Yes,” I began. “I’m—”

“You’re late, miss.” She cut me off sharply. “I’m Miss Grayson, the mistress here, and I must warn you that lateness will not be tolerated at Dunvegan School for Girls. Timeliness is next to godliness, and I run a punctual school.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said. “But the boat was delayed and—”

“I will overlook it this once but a second occurrence will lead to your wages being docked. Am I clear?”

“Abundantly,” I replied coolly.

“I will show you to your room,” she said. “The servants have retired for the night. Your trunk will be carried upstairs in the morning.”

She kept her eyes fixed on me and I could tell that she wanted me to protest. There were things in my trunk I needed – my nightdress and my slippers and my wash kit – but I refused to give her the satisfaction so I simply said, “Very well.”

The schoolmistress turned away to pick up a candlestick from the sideboard, lighting this before she extinguished the lamps.

“This way,” she said, already heading for the staircase, guarding the candle’s flame with her hand.

The heels of my boots seemed to click too loudly on the wooden boards as I followed her up to the first floor. I glanced at the balustrades as we went past, but the girls had obviously hurried back to bed and I wasn’t about to get them in trouble by mentioning them.

“My quarters are here.” Miss Grayson gestured to a nearby room. “The girls sleep in a dormitory at the far end.” She pointed into the gloom. “Your room is located there as well, at the top of the servants’ stairs. This will enable us to keep an eye on the girls between us, in case anyone gets it into their head to start running around the place at night.”

“Is that something that happens often?”

“Last week I caught some girls trying to sneak down to the kitchen to steal food,” Miss Grayson said. Her thin mouth tightened. “Needless to say they were all whipped and sent to bed immediately. Dishonest behaviour will not be tolerated here.”

You horrid old shrew, I thought, disliking the schoolmistress even more intensely. We are not going to get along at all.

Miss Grayson led the way down the corridor and opened the door to my room, the bare wooden boards creaking under her slippered feet as she stepped inside. By the light of her candle I saw that the little space was every bit as spartan as I had expected it to be, simply comprising of a washstand, a bedside table, a chest of drawers, a dressing table, a rickety chair and a narrow bed. A single coal smouldered in the fireplace but the room was icy cold.

“The fire was made ready for your arrival but I’m afraid you’ve missed the benefit of it, given your tardiness,” Miss Grayson remarked.

If she expected me to apologize a second time for something that was not my fault then she was going to be disappointed. I walked into the room behind her. “Thank you for showing me up, Miss Grayson,” I said, peeling off my wet cloak. “Please don’t let me keep you from your bed any longer.”

Seeing my bombazine mourning dress, trimmed in itchy black crepe, Miss Grayson pursed her lips and said, “Please accept my sympathies for your loss, Miss Black.”

I inclined my head but said nothing. I couldn’t talk about it, not without breaking down, so I was relieved when the schoolmistress let the matter drop and lit the candle on the bedside table with an obvious show of reluctance. “You’ll be provided with one candlestick per week,” she told me. “If your use exceeds this then you must pay for any additional candles from your own private funds. I’d urge you to do without as far as you can. Candles lead to wax drips on the floor and they are also, of course, a fire hazard.”

I gave her a sharp look, wondering if this was a reference to my past. Surely news of the fire would not have carried as far as the Isle of Skye? That was part of the appeal of coming here in the first place, after all. To leave all of that behind.

“You will have one day off per month, on the last Sunday,” Miss Grayson went on. “The bathroom is down the corridor, the third door on the right. And there is a chamber pot beneath the bed. Lessons start at eight and breakfast is at seven. Please present yourself for a prompt start.”

“Of course.”

At the mention of breakfast, hunger rumbled again in my stomach and I briefly considered asking Miss Grayson whether it might be possible to get some refreshment sent up from the kitchen. But she’d already told me the servants had retired for the night and I couldn’t bear to receive another lecture about my lateness.

“If that’s all, then I’ll wish you goodnight, Miss Black.”

And with that she was gone, leaving me alone in the room.

