The House of Whispers Page 11

  I pick up a candle and we move like a funeral procession, out of the china room, down the corridor, to the entrance hall. How tall and cumbersome she is. I do not comprehend how she will ever make it up the staircase. There is no muscle to her. I steer her towards the banister and she clenches it so tight that bones shift beneath the papery skin on her hand.

  We toil our way upwards.

  She stops, snags, tugs me back. I try to bear her weight, but the soft fuzz of laudanum is creeping into my brain and spreading its warmth through my limbs.

  Inside, I am as weary and worn as this old lady.

  Her breath saws. I should moderate my pace, but I want this to be over as soon as possible. The candle shakes in one hand as I strain the muscles in the other, pulling her. Three steps to go. Two.

  Both of us waver on the landing. If I did not have my arm around my mistress’s waist, I believe she would topple back down.

  We shuffle towards the west wing, no sign of Lowena and her coal scuttle. My candle casts a wavering shadow upon the walls. Our shades are bent, hunchbacked.

  Brass glints on the door to my mistress’s bedroom and warns me that I must contend with the wretched lock. I have not hands enough to support Miss Pinecroft, the light, and turn the key.

  ‘Please hold that, madam.’ My voice emerges as a whisper. ‘I will not be a moment.’

  Miss Pinecroft takes the candleholder in the feeblest of grips. She cannot keep it steady. Light trembles as I attempt to slot the key into its hole.

  Drip, drip.

  What was that? I look to my mistress, but her concentration is all on the candle.

  It sounded like water.

  After a pause, I hear it again. You would hear a pin drop, up here tonight.

  Drip.

  It cannot be rain, not a hollow drip like that. Rain would patter, continual. Unless it has somehow soaked into the ceiling.

  I close my eyes, rely on my sense of hearing. No doubt remains: the dripping originates from inside my mistress’s chamber. There must be a leak.

  When I open my eyelids, the light is more erratic than ever. I turn the key to the right; there is a click, a whirl and the slightest movement on the lock as the wheel turns.

  I push the door ajar.

  Silence reigns within.

  The sound of falling water has ceased.

  Relieving Miss Pinecroft of the candleholder, I prop her upon my other arm and we inch over the threshold. I expect that something wet will land upon my head, but it does not. All I hear now are the waves.

  My candle flame gropes, illuminates patches of wallpaper. Blue oak trees, a blue fisherman. The atmosphere in this room is . . . strange. Like me, it seems to be waiting for the next drip.

  Carefully depositing Miss Pinecroft on the edge of the bed, I use my candle to kindle the tinder in the fireplace into a weak blaze. It is so small that Miss Pinecroft does not raise any objection, and I tally this as another point conceded. I will make her well and warm despite herself.

  But if anything, the chamber is rendered more eerie by the soft orange glow. Figures flicker on the walls and the sea gives them a voice.

  ‘Let us get you into your nightgown,’ I say, setting the candleholder down on the dressing table. It strikes me that I have not undressed Miss Pinecroft before.

  Touching her is akin to touching marble. Veins stand out upon her liver-spotted skin. Even now she is watching, watching. Blue figures stare down at us from the bed curtains, and she stares back at them.

  I prop her against the bolster and pull the covers up to her hips. Her hands rest on the sheets. She does not look like a person about to slumber: she looks like an effigy.

  Dare I unpin her hair? A silver-backed brush lies on the dressing table, but its bristles are completely clean. Either it is rarely used, or someone has painstakingly removed every strand of hair.

  Passing to the window, I begin to draw the curtains. Rapid white flecks disturb the monotony of darkness outside. The first flakes of snow. They are come too soon! I curse inwardly as I watch them tumble over the cliff edge, taking my hopes of gin with them. I must not lose hold of myself. With a decisive swish of curtains, I shut the view out.

  I think it will be a relief to move the candle’s circle of light towards the bed and cast the toile-de-Jouy people into shadow, but it achieves little. Still, I feel that prickle on my skin, the weight of a person observing me.

  ‘I have been advised to lock the door,’ I tell her. Part of me wants her to know this is not my choice. ‘For safety. I am told that you wander in your sleep.’

  At first I think she will not reply. Then she says, very softly, ‘Not . . . me.’

  Shivers run down my arms. I imagine Creeda in her dark gown, stalking the corridors by night. But that is unlikely. My poor mistress probably does not even know what she is saying.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Pinecroft.’

  My impulse is to kiss the sad old lady’s cheek, but I check myself and pat her hand instead.

  The tightness in my chest, the creeping feeling – both vanish with the closing of the door.

  Reluctantly, I slip the key into its hole. She could barely walk without my aid. But I must follow the housekeeper’s instructions. Losing this position would be ruinous. I dare not risk it.

  Breathing a sigh, I turn the key.

