The Tale of Holly How Read Online Free PDF Page A

fate that Caroline refused to accept, even (or perhaps especially) in her imagination. After tea, she was sent upstairs to read until supper, when Mrs. Beever brought her a supper tray. After supper, she sat in front of the fireplace until it was time to go to bed, writing in her journal, a pretty leather-bound book with her name stamped on it in gold, given to her by her father.
    But her writing had come to an unhappy end several days ago, when Miss Martine had found her journal and begun to read it.
    “That’s mine!” Caroline cried hotly, springing to her feet and trying to snatch the book out of Miss Martine’s hands. “It’s my private writing. You have no right!”
    “I have every right,” Miss Martine said, in her fake French accent, holding the little book over her head, out of Caroline’s reach. “Lady Longford has given you into my charge, young miss, and I will not permit you to hide anything from me. I intend to see what you are writing about.” Her dark eyes were full of a sly, jealous triumph. “Of course, if you prefer, we can take it to her ladyship, so that she may read all your shameful secrets and see what an ungrateful girl you really are.”
    Letting her shoulders slump, Caroline had pretended to give in. But the moment Miss Martine had relaxed her guard and begun to turn the pages, Caroline had snatched the little book and thrust it into the hottest part of the fire, where it burst into bright flames.
    “You young heathen!” Miss Martine cried, reaching for the poker to rake the book out of the fire.
    But it was too late. The pages charred and curled, sending little flakes of burnt paper flying up the chimney as Miss Martine watched, white with fury. She would never know what Caroline had written: “Miss Martine is no more French than I am, and I am not French at all. And Grandmama Longford is a silly old fool who has been taken in by a mean, cruel woman who only pretends to like her.”
    It was true. Miss Martine might be meek and submissive to Grandmama’s face, but when her back was turned, it was another matter entirely. Caroline had seen the malevolent gleam in her eye, the spiteful twist to her mouth, and was convinced that she had no one’s interests at heart but her own, whatever they were.
    But whilst Caroline was glad that she had saved her writing from Miss Martine’s censorious eyes, she paid dearly for her act, for Miss Martine, in a rage, sentenced her to three days with only milk-and-bread for supper. Caroline hardly missed the food, but she was desolate without her journal.
    Writing in it had been her salvation through the somber days after the train on which her father was riding flew off a trestle and plummeted into a New Zealand gorge, killing everyone aboard. It had comforted her through the interminable weeks whilst her mother grew sadder and sicker and finally died, and the even longer, darker months she waited to learn her fate from her father’s solicitors. At first, they reported that her grandmother—who had disowned her father when he refused to marry someone she had picked out for him—flatly refused to take her. Another place would have to be found, although they couldn’t seem to think where, since there was no other family to give her a home. At last Caroline learnt that her grandmother had agreed to give her a place to stay until a suitable school could be found, so she was put on a ship sailing for England. A rather nice solicitor, Mr. Heelis, met her at the dock in Liverpool and took her to Tidmarsh Manor.
    And all during this awful time, Caroline had spilled her feelings onto the pages of her journal, her anger and fear and, yes, even her hope. Her hope that her grandmother might be kind and nice and would like her after all, and that she would not be sent away to school. Her hope that she would have friends in the village, and pets to play with, and—
    But what was the use? Her hopes had all been dashed, and her precious journal was a pile of