Goodly and Grave 3-Book Story Collection

CHAPTER THREE

BATHSHEBA

Lucy scrambled out of the coach doorway that Lord Grave had been dragged from, skinning her knees and palms on the drive’s sharp gravel.

Lord Grave made a choking noise.

The two armoured coachmen were still standing holding the horses’ reins. They had their visors down. Couldn’t they see what was happening?

“Do something!” she yelled at them.

His Lordship’s face was still trapped between the beast’s jaws. The growls took on a squelching quality. Lord Grave stopped making the choking noises, but his legs waggled up and down in mid-air, like a fly in its death throes.

A shaft of early morning sunlight pierced the mist and glittered on something red against the animal’s neck. Not Lord Grave’s blood, but a jewelled collar. Lucy hurled herself towards the collar and grabbed it. The jewels dug into the palms of her already sore hands, but she ignored the pain and tugged as hard as she could.

“Help me!” she screamed again at the two footmen. She wrenched at the collar desperately. With a wet plop, Lord Grave’s head slid from the beast’s jaws. But then the beast turned its gaze towards Lucy. Wide yellow eyes stared into hers. The half-open mouth revealed long white fangs dripping with frothy drool. In one smooth move, the creature curved round to face Lucy and thumped its paws against her shoulders, pinning her to the ground. It opened its mouth even wider, breath hot against Lucy’s cheek, dipped its head …

“No!” Lucy said in a voice that was smaller and squeakier than normal. “Please …”

The beast began licking Lucy’s cheek, its tongue a thousand times scratchier than her father’s beard when he kissed her goodnight.

“Bathsheba!” Lord Grave bellowed. “Get off her. Now!”

Bathsheba sprang away from Lucy. Lord Grave was on his feet again, brushing gravel and dust from his cloak. His eyebrows were pointing in different directions. Bathsheba leaped once more, locking her paws round Lord Grave’s neck, who staggered backwards, but didn’t fall this time.

“Help the girl up,” Lord Grave ordered, in a strangled voice.

One of the footmen clanked over to Lucy and helped her to her feet, while Lord Grave took a piece of dried meat from somewhere underneath his cloak and threw it for Bathsheba to pounce on. She snarled, held the leathery strip of meat down with one paw and tore at it with her fangs.

That could have been my face, thought Lucy.

She began to tremble all over. She was so shaken up, she allowed Lord Grave to help her back into the coach.

“Thank you,” she said, flopping down into her seat.

Lord Grave took out a silk handkerchief and handed it to her so she could mop the last of Bathsheba’s drool from her face and clothes. “I suppose I should thank you too. That was foolhardy, but very brave. You weren’t to know Bathsheba wouldn’t harm me. It’s just her way of welcoming me home,” he said.

Lucy struggled with herself for a moment, but curiosity overcame her and she couldn’t help asking, “What is it – she – Bathsheba?”

“A panther. From Kenya. We rescued her as a cub. Her mother was shot by hunters. I have many such animals here. Look, the giraffes are over there, looking for their breakfast.”

Lucy peered through the mist. She could faintly see impossibly tall, long-necked, spindly-legged shadows moving gracefully past. There were noises too, splashing and snorting, coming from further away.

“What’s that?”

“The elephants down by the lake. They like an early morning bath,” Lord Grave said.

“Elephants and giraffes!” Lucy said. For a moment, excitement took the place of fear and anger. She’d never dreamed she might one day see such exotic animals in real life.

The coach set off again with Bathsheba ambling alongside. Lucy realised why the horses wore hoods. It was to stop them being spooked by the other animals as the coachmen led them through the wildlife park. After a while, the coach reached a gatehouse and on the other side of this, Lucy glimpsed Grave Hall for the first time. Mist still hung in the air, but she could make out a huge house with dozens of tall, slender chimneys and countless windows.

“Well, here we are,” Lord Grave said. “Now. A word of warning. It’s lucky you didn’t try to run off while Bathsheba was welcoming me home. Things could have turned quite nasty. Bathsheba and some of my other animals have the potential to be very vicious. But as long as you abide by my rules, they won’t harm you. I advise you to remember that.”