I headed straight to the fireplace, hoping to add some more coal to the fire, but the scuttle was empty. Clearly this was another thing that was rationed. I sighed. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.

By the feeble light of the single candle, I struggled out of my wet clothes, draping them over the chair by the fireplace so they could start to dry out. Once I had stripped down to my undergarments, my teeth immediately started chattering. But mere physical discomfort barely had the power to touch me any more.

I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my fingertips lightly over the many cigarette burns that scarred my arms and wrists, all the way up to my shoulders. My arms were a mess of scar tissue – ugly, ruined skin that felt tough and leathery to the touch. I recalled how some of the original burns had become infected, bleeding and weeping, and these scars were even uglier. As they’d healed, the skin had tightened around the scars, which now made it difficult for me to bend my arms at the elbows. I couldn’t properly feel the material of my mourning dress, or the touch of my fingertips brushing over the scarred surface.

I tried to think back two weeks, to the night of the fire but almost at once I could feel my heart speeding up, my breath turning shallow in my throat, my chest constricting as if an iron weight were pressing down on it, hard enough to crush my ribcage.

Don’t be frightened yet, his voice whispered in my mind once again. So clear and close and loud that it was like he was really there in the room, taunting me. I’ll tell you when it’s time to be frightened…

I tasted cigarette smoke on my tongue, breathed in the overpowering scent of his hair’s Macassar oil, felt fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave bruises. The smell of blood filled the air.

Sit here, the voice went on inside my head. And hold this doll—

“Shut up! Shut up!” I gasped. “You are not here. You are not here.”

I opened my eyes, pushed Whiteladies from my thoughts and concentrated on breathing slowly until my heart rate finally returned to normal. I was out of London now, escaped from that dreadful place. Jemima Black was not a medium any longer, she was a schoolmistress, and life was to be plain and ordinary from now on. Completely plain and ordinary.

I went over to the washstand and poured icy water from the jug into the bowl, then quickly splashed it over my face. Crawling between the freezing sheets, I wrapped my arms round the black grief I carried with me everywhere, trying not to mind the sting of its claws and teeth as I cried myself to sleep.

Chapter Two

Isle of Skye – January 1910

The cold woke me early the next morning – it felt like my tears had frozen to my face during the night. It was still dark outside so I knew it must be early and yet I was ravenously hungry. As I climbed out of bed I wondered whether there could be anything more wretched in all the world than having to get up, shivering, in the early hours by the light of a single candle, especially when that candle was cheap and greasy and filled the room with the scent of animal fat.

The school had an air of misery about it and I was reminded of my grandmother telling me that buildings could be haunted by human sadness as well as by ghosts. Unlike my mother, who cheerfully accepted she was a fake, Grandma had believed herself to be a genuine medium right up until the day she died. She was quite convinced that she regularly conversed with the dead and that she had once even made contact with a demon.

It was trapped inside a painting, she’d told me. A painting of an old woman in a wedding dress. The family were terrified of that painting, Jemmy, because sometimes the old woman would weep and wail, and scratch at her face at night. She moved around inside the frame, too. They thought they should just toss the painting straight on to the fire but luckily I was there to stop them. Destroying the painting would have released that devil and who knows where we would have been then? The only safe thing was to lock it up in a trunk and toss away the key.

Oh, Mother, don’t scare Jemima with those bedtime stories! my mother had said with her customary laugh.

I sighed and pushed all thoughts of family from my mind. Instead I gazed around the little bedroom. No servant had been to light the fire and, when I went over to last night’s washing water, I saw that it had frozen in the bowl. My eyes went to the bell pull behind the bed and I wondered whether I was permitted to ring it to call a servant. Finally I went over and gave it a firm tug. Even if a fire was not allowed, I needed to ensure my luggage was brought up so I could change into a suitable dress for the day.

No one came and I had to ring the bell twice more before the same blond girl from yesterday finally knocked at my door. She scowled at my requests but I was firm with her and felt a petty sense of victory when she finally left, taking with her my wet clothes from the night before to be cleaned.

