An extract from my Novel In The Works - a first draft so excuse the lack of fluency. A quick summary is that Margaret is a country girl, who gets picked up into the world of society when she becomes companion to an heiress and, incidently, a conniving murderess.

I know it's very long - but quick, over-all crits will be appreciated infinitely! Also, sorry that it sounds so dreadfully English - it's all I know!

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Badlington was the biggest place I’d ever seen. It seems peculiar now, but it’s true; when Mother and I left the cab, we stood a moment simply looking about us, at the people motioning by in different directions, clearly knowledgeable of where to go. To us, it was so strange, for so many people to be in one place, surging this way and that like a vast entity, in their duffel coats and dresses and suits, with briefcases and umbrellas.

It was me who first noticed that we were causing a nuisance. Everyone but us was going somewhere, and by standing motionless, we were an obstacle to those around us. I took Mother’s hand, cold in mine, and led us to the very edge, so that we stood against a large, redbrick solicitors’ office, and all the people went past us, like ghosts, not even noticing our presence, despite us being doubly aware of them.

‘I have never seen so many people,’ I whispered, and on learning that there was too much noise for a whisper to be heard, I repeated myself.

‘Oh, me neither, except in York, but that was so long ago.’ Mother moved nearer to me, almost nervously so. ‘The estate… it can’t be here, surely? I always thought… oughtn’t it be in the countryside?’

‘I don’t know. I had thought so, too, Mother.’

‘There are grand townhouses, of course.’ She shrugged. ‘But aristocratic homes… they are big manors. I know these things.’

‘Perhaps… perhaps we are lost.’ I took Mother’s wrist and peeped at her small, leather-strapped watch. ‘It’s gone one!’

‘Calm yourself… here,’ she said, pointing her finger at a man with a small, waxed moustache and a black briefcase, who was slower than the others due to a limp in his left foot, ‘we’ll ask this chap. He looks respectable.’

We meandered through the masses, hand in hand, Mother pulling me through the shifting bodies, as one trails a rag doll behind. The moustached man, it seemed, grimaced at our unmistakable approach. It might have been anything – we were common enough, and our hair was not styled. Perhaps it was our creased, gaudy attire, or Mother’s bulldog-like determination to get hold of him.

Whatever it was that marked us out as particularly unpleasant, the man looked pointedly at his pocket-watch as we halted to a stop before him. Mother explained that we were meant at Badlington Estate, did he know it, and that we were lost. The moustached face looked into her eyes flatly, showing no sign of comprehension, and then, downwards, at me.

I felt little, under the scrutiny of that tall, lean man with the long, curved neck. I felt little, as he looked at me enquiringly, sneeringly, as if seeing everything. I felt that the smallest fleck of dirt on my skin would be detected, for the way the moustached man watched me, head titled down and eyes shining like stars.

‘Do you know it, then?’ asked Mother, her voice stringy with agitation. She must notice it, too, I thought. And sure enough, her grip on my hand tightened.

‘Everyone knows Badlington Estate,’ said the man, looking at me a moment longer. Then, looking up, he said with scorn, ‘It’s about a mile from where we stand; through those two sycamore trees, past the recreation ground.’

‘Darn,’ said Mother, and I noticed the moustached man’s eyebrows twitch. ‘If only that driver had taken us further.’

The moustached man looked at a space above Mother’s head – that being his advantage, in his tallness. ‘Well,’ he said, half-strictly, ‘I should like to go on my way, but it seems you are barricading the pavement.’

‘Oh! Sorry,’ Mother exclaimed, stepping aside and yanking me along with her, ‘and thank you kindly.’

The moustached man looked fleetingly at me again, and then limped off, into the crowd. ‘What a queer man,’ Mother said. ‘Well, there is no time to lose. We must get to Badlington Estate.’

That is exactly what we did, though the abundance of people made us uneasy; we went through the sycamore trees that the man had mentioned, and through – not past – the recreation ground, where children played and laughed. I watched them with a melancholic envy, at the carelessness of their make-believe and the spirited sound of their laughter, which carried along the bitterly cold wind.

It was more than a mile, surely, for the recreation ground parted into a dusty dirt track, empty of people and life, bordered with trees and hedgerow. ‘Do you think this is part of it?’ I asked, looking about.