Lucy nodded in what she hoped was an obedient way. But of course, she had no intention of abiding by any of Lord Grave’s bossy rules. Not a single one. She was going to escape the first chance she got.

Vicious beasts or no vicious beasts.

The kitchen at Grave Hall was a long, low room. There was an enormous wooden table in the middle of the flagstone floor. A cooking range crouched in the fireplace. Pots and pans and bundles of herbs and strings of onions dangled from the ceiling.

“This is our cook, Mrs Bernie Crawley,” Lord Grave said. He waved his hand towards the tall, broad-shouldered woman who stood with her back to them. She was stirring a small pot of what smelled like porridge simmering on the range.

The woman turned and smiled. “Welcome to Grave Hall, Lucy. We’re all so glad you’ve come. It’s always so exciting to find a—”

“New boot girl,” said Lord Grave.

“Boot girl. Yes. Now, you must be hungry.” Mrs Crawley wiped her hands on her apron.

“I’ll take my breakfast later, Mrs Crawley. Until then I’m not to be disturbed,” said Lord Grave.

“Shall I bring Lucy to you after she’s eaten? I’m sure you’ll wish to begin—”

“I’m not to be disturbed, Mrs Crawley.” And with that, Lord Grave left the kitchen, Bathsheba padding after him.

Lucy realised she was staring at Mrs Crawley in a very rude way. She blinked and tried to find something else to focus on. The grey stone floor fitted the bill nicely.

“Something the matter?” Mrs Crawley asked, smoothing the full and glossy red beard that covered the bottom half of her face.

Lucy muttered at the floor. “You’re a …”

“Of course I am!” Mrs Crawley brandished the wooden spoon she was holding. Blobs of porridge fell at Lucy’s feet. “Lord Grave’s a traditional man in many ways. The cook must always be known as ‘Mrs’, married or no, she or—”

“He?” said Lucy, finally looking up.

“Correct!”

Lucy wondered if it would also be rude to mention the fact that Mrs Crawley happened to be wearing a dress and a frilly white apron.

“Ah, you’re puzzled by the frock. I prefer them, you see. Better airflow. It gets hot around the nether regions in this kitchen. And look at yourself, with your nice breeches. Very smart. We should wear what makes us feel comfortable. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Lucy smiled for the first time in hours. She had never liked dresses herself, preferring the practicality of breeches. But she could see why Mrs Crawley might feel the opposite way. And it was refreshing to meet someone else whose clothing choices were somewhat unusual.

“Sit yourself down here. It’s almost six and time for the servants’ breakfast.”

Lucy settled herself at the long table. It had benches at each side and a chair at either end. Mrs Crawley put a heavy silver teapot on the table and Lucy helped herself to a cup with milk and three sugars. She gulped it down, almost burning her tongue, and then poured another. While she was drinking it, the first of the servants arrived – a fair-haired girl, a year or two older than Lucy, carrying a ginger cat with a blue ribbon tied round its neck. The ends of the ribbon were damp and chewed-looking.

“Who are you?” the girl asked, peering sleepily at Lucy.

“Lucy, this is Becky Bone. Becky, this is Lucy Goodly. She’s our new boot girl. You be good to her now. She’ll be sharing your room.”

Becky stuck out her bottom lip. “Why does she have to share with me?”

“Becky, don’t you be so rude. You know all the other attic rooms are full of animal feed.”

“Your cat’s very sweet-looking,” Lucy said, in an effort to be friendly. She wasn’t entirely being truthful. The cat was scrawny. Its single eye was round, bulgy and bright orange. It had one and a half ears and the tip of its tail was missing. “What’s its name?”

“He’s called Smell,” said Mrs Crawley.

Lucy laughed. “What a funny name. I’ve got a cat at home called Phoebe. But she’s a bit younger than your Smell I think?”

“He’s not called Smell!” snapped Becky. “He’s called Aloysius.”

“But Smell’s so much more fitting,” chortled Mrs Crawley.

Smell wriggled out of Becky’s arms and trotted over to Lucy. As he stood there, blinking up at her with his single orange eye, he made a very small tooting noise, like the world’s tiniest trumpet.

