Whispers in the Dark by Jonathan Aycliffe Page B

to the telling of tales quite remorselessly, she will quite wear you into the ground. You must resist. You must tell her when you are tired, you must put the book down and say you will read no more.”
    “She has a delightful voice, Anthony, a most delightful voice. A little coarsened by her companionship of the past few years, but possessed of a most winning modulation. I already have great hopes of her. Which brings me to our good news. You will be pleased to learn that I have decided to act as Charlotte’s governess.”
    He raised his eyebrows, looking at me.
    “Indeed?” He paused. “That sounds eminently sensible.”
    "I intend to polish her, Anthony. To make her ready for the station in life to which her destiny calls her.”
    It was not the first time I had heard Antonia speak of my destiny, yet I still found it a curious turn of phrase for what was, after all, no more than the chance falling out of events.
    “You really should not take so much trouble on my behalf,” I protested.
    “Let us be the judges of that, Charlotte,” said Antonia. “What you call ‘trouble’ is both a duty and a pleasure. I rarely Find the opportunity to combine them. Surely you will not begrudge me my chance.”
    Mrs. Johnson chose that moment to come in to take the plates away. I thanked her for the roly-poly.
    “There’s nothing to it, miss. Just a bit of suet and some jam. What would you like tomorrow night?”
    “Whatever you think best.”
    “Oh, no, it’s not for me to say. You must choose. Was there anything you dreamed of when you were in . . . before you came here?”
    I looked at Antonia, then at Anthony. They both smiled encouragingly.
    “Well,” I said, “there was one thing Cook used to make me on Sundays. Bread-and-butter pudding.”
    “Capital,” shouted Anthony, “capital. That was another of my favorites. Yes, Johnson, you must make some bread-and-butter pud.”
    “Very well, sir. Miss Charlotte. Bread-and-butter pudding it shall be.”
    We retired to the little drawing room, the antechamber in which we had been the night before. Mrs. Johnson brought coffee for Antonia and a cup of cocoa for me. Anthony poured himself a glass of brandy from a large decanter. Balancing it carefully on the broad arm of his chair, he again slipped on his spectacles. They gave him a schoolmasterly air, a little pedantic and fussy. Taking a small notebook from his pocket, he turned to me.
    “Now, Charlotte, you must tell me all you know about your brother and his movements. Omit nothing that may be of the slightest assistance to the diligent Mr. Endicott.”
    I told him what I could, which was not, in reality, very much.
    “No matter,” he said, putting his pencil and notebook away. “He has no money, so he will not have traveled far. You will Find that he has taken employment between Newcastle and here, with a farmer perhaps. Put your mind at ease, he will turn up.”
    Antonia glanced at the clock.
    “It is almost ten o’clock, Charlotte. I’m afraid I have tired you today with our walks. Tomorrow shall be less strenuous, I promise. But now I think it is time for you to get some sleep. Do you think you know your way to your bedroom now?”
    I nodded, but I had really hoped that someone might take me there. The thought of negotiating those long, dark passages alone was daunting.
    “I’m sure you will not get lost. You’re not a child, after all. Take that lamp in the corner, I believe it’s full.” I picked up a tall oil lamp. Anthony kindly rose from his seat in order to light it for me. He kissed me on the forehead and bade me good night. Antonia also rose. She kissed me lightly on the lips.
    “Good night, Charlotte. I know we shall be very happy here together. Anthony and I are so pleased that you have come.”
    It was a long way to my room. I wanted to walk quickly, but I feared getting lost and was obliged to pause every so often in order to ascertain my precise whereabouts. By night, the house was quite a