  Once again there is a click. The number beneath the dog’s paw shifts.

  Seventy-five.

  I bring the candle flame closer. Flutter my lashes, just in case there is something in my eye. No. The number is clear, there is no mistaking it.

  When Mrs Quinn closed this door, I could swear the dial moved to sixty-seven. I saw it. Even supposing the number should climb twice, once when unlocked, and again when locked, it should only be at sixty-nine.

  Someone has been inside this bedchamber.

  Only Mrs Quinn and I hold the keys. The housekeeper may well have had a valid reason for her intrusion: perhaps she heard the dripping, as I did. There are hundreds of reasonable explanations, and yet . . .

  The brass dog stares solemnly at the number. He would tell me if he could.

  I place my fingertip on the dial.

  All at once, my candle blows out.

  Chapter 16

  This morning, I arise with Merryn. How she can wake every day at this bleak, friendless hour is beyond my comprehension. Of course I have been up early in my years of service, but the timekeeping of a scullery maid is a thing apart.

  Snow dances outside our window. Thank heaven, last night’s drifts did not settle. There will be no obstacle to the servants attending church or the curate calling here.

  More importantly, we can travel tomorrow. I may still obtain a bottle of gin.

  God knows how it has come to this. Such feelings of fear and hunger that take hold of me! Ever since that fateful day in the free house at Salisbury. I was scouring their newspapers in search of a new position. Instead, I found Sir Arthur’s advertisement and fainted, right there in the tap room. When I came around, there was something strong and cool pressing against my lips. The meaty landlord and his wife leant over me. ‘Dram o’ gin,’ he said. ‘This’ll pick you up, girl.’

  I clung to it like a leech. Have been clinging ever since.

  Now the first thought that crosses my mind in the morning is drink. I am wild for it, like a girl in love. I only feel alive when the bitter-sweetness rolls across my tongue.

  I have found myself a new mistress.

  Merryn and I descend to the lower regions together. The echoing stucco hall appears ghostly and forbidding. I wonder how a girl her age summons the courage to walk this path alone each day.

  Once we are in the kitchen and Merryn has coaxed the fire into life, our aspect is much brighter. Like a great, throbbing heart, it seems to awaken the house, lending colour to objects and a sof
t crackle to our ears.

  I am relieved to discover Merryn has been collecting rainwater in butts over the past few days and we are not obliged to venture outside to fetch it.

  She hoists the wooden lid off the water heater and begins to fill the copper vat inside. ‘Creeda did prepare the water herself,’ she tells me. ‘But I see how she do it.’

  This is the reason for my early hours: I am resolved to clean the china. Attempting such a task under Miss Pinecroft’s vigil would be impossible, but while she is safely locked in her room, I shall try.

  Merryn takes a taper to the fire and ignites the water heater’s stove. We stand for a few moments and watch it. There is something rather unnerving about hearing the water start to bubble, deep within the bricks.

  ‘I believe it needs to be tepid,’ I advise, hoping to sound knowledgeable.

  Before long Merryn has filled a pail. It steams gently; no doubt the chill of the china room will take off any excess heat. Thanking her, I grip the handle and begin my quest.

  Never before have I seen the china room without Miss Pinecroft in occupation. I set down the pail of water and approach the wingback chair cautiously, as if she might have materialised overnight. Of course, it is empty.

  The sense of freedom is intoxicating. I fling back the curtains, releasing a cascade of dust. No one is here to stop me from lighting the candles and kindling a small blaze in the fireplace. Why should I not work in comfort, for a change?

  For an hour at least, I am mistress.

  After fetching a few supplies from the closet next door, I return and smile at the room before me. In the firelight, the mahogany panels warm to chocolate brown. Illuminated, the china reveals delicate brushstrokes.

  Where shall I begin? If this were a wardrobe, I would start by taking an inventory of all the items, ascertain the material and how best it might be cleaned. I see no reason not to continue with this method. Once I familiarise myself with the pieces and their quality, I will know which need the greatest attention.

  Most importantly, I will memorise their positions. Heaven forefend Miss Pinecroft’s watchful eyes should find something out of place.

  This morning there is no need to hide my steadying drop of laudanum; I place it upon my tongue, savouring the bitter taste. Then I survey the collection with brightened eyes.

  I had thought the large pieces standing either side of the fire were jugs, but they could be used to hold indoor plants. I peer inside to see clumps of dust settled on the base. Although they will take time to make presentable, they seem thick and hardy. I should manage not to break them.

  The mantelpiece tells a different story. A pair of swans with delicate necks and vases that look as if they have upturned thimbles on top. On closer inspection, I can see they are designed to hold individual flower stems. These will require care. Holding them reminds me of touching Miss Pinecroft’s skin: they are frigid and shell-thin.

