The House at the End of Hope Street
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published in 2013 by Viking Penguin,
a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Menna van Praag, 2013
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions
A Pamela Dorman Book / Viking
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Praag, Menna van.
The house at the end of Hope Street : a novel / Menna van Praag.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-60636-0
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Identity (Philosophical concept)—Fiction. 3. England—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6116.R34H68 2013
823’.92—dc23 2012029298
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Al,
who has lit every step of the way,
with oodles of love and infinite gratitude.
For my father,
to whom I owe everything!
Acknowledgments
Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, thank you for loving Hope Street, and the women who lived there, and for finding them such a beautiful home. The moment I stepped into the JRA I knew I’d found my perfect home. Thanks to Pamela Dorman for believing in this book and seeing how it could be even better. Thanks to Julie Miesionczek for crafting everything so beautifully. The four of you helped turn Hope Street into a more magical story than I imagined possible. Ditto to David Lown (otherwise known as Dad) and Alice Loveday (otherwise known as Al), who read endless, endless drafts—thank you for such patience, persistence and generosity. Thank you to Penny Macleod and Laurence Gouldbourne for providing brilliant, thoughtful feedback whenever I asked and hand holding whenever I needed. Thank you to Dave for inspiring the ending and bringing all the cake.
All my love to Artur, as ever you make it all worthwhile. And thank you for always being with Oscar whenever I was at Hope Street. Thanks to Oscar for sleeping on my lap while I wrote. Thanks to Arnold and Fay and Andy and Leah for reading so many drafts, your passion and enthusiasm lit my way from beginning to end.
For everyone, many more than are mentioned here, who helped bring Hope Street into the world, the words thank you are hardly adequate. But I trust you each know what great feelings are held within those two little words.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Epilogue
A Guide to the Women of Hope Street
The Colors of Alba’s World
Chapter One
The house has stood at the end of Hope Street for nearly two hundred years. It’s larger than all the others, with turrets and chimneys rising into the sky. The front garden grows wild, the long grasses scattered with cowslips, reaching toward the low-hanging leaves of the willow trees. At night the house looks like a Victorian orphanage housing a hundred despairing souls, but when the clouds part and it is lit by moonlight, the house appears to be enchanted. As if Rapunzel lives in the tower and a hundred Sleeping Beauties lie in the beds.
The house is built in red brick, the color of rust, and of Alba Ashby’s coat—a rare splash of brightness in a wardrobe of black clothes. Alba doesn’t know what she’s doing, standing on the doorstep, staring at the number eleven nailed to the silver door. She’s lived in Cambridge for four of her nineteen years, but has never been down this street before. And there is no reason for her to be here now, except that she has nowhere else to go.
In the silence Alba’s thoughts, the ones she’s been trying to escape on her midnight walks through town, begin to circle, gathering force in her mind, ready to whip themselves into a hurricane. How did this happen? How could this happen to me? She’s always been so careful, never inviting any drama or disaster, living like a very sensible seventy-nine-year-old: in a tiny box with a tight lid.
And while most people wouldn’t achieve much under such strict limitations, Alba achieved more than most: five A-levels at fifteen, a place at King’s College, Cambridge, to read Modern History, and full PhD funding at eighteen. All this by virtue of two extraordinary traits: her intelligence and her sight. At age four and a half, as well as being able to name and date all the kings and queens of England, Alba started to realize she could see things other people couldn’t: the ghost of her grandma at the breakfast table, the paw prints of long-disappeared cats in the grass, the aura of her mother moments before she entered a room. Alba could see smells drifting toward her before she smelled them and sounds vibrating in the air minutes before she heard them. So, because Alba knew things other people didn’t, they never noticed she lived her life in a box.
But ever since the worst event of Alba’s life, she’s barely been able to see anything at all, constantly tripping over pavement edges, falling down steps, and walking into walls. She still hasn’t cried because to stay in shock feels safer, it keeps a distance between her and the thing she’s trying to pretend hasn’t happened. The numbness surrounds her, a buffer against the outside world, through which Alba can hardly breathe or see.
Today is the first of May, just after midnight. The moon is full and bright. Vines of wisteria and jasmine twist together across the red bricks, their flowers hanging over the windows and above the door. Their scent puffs through the air and, though she’s sorry she can’t see their colors, the smell begins to fill Alba with a sense of calm she’s never felt before. Her shoulders soften as she reaches up to touch the flowers hanging in wispy bunches above her head. Soon she’ll feel strong enough to walk again. But then she remembers, she no longer has anywhere to go.
