Charlotte House Affair 01 - My Particular Friend

I asked.
    ‘She has many visitors, but apart from her brother, not many guests.’
    ‘You like your mistress, I think?’
    ‘Oh we do, miss. She is very kind and fair to us. And so we are happy to see her with a friend.’
    Mary’s words took me aback. ‘I only met Miss House the day before, and although she has shown me great kindness, I don’t know whether I can claim her as friend.’
    Her posture stiffened slightly. I couldn’t tell whether Mary was offended by my words or doing an imitation of Miss House’s impeccable posture. ‘She certainly thinks of you as a friend, miss. She told us, “Treat Miss Woodsen as my particular friend and see that she wants for nothing.”’
    ‘It is a great honour then that I can claim her friendship, Mary.’
    She turned to me and smiled and her posture relaxed. ‘I’m sure you’ll be the best of friends, miss.’
    I might now call Miss House friend, but she was certainly an absent one whom I did not see again for another two days. And despite the kindness of the servants, I could not help but feel an interloper in the house. That feeling and the novelty of my situation confined me to my room, even at dinner, which over the protestations of the servants, I asked be sent there. But by the second day, curiosity got the better of me. I spent my time acquainting myself with the house and learning a little of my benefactress.
    In the drawing-room, I found miniatures of Miss House and her brother, whose name I learned was Michael. In their likenesses, I found them not alike. His hair was dark to her light, and the artist had caught a jovial, almost fatuous good humour at odds with his sister. I also found a framed, quick pencil sketch of a naval officer with a lock of dark black hair pressed against the glass. Closer inspection of a pencilled note revealed the subject of the drawing to be Midshipman Edward Brashears. #
    The pianoforte keyboard was open and the sheet music displayed a difficult piece, Bach’s
The Art of Fugue,
with many notations in what I believed to be Miss House’s hand. The sheet music was incomplete, with several pages handwritten. On the writing desk, I found scattered another incomplete printing with similar notations, and several pages on the floor. The effect was that of an artist, caught in the embrace of a muse, who dashes out the door with strict instructions to the servants not to tidy her work, although the rest of the room was immaculate. #
    The library was similarly instructive. It was well stocked by the owner for the use of his renters, with the perfunctory classics that had never been read, a ladder that had never been moved and a globe that had never been spun. But the fine furniture in the room had been moved aside for two large, plain deal tables on which were spread newspapers and other periodicals going back at least six months. There were Bath, Bristol and London papers, even one from America. Several clippings were scattered on the table as well, primarily betrothal and wedding announcements, again with many notations, such as ‘This will not do!’ and ‘But what about the previous engagement?’ and ‘How do we know a living is ensured?’
    There were also other more curious clippings: ship arrivals, war despatches, the death of a baronet and even postings in the agony column. In the announcement of the baronet’s death was penned, ‘Could M__ be his child?’
    In several piles, tied with bright red ribbon, I found Miss House’s travelling library, which was again singular. In one untied bundle, I found Laclos’s
Les Liaisons dangereuses,
of which I had heard but never read, and
The Monk
and
The Castle of Otranto,
both of which I had read. At the top of another bundle was an Italian translation of a Galen anatomy text. And next to the textbooks were two large cases of pinned butterflies. #
    Most prominent, however, were about a dozen large books composed of past clippings. The most recent chronologically contained an announcement of my father’s death.
    I abruptly sat down at the table and stared at the page that contained the announcement. The clipping was a month old but the page to which it was pasted was dated the day we had met.
What sort of woman is she?
I wondered.
I am a complete stranger to her and yet she invites me to her home and immediately catalogues me with the other esoterica of her mind.
    I could not dislodge the feeling that I was a butterfly pinned in Miss House’s collection. Whatever my feelings,