“Oh,” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose. Now she understood why Smell was called Smell.

“It means he likes you!” said Mrs Crawley brightly. Becky scowled even harder at Lucy.

Another girl came into the kitchen, singing quietly to herself.

“This is Violet, she’s our scullery maid. She comes in from Grave Village to help me with the cooking,” said Mrs Crawley. “Violet, this is Lucy, the new boot girl.”

Violet smiled shyly at Lucy as she sat down. She was much younger than Becky, perhaps eight or nine. Wisps of mousy brown hair escaped from her white cotton cap. She began fiddling with her spoon, still singing softly.

“Oh, shut that noise up, Violet,” Becky said, when Mrs Crawley’s back was turned. “This one’s a right milksop. She’s scared of everything, you know. Cries if you look at her wrong.”

Lucy didn’t reply, but suspected Becky probably did a lot worse to Violet than “look at her wrong”.

A very short, curly-haired man was the last servant to arrive for breakfast. He wore a white shirt and a black waistcoat and trousers.

“Ah, you’re the new boot girl. I’m Jacob Vonk, the butler.”

Violet piped up, “And the gardener. And the beekeeper and—”

“That’s right, thank you, Violet. It’s true, I wear lots of different hats, as they say.”

“He’s got a whole cupboard of them!” Violet added.

“Everyone calls me Vonk,” said Vonk. He smiled broadly and shook Lucy’s hand warmly before settling himself into the chair at the head of the table. His feet in their very shiny shoes didn’t quite reach the floor and Lucy guessed he was smaller than she was.

“Some of your porridge would do very well now, Mrs C.”

“Pleasure, Vonk.” Mrs Crawley ladled porridge into bowls. It looked pale and creamy, but there were funny black specks in it. Lucy fished one of them out with her spoon, trying to work out if it was burnt porridge.

“Mrs Crawley,” said Vonk in a stern voice.

“What is it?” said Mrs Crawley in a light, airy what-on-earth-are-you-talking-about? voice.

“The garnish. You know what we agreed. No experimental porridge.”

“It’s extra nourishment, Vonk. There’s lots of hungry people in the world and not enough food to go round. Now insects, they—”

Vonk raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, very well!” Mrs Crawley snatched the bowls of porridge away and replaced them with insect-free portions. She heaped her own porridge with the tiny black corpses. “I toasted them especially for Lucy,” she said, crunching sadly on a mouthful.

“Well I could try one, maybe,” said Lucy, feeling rather sorry for Mrs Crawley.

“Oh, marvellous.” Mrs Crawley sprinkled a couple of the black specks into Lucy’s palm.

Lucy closed her eyes and licked the insects up, swallowing them quickly. “They taste a bit … er … lemony,” she said, coughing.

“Yes, that’s exactly it. They’re ants, you know. More?”

“Um. No, I think I’ve had enough. They’re very filling.”

Once everyone had finished eating, Mrs Crawley began telling Becky and Violet their tasks for the day. Lucy only half listened as she was thinking about her parents again. They’d probably be getting ready for bed now at the Charm Inn where they always stayed when in town. Would they remember to put their money and valuables under their pillows and lock the door while they slept? The Charm Inn was full of terrible thieves who would steal the breath from your lungs, but her parents always insisted on staying there. In fact, half the terrible thieves were her parents’ best friends. They really were hopeless!

Small, warm fingers touched Lucy’s wrist.

“Don’t fret, Lucy. Everyone here’s really nice and we don’t have to work too hard,” Violet said, looking up at her. “If you’re feeling lonely, you could borrow Caruthers. He always makes me feel better.” Violet took something out of her apron pocket. It was a small green knitted frog with button eyes. Violet’s name was neatly embroidered on its underneath.

Lucy smiled. “He’s lovely. Did you do the embroidery?”

“No, that was my mum. She’s very clever with a needle. She works as a seamstress.”

“Well, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll manage all right at the moment, so you keep hold of Caruthers for now.”

“Silly pair of milksops,” said Becky Bone, giving them both a disgusted look.

When Becky and Violet had gone off to begin work, Vonk showed Lucy to her new room, high up in the attics of Grave Hall.

