'Goodness,' Mama says, waving her fan in front of her face, attempting to cool herself in this ridiculous heat. 'Whatever is Matilda Bennett wearing?'

I follow her gaze. 'I think that is what they call a dress.'

'Don't be facetious, dear,' she replies, smiling graciously as Mr. and Mrs. Chatman pass by. 'And at least pretend you are enjoying yourself.'

'Papa said these occasions are not for enjoyment, but for talking about people behind their backs while pretending to agree with everything they say.'

Mama frowns. 'Well then, as I said, at least pretend.' She turns away as Mrs. Foster and her youngest daughter, Constance, draw near. 'Oh, good day, Mrs. Foster. You look delightful today. As do you, Constance.'

I do my best to appear interested – because apparently pretence is of the utmost importance – but I cannot help letting my gaze drift around the gardens of Apley Hall, scouring the faces of all these people we know. I say know, but what do we really know about each other? We are but acquaintances, maintaining this constant show of politeness and decorum, smiles and platitudes, when really Papa's observations do not stray far from the truth. We smile and nod and pretend, but it is all such ridiculous nonsense.

It is all a pretence.

And mayhap for someone who attends today, it is a façade. A way to hide the beast they really are. They smile and nod and pretend, yet all the while plot and scheme the most terrifying of abominations.

Apley Hall, residence of ironmaster William Orme Foster and his wife Isabella – the lady to whom Mama now speaks – is a grand and ostentatious place, set in the sprawling Apley estate of rolling green fields, farmland, and lush forest with a breath-taking view over the Severn Valley. Every summer the Fosters hold a garden party, inviting everyone who matters within the Dale. Of course, Mama was convinced that our invitation would be rescinded once word travelled about my apparently scandalous behaviour at Wilderhope Manor, however it seems my shame is yet to be revealed for the invitation arrived as it usually did.

It seems strange, standing here, surrounded by these people, most of whom I have known my whole life. Everyone looks the same and yet, somehow different. Could someone here by hiding the most terrible secret? I cannot fathom how any of these people could be the one that persecutes the dead and seeks to destroy Daniel. How does one spot a monster among men? I look from one to the next and see nothing. In fact, I know not how to even go about starting to discover who the villain is.

I am so preoccupied with my thoughts, that I do not realise anyone is speaking to me, until Mama says my name, the sharpness of her tone cutting through my reverie.

'Lillian, Mrs. Foster is asking you a question. Do pay attention.'

Blinking, I pull myself back into the conversation. 'Oh, I do apologise, Mrs. Foster,' I say.

Mrs. Foster narrows her eyes at me, but not in an unkind way. Instead, I get the sense she is seeing something Mama cannot. I have not met her many times, but she has always been unfailingly generous of spirit and good-hearted, if not terribly old-fashioned.

'That is quite alright, Lillian. I was just asking where you stand on this concept of girls and women being encouraged to take up daily exercise or even a sport? Constance here is currently overwhelmed with talk of it.' She looks wearily at her daughter, who seems to wither at her mother's disapproval. 'Apparently she read it in The Girl's' Own Paper of all places.'

Mama tuts. 'Goodness, they will be advocating for all young women to gain employment next.'

'Well, yes, and try they might, but I, for one, am glad that women are not led down the path of occupation over family. I cannot begin to tell you how trying it has been to look after Mr. Foster's affairs since he became unwell. Our eldest boy, James has been a godsend, of course, and tends to most of it, but in all honesty, there are occasions when it makes me feel quite dizzy thinking on it all.'

Mama nods her sympathies. 'Oh, I can quite imagine, Mrs. Foster. At our time of life, when we wish nothing but to watch our children move into adulthood and make lives of their own, it is quite testing to suddenly be so overwhelmed with matters that weigh so heavy on our hearts.'

I am quite certain that Mama's pointed glance at me then is no error.

'And our minds, Mrs. Elmes,' Mrs, Foster says, in her soft Anglo-Lanarkshire lilt. 'Women really should not have such things to trouble their minds. We are simply not made for it. One can only hope that all this talk of taking up daily sports does not encourage young girls to seek employment for I feel it will only end in disaster.'

With each word, I see the spark in Constance's eyes dullen and her shoulders droop a little more, as if someone presses a great weight down upon her.

'On the contrary, Mrs. Foster,' I say, with as much charm as I can muster. 'I believe the articles of which Constance speaks might refer to the benefits of exercise and how it can help strengthen a woman in order to raise children. Healthy women raise healthy children. I see not any need for alarm. If Constance wishes to take up a sport, I think it would be commendable and the perfect time to prepare her for her future life as a mother.'