In the silence Alba hears something, a low hum in the air, almost indistinguishable from the breeze. Still cupping the flowers in her palm, she listens. The hum grows louder and becomes a tune, the notes drifting toward her, and suddenly Alba is captivat
ed. She knows the words to this song:
Sleep, sleep my sweet
Sleep and dream of butterflies…
The next line slips away as Alba thinks of the summer her mother sang that song, when she was eight years old, just before her father left. The tune grows louder, seeping through Alba’s skin, sending shivers down her spine. She knows she should be scared, but she’s not; she’s enchanted.
Alba steps back to look up at the house, at its rows of dark windows, the panes of glass glinting. For a second Alba thinks she sees a face in the window above her, a flash of white and blond that disappears so the night is mirrored back at her. Alongside the window grows a plant with flowers so purple they’re almost black. Its strangeness beckons Alba to come closer, rub its leaves, smell its flowers, slide her fingers into the earth… The charms of the house and its garden sink deeper into Alba and, without realizing what she’s doing, she steps forward and rings the bell.
As Peggy Abbot scurries down the steps, pulling on her patchwork dressing gown, a picture of Alba starts to take shape in her mind: tiny and built like a boy, spiky black hair, intense blue eyes, a mouth that rarely smiles, a weight of sadness and self-doubt heavier than Peggy has ever felt before, but a sense of sight stronger even than her own. Suddenly she knows that this might be a dangerous thing indeed. The midnight glory is in bloom tonight. If Alba looks for too long she might see what makes its petals glow and, worst of all, sense what’s buried beneath it.
Wishing she were forty years younger, Peggy hurries along the hallway, slipping on the wood in her woolen socks. But she doesn’t have to worry. In her current mental state, Alba’s sense of sight is significantly dimmed so the secret is safe for now.
When the door swings open, Alba steps back in shock, staring into the face of the oldest and most beautiful woman she’s ever seen.
—
The moment Alba steps into the house, she knows it’s different from any home she’s ever known. It is, quite clearly, alive. The walls breathe, gently rising and falling beside Alba as she follows the old woman down the hall. The stripped oak floorboards soften under her feet in welcome, the lightbulbs and lampshades pull at the ceiling to get a closer look at her.
As she walks Alba gazes at the walls, weighted down by hundreds of framed photographs: black-and-white pictures of different women, in group shots and singles, wearing trouser suits and top hats, flapper dresses and flat caps, ribbons and pearls. Among the photographs are pictures, pencil drawings and silhouettes, and a few miniature oil paintings of powder-puffed female faces with curls piled high on their heads.
“Wait.” Alba almost stumbles into the wall. “That’s Florence Nightingale.”
“Oh yes,” Peggy says. “She stayed with us for a spell before she went off to the Crimea. When my great-, great-, great-aunt Grace Abbot ran the house. A lovely girl by all accounts, Flo, though rather strong willed and a little too fond of sailors…” Peggy smiles.
“Gosh, really?” Alba whispers. “That’s… gosh.”
As Peggy ushers her into the kitchen Alba feels a flash of fear. She ought to think twice before entering the homes of complete strangers. Hidden behind Peggy’s bright eyes might be the mind of a murderess; under the folds of her patchwork dressing gown could beat the heart of an evil witch who sees Alba as a modern-day Gretel. But when Alba enters the kitchen she’s enveloped in the scent of something magical: cinnamon, ginger, lavender and several spices she can’t possibly name, and her fears evaporate. She feels three years old again, transported to a wished-for childhood of baking biscuits with her mother on Sunday afternoons. If Peggy is bewitching her, then the spell is complete.
A few minutes later Alba sits at one end of a long oak table, watching Peggy search for a saucepan. The old woman is bent over, clattering around in the wooden cupboards, muttering swear words as she flings unwanted pans aside. Alba begins to wonder just how old Peggy is. With her white hair and papery skin, slight stoop and frail limbs, she might be anything from seventy to a hundred and seven. But her movements are quick and light and her voice doesn’t carry any quiver or depth from age.
Peggy stands, brandishing a saucepan. “I hope you like hot chocolate, dear,” she says. “I don’t think tea will quite do, we need something a little more fortifying on such an auspicious occasion. Hot chocolate with fresh cream, that’s the thing.”
Alba nods, still captivated by the kitchen’s smells, still shocked by the turn her night has taken, not really registering what Peggy’s saying. While the old woman pours a pint of milk into the saucepan, Alba glances around the kitchen. It’s vast, the length of a long garden, with creamy yellow walls that reach up to meet black oak beams running across the arched ceiling. As in the hall, every inch of the kitchen is covered with endless rows of photographs. Alba gazes at them, wondering who they are and why they are decorating the old woman’s walls.