“This is your bed,” he pointed to a small metal bedstead, one of two in the room. “Rest today. You can start work properly tomorrow. Lord Grave told me you’ve been up for most of the night.”

When Vonk had left, Lucy explored the little room. From the window, she could see the full extent of the wildlife park now the mist had cleared. As well as the elephants and giraffes, she spotted many other animals she’d never seen before, not even in books.

It didn’t take long for Lucy to familiarise herself with the rest of her new bedroom. Apart from the two beds, two bedside tables and a chest of drawers, there was nothing else other than a black iron fireplace. The tiles surrounding the inside of the fireplace had a different design on each side. One side showed a man sitting with a book on his knees, the other a man smoking a long, curved pipe.

Lucy took the trick playing card from her jacket and put it in the drawer of her bedside table before pulling her boots off and lying down. Although she’d been up all night, she was certain she didn’t feel sleepy. There was too much to think about. She’d just close her eyes for five minutes before planning how to escape Grave Hall.

Two minutes later, she was fast asleep.

So she didn’t notice when the tile man with the pipe climbed out of his side of the fireplace and joined the tile man with the book on the other side.

“Well, Mr Paige,” said the man with the pipe to the man with the book, “do you think his Lordship might be right about her?”

CHAPTER FOUR

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

“Come on, Goodly, time to get up,” said a voice in Lucy’s ear shortly after dawn the next morning.

“Urgh,” Lucy said and turned over. She’d slept until lunchtime the previous day and then hadn’t been able to sleep that night. And she wasn’t used to such an early start. Gambling for a living often meant going to bed in the mornings and getting up in the evenings, an arrangement Lucy was quite happy with.

“Come on!” This time a sharp pinch on Lucy’s cheek accompanied the impatient voice.

“Get off!” Lucy said, swatting the pinching fingers away. She opened her eyes. Becky Bone was staring down at her.

“If you miss breakfast, don’t blame me,” Becky said, poking her tongue out at Lucy before leaving the bedroom.

After stumbling into the kitchen for a bowl of Mrs Crawley’s porridge (and declining the offer of another portion of toasted ants), Lucy made her way to the boot room to start her new job.

She sighed as she began scraping the mud off the boots and shoes Lord Grave had left out the previous night. It was a horrible messy task and as she scraped and scraped she got angrier and angrier.

Why should she have to clean Lord Grave’s stupid boots? She might be stuck at Grave Hall until she found a way of escaping, but that didn’t mean she had to obey him or slave away for him. She owed him nothing. He’d cheated. Even more than her. And anyway, she’d cheated so she could feed her family. He had no such excuse.

In the end, she flung the boots into a corner, sat down on the floor and folded her arms. There she stayed until Becky Bone came in to check on her.

“His Lordship will be fuming,” Becky said, eyeing the pile of still dirty footwear.

“Clean them yourself if you’re bothered,” Lucy said.

“Oh, hoity-toity toffee-nose,” said Becky, pushing the tip of her own nose up with her finger.

“That makes you look like a pig. Suits you,” Lucy said. She stormed out of the boot room and into the hallway. Mrs Crawley had shown her around part of Grave Hall the previous day. Lucy remembered her saying the drawing room was where Lord Grave spent much of his time so she strode over to the drawing-room door and barged inside without bothering to knock.

Everything went instantly dark, as though the world had suddenly ended.

Lucy panicked for a few seconds until she realised a duster had fallen on her head and was hanging over her eyes. She’d opened the door to a cupboard full of brooms and buckets and other cleaning implements.

“Are you lost?” said a voice behind her. Lucy plucked the duster off her head and turned. It was Lord Grave. Bathsheba was at his heels.

“No. But I want to talk to you.” She slammed the broom cupboard shut.

“It’s not usual for a servant to make demands of her master,” Lord Grave snapped. “But follow me.”

Lucy followed Lord Grave and Bathsheba into the drawing room. He closed the door behind them. Then he sat down in one of the leather armchairs next to the fireplace. Bathsheba’s yellow eyes blinked sleepily at Lucy, but there was a dangerous glint in them. The panther yawned widely, as though she was taking the opportunity to demonstrate the sharpness of her fangs.