I resist the urge to reach out and clamp Constance's jaw shut which has dropped open in shock.

Mrs. Foster, on the other hand, is looking at me with a renewed interest. 'Is that so?' she says. 'Well, I must admit, I had not thought of it in those terms, but it does make perfect sense. A healthy woman will no doubt have the strength to birth many healthy children. I have six myself, as you know, but that does not mean my daughters will be similarly blessed. Perhaps a sport or some form of exercise can be quite beneficial.'

The change in Constance's expression is remarkable. The light surges into her eyes once again.

'I hear that swimming is wonderful for the health. Tennis, also. In fact,' I say, pretending to think deeply on it. 'I have also read that fencing is highly recommended.'

'Fencing?' Mama exclaims, fanning herself more vigorously. 'Is that not a touch violent for a woman?'

'Oh, not at all, Mama,' I say, innocently. 'Papa always says it is a such an elegant sport. It helps maintain good poise and strengthens the muscles. So important for women when it comes to successfully birthing healthy children.'

'Fencing, you say?' Mrs. Foster pauses to consider. 'Mayhap we should look at this after all, Constance.' She glances at my mother. 'Although I think I should not divulge this to dear Mr. Foster. I think the very thought of it would drive him to have another seizure.'

As her attention is diverted, I wink at Constance who beams as if I have just gifted her with the Queen's Koh-i-noor diamond, and mayhap to a young girl such as she, the idea of fencing is much akin to owning a precious jewel.

It is as I look at her, I see a sight over her shoulder I had so dearly hoped I would not have to see today.

Percival Baker, my apparent nemesis, and the agitator of my current precarious predicament, loiters much like the snake he is, skulking close to James Foster, no doubt hoping to hang onto his coattails in the hope he may benefit in some way. I am not certain if he has seen me yet or knows that we would attend today, but the last thing I want is to have to pretend to be polite to him for everyone's benefit. And I certainly cannot risk making a scene for fear he reveals what he knows of my recent adventures.

'Are you okay, dear?' Mrs. Foster says. 'You have gone quite pale.'

'Do you know, I am suddenly not feeling very well,' I say, touching a hand to Mama's arm as if in need of support. 'I think it must be the heat.'

'Mama?' Constance says. 'Shall I escort Lillian to the parlour room for some shade? The sun really is devilishly hot.'

Mrs. Foster nods. 'Marvellous idea. See to it that Thompson fetches Lillian some water.'

'Yes, Mama,' she nods eagerly, taking my arm and pulling me away from our mothers. I know if I were to glance back, Mama's gaze would be fixed upon me while still managing to hold a perfectly amiable conversation with Mrs. Foster. She has always maintained that being aware of who is in attendance at any gathering, while also being consistent in your attention of others, is one of the most crucial skills a woman of standing can learn. My mother, I have to admit, is a mistress in this particular art.

We are beyond earshot when Constance squeezes my arm and leans in closer as we walk.

'Lillian, you are simply a genius,' she gushes. 'How you accomplished the unthinkable, I will never know. Do you know how many times I have tried to make mother understand that my head has not been filled with fanciful ideas from a frivolous magazine? How did you manage it?'

I smile graciously. 'Simple. Our mothers' and grandmothers' generations believe so solidly in the importance of raising a large family and devoting your life to motherhood, you must persuade them that anything you do is for the sole benefit of just that. The key is to never tell them it is for your enjoyment alone.'

Constance giggles. 'You are such fun, Lillian. I do wish you could visit more often. I think within a month you could persuade Mama that I deserve to spend summers in London with Aunt Geraldine. Have you been to London?'

'Um...' I say, trailing off as I attempt to search for Percival in the gardens. 'No, I have not.'

'Oh, Lillian, I am so sorry,' she exclaims, looking mortified. 'Here I am blathering on about London and you're feeling unwell. Quick, let's get you to the parlour room. You will be quite well again once you've had a chance to sit down.'

Constance is such an utter sweetheart that I feel quite mortified myself for fooling her in such a way. She does not deserve to be tricked but trick I must if I am to escape the clutches of Percival Baker, although how long I can continue to claim delicacy I do not know. Certainly, I cannot hide in the parlour room for the whole time.