I was forced to break through the ice in the bowl in order to wash. After that there was nothing to do but wait for my luggage to arrive, my sense of triumph rapidly turning to panic. It was almost seven o’clock, the hour when I was supposed to present myself for breakfast. I tugged at the servants’ bell again but it was another twenty torturous minutes before my trunk finally arrived.

I dressed as quickly as I could, pulling on another black mourning dress, but then there was the problem of my hair. I had always worn it loose or in a simple plait but this would be improper now that I was seventeen. I was not yet accustomed to putting my hair up myself, there had been servants for that at Whiteladies, and it took me several clumsy attempts before I managed a half-decent chignon, secured with a jet hair comb. Upon looking at my pocket watch, I was horrified to see that it was now a quarter to eight.

I hurried downstairs, back into the entrance hall, wondering where the breakfast room was and how I was supposed to get there, cursing myself for not asking Miss Grayson last night. I finally located the main hall just as the girls were filing out of it, looking neat and tidy in their matching dresses, all giving me curious looks as I passed by.

I entered the room and saw that the blond maid was clearing away the porridge bowls. It was a vast space, cold as an icebox, with large windows that would let in plenty of light once the sun finally came up. The smell of burnt toast lingered in the air and the odd plate of blackened bread remained on the two long trestle tables that took up much of the room.

Miss Grayson was standing beside a raised stage at the far end. Her hair was fashioned in the same fussy pompadour as last night, only now she wore a high-necked blouse and long skirt instead of a dressing gown. A vicious-looking tawse dangled from a loop round her wrist.

The mistresses at my own school had used canes to punish the pupils but Henry had mentioned in one of his letters that Scottish schools seemed to prefer the tawse – a long strip of leather with the striking end split into thick individual strips. These strips, I noticed, were not edged, meaning that they could easily draw blood if enough force was used.

“Very kind of you to join us, Miss Black,” Miss Grayson said as soon as she saw me. Her mouth twitched, just slightly, and I wondered whether she was suppressing a smile. She was probably delighted to have this opportunity to reprimand me again so soon.

I walked slowly over to her, preparing myself to take whatever was coming.

“There was a delay in my luggage arriving in my room,” I began. “I couldn’t get dressed until—”

Miss Grayson fixed her gaze on me and I instantly fell silent. There was nothing in her expression but anger and it was startling to be looked at with so much open dislike.

“Miss Black, I will tell you the same thing I tell the girls,” she said. “I am not interested in excuses or hearing you blame others for your own shortcomings. I thought I made myself quite clear on the issue of punctuality last night. You are late for the second time in a number of hours and your wages will be docked accordingly.”

I gritted my teeth against the injustice of it. What would she have had me do? Come down in my petticoats?

“I will be frank with you, Miss Black. It was not my idea to have an assistant mistress here,” she went on. “I told the board I thought it unnecessary. Besides which, I have enough to do looking after the students, without adding another girl into the mix.”

“You won’t have to look after me, Miss Grayson,” I said. “I’m willing to work hard and I—”

“Do not interrupt me, miss!” the schoolmistress replied, her nostrils flaring. “I will not tolerate rudeness. Furthermore, I have been informed that you continuously rang the servants’ bell in your bedroom this morning and kept the servants from their duties with your various demands.”

I glanced over at the maid, who smirked at me before disappearing out of the door with the empty bowls.

Miss Grayson’s pompadour wobbled as she drew herself up to stare down her nose at me. “I fear you’re under a great misapprehension if you think the staff are to be at your beck and call. I understand from your friend, Mr Collins, that you were accustomed to a rather grand lifestyle before you came here, but you’ll have to drop all of those airs and graces if you hope to maintain your position. Our generous benefactors employ the servants to take care of the school and its pupils, not to cater to your personal whims.”