“They’ve all lived here, at one time or another.” Still stirring the milk at the stove, Peggy speaks without turning around. “They came to the house, just like you, when they’d run out of hope.”
Alba frowns at the back of Peggy’s patchwork dressing gown, at the wild white hair reaching down to her waist, wondering how on earth the old woman knew what she was thinking.
“They left to lead wonderful lives or, in some cases, afterlives.” Peggy chuckles. “The old residents can inspire you, if you let them. One in particular, actually.”
“Oh?” Alba asks, only half listening. In a frame just above the kitchen sink she sees an oil painting of a woman with blond hair twisted into knots at the sides of her head. Alba squints for a better look. “But, that’s—”
“Yes.” Peggy doesn’t turn to look. “She stayed here in 1859, suffering from a severe bout of writer’s block. She started writing Middlemarch in this very kitchen.”
“No,” Alba gasps, “really?”
“Oh yes. Half the history of England would be quite different if this house had never been built, believe me.”
And although she can’t explain why, Alba does. She already feels closer to this old woman than to her own family. Peggy stops stirring, steps over to the fridge, tugs open the door, sticks her head inside and takes out a china bowl. “This cream is the real stuff,” she says, and smiles. “I whipped it up myself. I can’t countenance that synthetic crap one squirts from a bottle, can you?”
“No.” Alba agrees, amused to hear such a sweet old lady swear.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Peggy sets the bowl down on the marble counter next to the stove. “I can’t trust anyone who won’t take real cream, or real sugar. Those”—Peggy searches for the word and shudders—“sweeteners. They really are beyond the pale, don’t you think?”
Alba watches Peggy stirring cocoa into the milk. Suddenly she never wants to leave. She wants to sit in this kitchen, surrounded by the smell of spices, forever. Alba slips off her coat, realizing she hasn’t thought about the worst event of her life for nearly twenty minutes, ever since she stepped into the house.
“Why did you invite me in?” Alba asks. “It was very kind, but I don’t see…”
“You don’t?” Peggy smiles. “Because I think you see an awful lot more than most people.” She sets two giant mugs down on the table. “Don’t you?”
“Thank you.” Alba glances at her cup. It’s the first time in her life that anyone has ever guessed who she is and what she can do. “Yes,” she admits softly, “I suppose so, though not since…”
Peggy takes a sip of hot chocolate. “Since what, my dear?”
Alba looks up. How can she possibly explain the devastating events of the last few days? Her head is so full of fury, her heart so steeped in sadness, that she can hardly make sense of anything anymore. All Alba knows is that she wants to undo time, run backward through the last seven months, unravel everything and begin again: finish her MPhil, write a groundbreaking thesis, publish papers,
until she’s at the forefront of the next generation of great historical minds. And if she can’t achieve that, something truly brilliant, then what’s the point in living at all? Because in her family, being mediocre, ordinary, run-of-the-mill, simply isn’t allowed.
As though Alba had just spoken her thoughts aloud, Peggy smiles sympathetically. “You know, in my long and extensive experience, what we want isn’t always what will make us happiest,” she says. “But we’ll come back to that. First, tell me what brought you to my doorstep. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.” Peggy sits back in her chair, smoothing her patchwork dressing gown across her lap, hugging her mug of hot chocolate to her chest. This is her favorite part. After more than a thousand stories in sixty-one years, she never fails to get excited at the prospect of a new one.
“Well…” Alba stalls. “I don’t… I mean, I was just walking around town, not going anywhere, and then… and then I just found myself here.” Nervous, she scratches the back of her neck, tugging at short spikes of black hair, hoping she doesn’t look as messy as usual, then realizing she probably looks even worse. “I didn’t mean to knock on your door, it just sort of… happened.”
“Take a sip of chocolate,” Peggy suggests. “It’ll help to clear your head.”
As the thick liquid slips down her throat and into her belly, Alba starts to feel warm and soft, as if the kitchen has just hugged her. And, after a few minutes she isn’t scared to tell the truth anymore. At least a little bit of the truth. So, where should she begin? History. Love. Trust. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Alba shifts the words around in her head, wondering what to hide and what to reveal.
By the time the last of the hot chocolate has gone, Alba has told Peggy about failing her MPhil and ending her career. She has carefully, deliberately omitted the single most important piece of information, the thing that slots it all together.
“So I can’t stay in college any longer, and I can’t go home,” Alba says, though she stops short of explaining why. “So I was wandering the streets in the middle of the night.”