Constance leads me to the parlour, which of course is far grander than most parlour rooms I have ever visited. Once she has seated me close to the window, she disappears in search of their butler, Thompson to ask him to fetch me some water.

The Apley Hall parlour is ostentatious to say the least, but I like that it has a large and airy feel to it, unlike most parlour rooms in smaller residences, including our own. The sage green, cream and gold theme is uncharacteristically modern for a house as old as this, and I wonder whether the Foster sisters have had any hand in the décor. From Papa's descriptions of his visits to the city, I am certain it could rival any modern London townhouse.

After a while, with Constance gone for some time, I decide to take a closer look at some of the ornaments and framed portraits that adorn the pale alabaster fireplace. The portraits sit within snowy mouldings of vine leaves and white grapes, blending with sparkling Bohemian emerald glass and peacock feathers. I fix upon a small Parian frame encapsulating a beauty that reminds me a little of Constance, but who I am sure is Isabella as a young woman.

The door opens and shuts behind me and I am about to remark on the likeness of the portrait to my new friend, yet when I turn to face her, I find it is not Constance after all and almost drop the picture, just managing to prevent it from slipping through my fingers.

'Mr. Baker,' I say.

He stands just inside the door. The closed door. That he has shut behind him.

Percival has always repulsed me, but none more so than today as he waits there, his shiny, flushed face revelling in its smugness.

'I am waiting for Constance Foster,' I say, quick to fill the silence, for so far, he has said nothing, not even a greeting has passed his lips. 'I am afraid I was feeling rather unwell, and she has gone to fetch Thompson for some water.'

'It seems that Constance was required elsewhere,' he drawls, wetting his top lip with his tongue. 'I did tell her that I would ask Thompson to fetch the water on her behalf, but it appears he is nowhere to be found.'

His face is one of wide-eyed innocence, but I see him. The snake. The man might as well shed this human skin and show the arsenic-green scales which lurk underneath.

'Oh dear,' I say, placing the frame back onto the mantel, wondering whether I should keep it to hand in case I might need to bludgeon him with it. 'Never mind. I am feeling quite well again, so I should really take my leave and join the party once more. Good day, Mr. Baker.'

I step towards the door and realise that Percival as no intention of moving out of my way. Instead, he takes a step towards me.

Swallowing, I attempt a congenial smile. 'Mr. Baker, it would be most pleasant to stop and talk with you, but I am afraid Mama really would not approve of me being here unchaperoned. If you would be so kind...'

The snake slithers closer and I am suddenly less concerned about being found here with a gentleman while unchaperoned, and more alarmed by the look in his eyes and the way in which he rakes his gaze over my form. I do so wish I hadn't relinquished the frame.

'Mr. Baker, I must insist...'

'Insist all you like, Lillian,' he says, with a wicked smile and all at once I realise how foolish I have been to misjudge him as nothing but an irritant fly that I could swat away with my fan. 'You have already shamed your parents once. Do you think they would be surprised to find you in a compromising situation again? Mayhap they will start to believe you are not quite as innocent as you would have them believe.'

'How dare you,' I seethe. 'I have not shamed them. Not once. And as for compromising situations, the only one I have had the misfortune to experience, is this one you insist on forcing upon me now.'

Percival sighs and runs his palm over his slick temple, gluing his hair in place. 'Oh, really? How odd, Lillian, for I distinctly remember their looks of shame when I visited them just two days ago. I almost felt quite sorry for them, in a way. Then I remembered they are as condescending and as snobbish as their daughter and I felt nothing. Nothing but pure enjoyment telling them just what you have been getting up to with that beast who lives out in the woods.'

'Daniel Carver is more a gentleman than you could ever hope to be,' I say, clenching my fists in fury. 'He would not attempt to shame a woman into accepting his proposal and he certainly would not shut her in a room and prevent her from leaving.'

Percival's face shrouds with shadow and this light and airy room suddenly feels dark and foreboding, as if the very walls seek to crush me. He wets his lip again and moves even closer. He smells heavy of perspiration and Macassar oil, the combination making me feel slightly nauseous the closer he gets.

'What the Sin-Eater does or does not do, will be of no concern to you when we are married, Lillian.' He shamefully leers at me, letting his gaze drop to my chest. 'Your only concern will be your husband. Your every thought will be of me. Your every action to please me.'

'If you think I am ever going to marry you, you are as foolish as I always thought you to be.'

I see a dangerous glint in his eyes, but I will not cower before this man.