I felt a slow pulse of anger deep in my stomach and lifted my chin to meet her gaze. “Miss Grayson,” I said firmly, “I’m sorry, but it simply was not like that. I rang the bell because I needed my clothes brought upstairs and could not leave my room dressed only in my petticoats, as I’m sure you will concede. I apologize if I delayed the servants this morning, but I really don’t know what else you could have expected me to do in the circumstances. If there was an alternative course of action that would have been more appropriate, then by all means let me know so that I might bear it in mind for the future.”

For a long moment there was utter silence as the schoolmistress and I stared at each other. Perhaps I should simply have accepted her chastisement meekly, saying nothing, but I had faced down worse monsters than Miss Grayson.

She didn’t blink once and yet her eyes remained as watery as ever, while my own seemed to burn with dryness. Finally the silence was broken by a scuffling from the doorway and we turned to see a few of the girls standing there, watching the scene eagerly.

“Go to your classroom and take your seats,” Miss Grayson snapped.

The girls fled.

“Hold out your hand,” she said, the moment they’d gone.

“What for?” I asked, startled.

“Hold. Out. Your. Hand,” Miss Grayson repeated in a low, harsh voice, “or pack your bags and leave the school this instant.”

Slowly I held out my hand. The schoolmistress gripped it at the wrist, turned it over so that it was palm up and then administered three sharp strikes of her tawse across the soft skin of my palm. It smarted and stung like anything, leaving several angry red welts, but I refused to let any trace of pain cross my face. She could whip me for speaking my mind but she couldn’t stop me from speaking it, and I would rather take a hundred thrashings than allow myself to be bullied. I’d said what I wanted to say, I knew I was in the right, and nothing she said or did could take that from me.

Miss Grayson dropped my hand and took a step back. “An ignoble beginning, Miss Black, I’m sure you’ll agree,” she remarked. I noticed she’d gone white around the lips. “I fear your career here is destined to be a short-lived one. While you are here, though, and taking payment, you will do your fair share of the work, I assure you. Please accompany me to the classroom and we will begin.”

She turned and strode from the hall. I followed, trying to get control of the anger that was bubbling up inside me, threatening to burst out. Hunger did not improve my mood; I had missed dinner last night and now breakfast, too, but like it or not I needed this job. I had no formal training as a governess and, if I was not to be a medium any more, then poorly paid work at an industrial school was the best I could hope for. The alternative was to rely on the charity of some poorhouse for destitute women.

I followed Miss Grayson down the corridor to a large classroom, filled with individual roll-topped desks. A big blackboard stood at the front of the room, and the windows were set high enough to prevent the pupils from looking out and becoming distracted. A small fire burned in the grate but it was still chilly, and the place smelled of paper, chalk and cold wood. The tall desk by the blackboard must be Miss Grayson’s. I noticed that it had a big brass bell on it, presumably to ring for quiet, but the schoolmistress didn’t even need to look at it. I’d expected a bustle of activity as we entered but the room was silent, with all the girls sitting at their desks, facing forwards, pens in front of them ready to begin.

“Good morning, girls,” Miss Grayson said.

“Good morning, Miss Grayson,” they chorused back at her.

“This is Miss Black,” the schoolmistress said, gesturing at me. “She will be helping you with your lessons. One at a time, I’d like you to stand up and introduce yourselves. Starting with you, Felicity.”

A girl of about seven stood up. “My name is Felicity,” she said in a soft whisper. “And the magistrates sentenced me to an industrial school because I was found begging in the streets.”

She sat down and Miss Grayson pointed to the girl next to her, who stood up and said, “My name is Olivia and the magistrates sentenced me to an industrial school because I was found wandering in the company of reputed thieves, which they said was one of the worst things for a girl of my age.”

“My name is Alice, and I got took before the courts for not having no home to go to.”

Miss Grayson gave a great sigh. “Please speak properly, Alice. You were brought before the courts for vagrancy.”

“Yes, miss,” Alice mumbled.

Next there was another girl of the same age. She was a tiny little thing, with pretty, honey-coloured hair and huge brown eyes.

“I’m Bess,” she said, twisting the front of her dress with both hands, clearly anxious at having to speak in front of everybody. “And the magistrates sent me here because they said my father was too much of a drunkard to look after me.”