‘I am certain it is.’

It was. As the path opened out, we saw a bright canvas of green – the most illustrious green – and far off, in the distance, a magnificent house, which from our far-off view, was of pale stone, with turreted corners, quite enough to make me gasp with a combination of fear and delight. ‘It must be enormous,’ Mother whispered, like a child standing over a jar of confectionaries. ‘Oh, Margaret!’

I myself was lost for words, as we set across the expanse of grass, and saw the lake off at the side, with a shaggy willow tree and an articulately carved wooden bridge, teeming with ducks and white, graceful swans. But that was not all – the grounds seemed to go on and on; a flower garden was at the edge of the house, and a forest in the distance reminded me of ours at home. As we neared, I smelt the syrupy scent of the flowers, and saw bees and butterflies swarming around their eminent treasure.

The house was at once captivating. Compared to Farm Cottage, it seemed a palace, from a fairytale; there was a drive of tiny shingles, where several expensive-looking cars were parked, and a colossal, Gothic door of oak was open – when I looked into it, I saw parquet floor and the widest staircase I thought possible; on the walls were paintings, framed and overwhelming.

Mother pointed at the many, many windows. ‘So many rooms,’ she said, with shameless awe in her voice. ‘It’s…’

It is, even now, after all these years, impossible to describe. My scope of vocabulary cannot suffice how it seemed to me, in all my naïveté and childishness. But, let me say, it was enough for my knees to wobble with terror, at the prospect of going inside and, most frightening of all, meeting its inhabitants.

I had not yet let go of Mother’s hand, and it felt sweaty – still, it could have been mine, for I felt watery with faintness. She marched us towards the impressionable entrance, saying that we must hurry, hurry, hurry, but then cut short to stand motionless, looking dumbfoundedly inside.

‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘we are meant to go in.’ It was not intended, but it came out like a question, and so I shrugged in hopeless vain. ‘Why else leave such a big door open?’ she asked, more to herself than me.

It made me tremor to think of going within, without certainty of permission, to meet people so different to any I had known. ‘I really think… oughtn’t we wait?’

‘We’re late enough already, Margaret.’

And so we went in, as two foreigners set skittish feet on alien soil, and smelled the smell of decadence, of agedness, and saw the most grandiose things we had ever seen, such as tables off to the side that had no other uses than to be tables – very shiny, pleasant ones, though – and a gold-plated coat stand which only possessed a lone white bowler hat.

‘You could fit our whole house into this very hallway,’ Mother declared, too loudly.

A young woman – whom I now know to have been a maid – came hurriedly out of a room at the side, and towards us, with widened eyes and her two front teeth resting on her bottom lip. ‘Hullo,’ was her greeting, bright and Kentish-sounding. She gave us a hasty curtsey, peculiar to Mother and I, and said, ‘Are you here for Miss Eleanor? For,’ she hesitated, ‘the role of companion?’ Her eyes, which I understand to have been wide not through surprise but genetics, flashed downwards and then steadfastly upwards again.

‘Yes,’ said Mother, rather shyly. ‘My daughter, Margaret, is.’

‘Miss Barker’ll see to you,’ said the maid, and then she went along the hall and into another side room, before coming out again behind another woman.

So this, I thought, is Miss R. Barker. She was not old, as I had imagined her, but a slightly plump woman of thirty-something. She marched along, expressionless, with her face hardened by her no-nonsense bun of wispy brown hair. I thought, then, that I should fear Miss Barker.

‘And you are?’ was the first thing I ever heard Miss Barker say, ignoring Mother and looking plainly downwards at me; such a strange thing that I looked at Mother in confusion, but Mother’s eyes were on the ground.

‘Are you mute?’ quipped Miss Barker a moment later, not wholly unkindly but with a weary severity.

‘No, Miss Barker,’ I answered quietly, but without stammering. ‘My name is Margaret Dowty.’

It was then, with forbearance that Miss Barker nodded. ‘I remember.’ She looked at Mother. ‘Molly will find you a place to wait,’ she said, and shook her head when Mother began to differ. ‘Lady Ford has asked that the child alone comes.’