'Ah yes,' he says, with a smile. 'All those times you pretended to be pleasant yet all the while making it quite transparent of your real thoughts. Silly, foolish Percy. How could he possibly ever think that I would be keen on him? Fear not, Lillian. I was always aware. Always. I had, of course, hoped that your feelings would change over time, but that is of no matter now. I care not whether you are keen on me, for when we are married you will do as I bid. You will love me as I wish. Obey me as I demand. And as for your Sin-Eater, I will ensure he is hounded out of this town for witchcraft. The Church can deal with him.'

I stare at him astonished. 'So, it is you who seeks to ruin and exile him? It is you who is the real witch?'

You could be putting yourself in incredible danger.

Daniel's words thrum in my ear, and I instinctively take a step backwards. How could I have misjudged Percival so very badly? How could such a beast hide his true nature in this way?

'A witch? Me?' Percival wrinkles his nose as if truly offended, his mouth twisting into a sneer. 'I am a Christian, Lillian, and I will thank you not to suggest such an abominable thing. If you were my wife now, I would strike you for such insolence.'

'And if you were my husband – which I might add, you will never be – I would strike you back and care not for the consequences. Now, before I start to scream, I suggest you move from my way and never speak to me again.'

My heart beats with rage, and I must admit, a surge of fear. Percy is not the man I thought him to be, but is he the Necromancer? His claims of innocence could be trickery, of course, in an attempt to divert my attention to someone else, but regardless he is a dangerous and vile man.

'Scream?' He laughs, a strange high-pitched burst of mirth, which is quickly shrouded by that same malicious glint. 'Goodness, you young women are so disgustingly dramatic. You spend far too much time dreaming up fantasies where you believe you can be the heroine of your own story, when really you are anything but. Rest assured, Lillian, you will never be the heroine. You will just be my wife and your story will be to please me for the rest of your days.'

I gasp as he reaches out and grabs my hands. I struggle against him, but to no avail. Lifting one hand, he turns it over and leans down, pressing his open mouth to my palm. I cringe as his tongue flickers against my skin.

When he releases it, I snatch it back, wishing that I could scrape the skin from my palm where he has touched it.

'My father will see you horse-whipped for this!'

Percival just smiles, adjusting the creases in his vest. 'Your father will do as I suggest. That is if he does not wish to see his dearest daughter shamed and ruined. For rest assured, my dear, I will ruin you. In fact, you have no idea the depths to which I will stoop to ensure you are not just scandalised in Shropshire, but all the way to London itself. There will be nowhere you could run where they did not know of your shame.'

I scowl, clutching my offended hand to my stomach which churns and toils at the very sight of him. 'You, sir, have a rather over-inflated sense of your own importance. No one will listen when I tell them of this. My father is Admiral Richard Elmes and if you think you could shame his daughter, you have no idea what the consequences will be.' Lifting my chin, I sneer at him. 'And I would thank you to never refer to me as Lillian again. It strikes of a familiarity we will never have. If we ever have the misfortune to meet after today, you will refer to me only as Miss Elmes.'

Percival saunters back towards the door, a swagger in his step that I have never once seen before. He halts and turns back to me.

'I will call you whatever I wish and you, Lillian, you will soon call me husband, and, when I summon you to my bedchamber, you will get on your knees and call me master.' He smiles broadly, his snake tongue wetting his lip once more. 'I always knew I would enjoy you, you know, but I never once imagined I would enjoy you quite as much as this. Good day, Miss, I will await your eager acceptance of my most generous proposal with much anticipation.'

I watch him leave, my whole body screaming with fear and frustration, and it is not until the door is closed firmly behind him and he is gone, that I finally collapse. Falling to my knees as the sobs overwhelm me, I press my fist against my mouth to stop the real screams from tearing me into pieces. 

Author's Note: As a historical reference, the articles referred to in The Girl's Own Paper (a real publication) were not published until the turn of the century. Also, Apley Hall is a real place, an English Gothic Revival House located in the parish of Stockton, near Bridgenorth in Shropshire. The Fosters, William Ormes Foster and his wife Isabella (formerly Grazebrook) did own Apley Hall and did indeed have six children. After suffering a seizure, William fell into ill-health and left the affairs of the estate in the hands of his wife and his eldest son, James. Constance Evylne Foster was their youngest daughter, however for the purposes of this story, I have lowered the age of Constance. In 1882, she would actually have been 23 years old, however in AFoS, she is 16. 

Thankfully, Percival Baker is a complete work of fiction and never existed, apart from within this story.