After Bess took her seat, a girl of around ten stood up. She was thin, with extremely pale blond hair and a sickly look that spoke of long-term ill-health. And yet there was a spark in her eyes, a sort of smouldering defiance that made me like her at once. “My name is Estella,” she said in a strong, clear voice.

“And why are you here?” Miss Grayson said.

Estella did not look at the floor as most of the other girls had but instead raised her chin slightly. “The magistrates sentenced me to industrial school because my parents declared me to be beyond their control.”

There was almost an element of pride in her voice.

“And why did your parents finally have to wash their hands of you, Estella?” Miss Grayson pressed.

The girl stared right back at the schoolmistress. “They called me a compulsive liar.”

“That is not correct,” Miss Grayson replied.

Estella glared at her. “Yes, it is.”

“You were not sent here because your parents called you a compulsive liar, you ignorant girl,” Miss Grayson replied. “You were sent here because you are a compulsive liar.”

Estella shrugged. It was the first open show of rebellion I’d seen since arriving. All the other girls seemed remarkably well behaved, probably because they were all terrified of the schoolmistress.

“Sit down,” Miss Grayson ordered.

To my delight, Estella paused just a moment before doing so. When she glanced at me, I smiled at her. She looked surprised but offered me a small smile in return.

Once the rest of the girls had introduced themselves, Miss Grayson pointed to a pupil in the second row and said, “Georgia, for the benefit of our guest, can you please tell us what one of the two objectives of Dunvegan School is?”

“To provide pupils with the skills they’ll need to support themselves through honest, hardworking labour,” Georgia immediately said.

“Correct,” Miss Grayson replied. She turned her gaze on me and said, with obvious pride, “We are particularly noted for the excellence of our training programme here and girls educated at Dunvegan are highly sought after as domestic servants once they leave. Bess.” She turned back to the girl with honey-coloured hair. “The second objective?”

Bess looked startled to have been chosen and replied so quietly that no one could hear her.

“Speak up!” Miss Grayson ordered.

The girl tried again but as soon as she opened her mouth water poured out of it, an endless stream that soaked her shoes and splattered the boards at her feet. Her eyes had a dull, vacant look as her mouth opened wider and wider. She was soon soaked from head to foot, her clothes dripping wet, her hair sodden. Clumps of black sand fell from her mouth, landing on the floor with wet thumps, along with a tangle of weeds that the girl had to drag out of her throat, gagging all the while…

“Speak up, Bess,” Miss Grayson said again.

And suddenly the water was gone, and the girl was dry and normal-looking once more.

“To reform the child’s character,” Bess whispered.

I bunched my hands into fists and kept them carefully clenched in front of me. I must not react, not in front of everyone. Was I going mad? I must not allow myself to lose my mind. I was overtired, that was all, and hadn’t eaten in what felt like decades.

“Correct,” Miss Grayson said, bringing me back to the room. “You have all come from reduced circumstances and many of you have fallen in with bad crowds as a result, but any undesirable behaviour will be swiftly stamped out here.”

She looked directly at me as she said the last sentence. The lesson, which turned out to be a writing one, consisted of Miss Grayson handing out Bibles to the girls and having them copy out verses into their exercise books. She marched back over to me at the front of the room and handed me a large wooden ruler.

“If you see any student writing with her left hand you are to strike her immediately with this,” she told me. “You may sit on that stool.” She pointed to one at the front of the class. “But please keep an eye on them. There are several girls here who will insist on using their left hands.”

I took the ruler and sat on the stool, praying that I wouldn’t have to use it. The writing activity was carried out in silence and seemed to go on for an eternity. After the first half hour I was so bored I could have screamed. Being a medium may have had its downsides but at least it was never dull. In fact, I had rather enjoyed accompanying Mother to some of London’s most fashionable homes, sitting in their elegant parlours and dazzling the assembled guests with our carefully staged display of table-tipping and wall-rapping, our ‘ghostly hands’ tricks and levitating candlestick illusions.