‘Very well.’ Mine and Mother’s hands lost one another, and I followed Miss Barker, down the hall, past the stoic but watchful eyes of the Fords of long ago, and to a doorway that had a plaque on it, reading: DRAWING-ROOM. Miss Barker’s eyes briefly met mine, but in that succinct second, I saw some concern beneath the coldness, as I saw in Pappy’s when he slaughtered the animals.

The door opened, the artificial light of candles spilled out like fairies, and Miss Barker announced, ‘Miss Margaret Dowty. Fifteen years. Not remarkable.’

That ‘not remarkable’ played on my mind, and lay questioning before me, even as I walked deftly into the spacious room. Miss Barker had left, but two others were with me, at the far end of the room, watching almost blinklessly.

First, however, I will explain the room. It had little sunlight, for the plush velvet curtains were drawn across the only window, but there were candles in candlesticks all about the room, laid upon any free surface, giving it a peculiar grotto-like appearance. There was but one painting on the wall, and it was gigantic – a portrait of a gruff man, with short, ginger hair, a mean little mouth, and half his face veiled in shadow. His eyes, which caught my attention immediately, were a striking green – as green, perhaps, as emerald.

I looked at the portrait with unashamed curiosity, despite being aware that I was closely observed. In spite of my utter vulnerability, something about the portrait arrested my senses.

‘That was my father.’ Those were the words that made my head snap round in shock. It was a strong, husky voice, and not one that paired with the girl who possessed it. She was a short, unsubstantial thing, sitting grandly in her chair beside her mother, with ringletted blonde hair, like strings of the sun, and glistening jewels at her breast. I knew it to be Eleanor right away – anyone would have – and my heart, desperately, stammered at the thought of talking to her; the one that had bewitched my mind for so long.

Her mother, beside her, was a lithe woman, angular-featured, with a face pasted with make-up, giving her the facade of a porcelain doll. Her hair was a greying blonde, and cut short as was fashionable, and yet she seemed too self-absorbed to know of fashion.

‘Do you think him handsome?’ asked the husky voice again, and that time, I saw the words leave her mouth. ‘Well, do you?’

‘I think…’ I began. It crossed my mind that I should lie, but something in me made the truth flurry out. ‘I think that he is very melancholic. It’s a melancholy painting.’

Lady Marie, Eleanor’s mother, looked quickly, and dramatically, to the floor, but Eleanor’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, yet unreadable in the dim candlelight.

‘I think,’ I continued, not quite sure of what I was saying, ‘that his eyes are full of secrets.’

‘Where are you from?’ asked another voice – Lady Marie’s. When I looked at her, I saw she still stared at the floor.

‘Kent,’ I answered, politely, glad to be free of talking about the painting. ‘On a farm near here. Farm Cottage, it’s called.’

‘A farm? Have you been to school, Margaret Dowty?’

‘No,’ was my shameful reply, but I kept eye contact. ‘My mother taught me everything.’

‘How can your mother possibly know enough to maintain a young girl’s education?’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t, but she tries. I am learned enough, I think.’ I then forwarded, tentatively, ‘I like to write stories… fairytales.’

‘Fairytales?’ At last, she looked at me, and I kept my eyes on her, away from Eleanor. ‘What a darling hobby! Tell me, have you brought one along to read?’

At the time, I wished to the heavens that I had – I wasn’t quite sure if they were good, but it would give me some occupation. I was loathing the interrogation; although both mother and daughter seemed to take pleasure in it.

‘No, Lady Marie.’

‘What a pity. Well, what of one off the top of your head?’

I always had plenty ‘off the top of my head’, naturally, but I felt incapable of freeing my passions and letting one roll off my tongue. Those that were written down could be glanced over for suitability, but a raw one was indefinite – I knew that, once the words were falling out, they would take any path and reign unstoppable.

‘I’m afraid not, Lady Marie.’

Consequently, her conversation ceased, and Eleanor’s questions picked up from where they had left off. ‘You are very tall,’ she said, dryly. ‘I hate tall girls.’

It seemed, and still does, that there was nothing to say back at that. I could hardly apologise for my stature, or agree with her; rather, I let her insult me.

‘My sister, Gertrude, is tall, just like Mamma. But I took after my father, and so I’m short. Do you have a sister?’

‘No, but I have a brother.’