“Well?” Lord Grave said.

“I’m not going to work for you. I won’t clean your dirty boots or anything else. You can’t make me.”

Lord Grave opened a silver box, which sat on the side table next to his chair. He took out a cigar and a round piece of metal with a hole in the middle. He put the end of the cigar through the hole and pressed the side of the instrument. A blade sliced the end of the cigar off.

“I could make things very difficult for you. You’ve cheated at cards many times. I wonder what your victims would say if they found out?”

Lucy clasped her hands together behind her back to stop them shaking. Did this mean he knew about her card? “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” she said aloud.

“You’re not fooling me, Lucy. You’ll stay here and do as you’re told. Do you want to see your parents end up in prison, let alone yourself?”

“We haven’t done anything wrong. Why do you want me to stay here?”

Lord Grave got out of his chair and put his cigar in the black leather cigar case he carried in his pocket. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Now get back to work.”

Lord Grave and Bathsheba strode out of the drawing room, passing Becky, who bustled in armed with brooms and cloths and bottles of polish.

“Hope he told you what’s what, Goodly. We need to get on with cleaning this room.” She thrust a cloth at Lucy. “You dust the mantelpiece while I sweep the hearth.”

Lucy swallowed down her hatred of Lord Grave, snatched the cloth from Becky and began dusting. Outside, the sky darkened and rain rattled against the windows, as though the weather had decided to match Lucy’s bad mood.

A large painting hung above the mantelpiece. It showed a young woman. Her elaborately curled dark hair had an unusual white streak in the front. Her long dress was pale blue. The baby she held on her lap was chewing on a silver teething ring, which had a charm dangling from it. Lucy peered closely at the portrait and saw that the charm was a swan.

“Who are they?” Lucy asked.

Becky scowled and continued sweeping. “Lady Grave and little Lord Grave.”

“His Lordship’s wife and son?”

“Of course. Nitwit.”

Lucy gritted her teeth. “But where are they now?”

“Too many questions, Goodly.”

“Are they—?”

“Dead?” said another voice. Vonk stood in the doorway. “Yes. Lady Grave died from a fever not long after the portrait was painted. The young Lord Grave departed five years ago when he was only seven. A great tragedy for his Lordship. He’s never really recovered from it.” Vonk strode across the red carpet, stopping in front of the portrait.

Becky, who had instantly leaped back to her dustpan and brush when Vonk appeared, smirked. “I told her to stop asking questions.”

“Sorry, Vonk,” said Lucy. Perhaps the two tragedies partly explained why Lord Grave was so horrible, although that still didn’t excuse him.

Vonk raised his eyebrows. “Not a crime to be curious. Sign of intelligence.”

Becky dropped her brush with a clatter on to the marble hearth and muttered under her breath.

“It’s a beautiful painting, don’t you think?” Vonk said.

“Yes,” Lucy agreed. Then she noticed that something unusual was happening to the portrait. Orange-red flames were flickering in Lady Grave’s eyes. This startled Lucy for a moment, until she realised Becky had lit the lamps that hung on the opposite wall. The reflection of the flames reminded Lucy of the night she’d stolen the card. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest as she remembered. It had happened over two years ago, just before her tenth birthday …

She was standing sleepily at the back of a rundown gambling den, waiting for her parents to lose yet another card game. The doors of the gambling den creaked open and a blast of cold air whipped in from outside. Lucy stared as the woman who had entered the den made her way to the poker tables. She wore a fine, warm-looking scarlet coat with black velvet frogging down the front and a red hat with a red veil. Her hair was red too and fell loosely around her shoulders. The woman smiled at Lucy as she passed.

Lucy’s sleepiness vanished. It’s her again. She’d seen the woman, whom she’d nicknamed Lady Red, several times over the past few weeks in various gambling dens.

“Good evening, everyone,” said Lady Red. She sailed past the table Lucy’s parents were sitting at and settled herself at a table further down the room where a game had just finished. The other poker players gaped at the well-dressed new arrival. Most of them were as rundown as the gambling den.