She waved a hand impatiently. ‘I don’t care about brothers.’

‘Well,’ I whispered, to the ground.

‘What is your favourite book?’ asked Eleanor, and I detected scorn in her voice, barely hidden by the farce of civility.

‘I… I am not well read, but I like the Brothers Grimm. My mother,’ I said, with a brief glance at the door, in consideration of betraying her, ‘had them burned, because she believes they fill my head with nonsense. I’m to read the bible now.’

Eleanor let out a bark of laughter, sounding like a person who is unaccustomed to doing so. ‘Don’t you like the bible?’

I was quick to assure her that I liked it well enough.

‘I can tell you’re lying,’ she said. ‘The bible’s a chore to read, no doubt about it, but Mamma seems to think it’ll make me good. I wonder, are all naughty children free of the bible?’

I knew she jested, that she teased, but I was not comfortable enough, nor experienced enough, to join her. I kept my words sensible with, ‘The bible teaches us values.’

As a sort of footnote, Eleanor stage-whispered to her mother, ‘I like her. I’m dreadfully fond of the pious.’

Pious, I thought, stung. There is more to me than piety… if there is a grain of piety in me, at all. My thoughts, as ever, were glum – glum as a snowy winter, when the novelty had worn away – and yet I did not wholly give up, but lifted my head high and straight, without embarrassment.

They said no more for a time; just watched me, akin to two owls upon a sturdy branch, biding time before the kill. I found my eyes, subsequently, trailing back to the painting on the wall of Eleanor’s father – such a horrible, wretched, wounded man – that, unlike the others that sprigged the entrance hall, did not look down at me disapprovingly. Eleanor’s father had eyes like glass – clear, bright, not misty, but going nowhere, seeing nothing. I kept thinking, at the time, of the animals’ eyes after slaughter, as they lay limp on the ground, staring at invisible things – morbid, fanciful thoughts, but mine all the same.

‘Why do you look at that painting?’

I answered, eyes still on his face, ‘I’m not sure.’

She was impatient with me; she seemed the impatient, busy sort. ‘I’m an aristocrat,’ she told me, urgently; as if it was a new theme she wished to test out. ‘My family… they go back centuries. They sat beside kings and queens at the dinner table; they had ships going to the new world. My family didn’t just keep slaves,’ she said, quickly, and I thought it would not surprise me if a snake tongue flickered out, ‘they enslaved them.’

What she wished to achieve, I hardly knew. It frightened me, made my pulse quicken, with anticipation of what she would say next. I was ignorant in matters; despite all the airs I sometimes gave myself, and scarcely knew what she talked of.

‘Tell me,’ she continued, ‘what is your history? Do many skeletons occupy your cupboards? Are there secrets all about you, whispering to you, suffocating you? Can you trace your line back far? Was your great-great-great-uncle’s cousin twice removed the king’s advisor?’ After her speech, which was uttered angrily, Eleanor fell back in her chair, almost with exhaustion, and waited for my reaction.

I know how I felt. I felt as a fly might, caught on a spider’s web, not yet harmed but, undoubtedly, soon to be. I felt there was no escaping – to run away would only to be back at Farm Cottage again, forever punished by Mother.

I cleared my throat, stood my ground, and explained, ‘Pappy says, we’ve been farmers since the beginning of time. I don’t believe him, because he has French in him, but he still says it’s so. I don’t suppose farmers have many secrets, or skeletons in cupboards, but they are honourable and hardworking.

‘Besides,’ I felt my head thud with panic, but the lid was off Pandora’s box, ‘Pappy says, we’re more noble than any of the gentry, for we’ve worked, and worked, and worked, for generations. The gentry do very little and gain very much.’

I did not care when Lady Marie muttered, ‘Insufferable!’

My eyes fell on Eleanor, who did not seem disgusted with me. The candlelight was muted, but I clearly saw the smirk on her lips, legible to anyone. She was intrigued… but still, all she said was, ‘Go, please.’

As I left that room, I knew I had failed myself, and somewhere amid, my parents, too. I knew I should not be called back, for I had blundered with my sharpness. However, I did not cry over it, nor even sigh, because I had shown the rich, for a tantalising moment, that I was not inferior, though I must say, I barely believed it myself.