  Shelves rise above the mantelpiece, higher than I can reach. Perhaps my vision is softened by laudanum, but it looks as if the items further up are imperfect. A teacup with a wonky handle. One of the chamber pots shows fire cracks along the side. It is as if whatever warehouse they came from has been refining its art – but why would Miss Pinecroft buy their seconds?

  To the right of the fireplace is a kind of open cabinet displaying lidded urns. As I walk towards it, my nose wrinkles at an odd, slightly musky scent. Evidently Creeda has not been as conscientious about the collection as Mrs Quinn would have me believe. The lowest shelf, about elbow height, holds six urns that must be older than the rest. The colour – still blue, of course – has not come out well. Two in particular are very poorly glazed.

  I turn ninety degrees and move on to the racks that line the wall opposite the window. Wiping my sweaty hands upon my apron, I remove one of the plates.

  Then I see the design.

  I should have expected it. With so large a collection, and all in blue and white, it would be surprising if I did not come across the Willow pattern, but the sight of it strikes me like a physical blow.

  It is all there, just as Lady Rose told me. The pavilion and its sprawling trees. A boat. A bridge. No doves, though. Some heartless painter has left out the lovers’ happy ending.

  I wonder if they are still using that other Willow set, so despised by Mrs Windrop. I touch the tiny blue figure of the bride with my fingertip. Perhaps even now Lady Rose is echoing my actions far away in Hanover Square. Turning over the pieces and remembering me.

  But something is not right. This plate does not tally with my lady’s beloved story. Here is the bride clutching her box of jewels. I see the humble gardener with his staff. But the third figure is missing. There is no mandarin following them, brandishing a whip.

  I walk along the row of plates, frowning. All the other Willow designs show three people upon the bridge. Only the one in my hands is faulty.

  I turn it over to see the stamp. The back of the plate is rougher than the surface, somehow unfinished. At the centre the name ‘Nancarrow’ is written in an arch; the words ‘Bone China’ form a swag below. In the middle of this word-circle, as if to illustrate the point, is the etching of a skull.

  I have never heard of this factory. Perhaps it closed; after all, they could not render the Willow pattern correctly.

  I have let minutes slip away in my reverie. There is little time for anything but a perfunctory wipe over the plates before floorboards creak upstairs. The other servants are rising.

  The water in my pail serves to douse the fire. I pinch the candles out, pull the curtains back into place. A smoky, charred scent lingers.

  ‘Tattletale,’ I mutter, and hope Miss Pinecroft does not notice it.

  Barely eight o’clock and already I am weary to my bones. Soon will come the headache, the shakes, the cool sweat. This time I do not count the laudanum drops as they fall into my mouth. I find I do not care.

  On the staircase, I pass Creeda. I am not minded to give the hag any more acknowledgement than a nod of the head, but she stops and watches me ascend.

  ‘Hope the water wasn’t too hot,’ she growls. ‘Not on the urns.’

  I walk on as if I have not heard her. But as I go to unlock my mistress’s door, I notice my hands are quaking in spite of the laudanum. She has unsettled me.

  How did Creeda know what I was doing?

  At least Miss Pinecroft’s room appears more genial this morning. The shepherds on the wallpaper have lost their odd flickering quality. Still, I cannot say I like the jumble of blue and white swirling all around me, and I do not like the way in which I discover my mistress.

  She looks as if she has seen a ghost.

  I doubt she has slept. Her hair remains firm in its pins. There is a little urine, very pale, in the chamber pot, so she must have moved, yet I swear the coverlet is smooth, exactly as I left it.

  ‘Good morning, madam. How are you today?’ I ask with false cheer.

  Of course she does not reply – I hardly expect it. I open the curtains and the window shutters. Droplets of condensation run down the glass.

  Outside, the sea is a mass of froth. Ice sparkles prettily on the frosted grass and the twigs of the ash trees. It reminds me of Merryn about her baking, dusted with flour.

  Today, I am in charge of dressing Miss Pinecroft and I vow to do it in a suitable manner. No more shivering in flimsy gowns. If she is to sit in that china room, she will do so wrapped against the chill.

  After a few tries, I find another of my keys opens the wardrobe in the corner.

  Sheets rustle as Miss Pinecroft straightens up in bed to watch me.

  Is she really so protective of this paltry collection? It is scarcely worth locking away. Half a dozen gowns hang in linen pouches. Each pouch contains sprigs of rosemary.

  In the end I settle upon a woollen gown in dark blue, a nice thick linen fichu and a brown c
loak with a hood. Her stockings are all clocked cotton. I apply two pairs. She may not be fit to be seen in society, but at least she shall be warm.

  Miss Pinecroft offers no comment upon my choices. Perhaps she cannot even see them clearly. It seems to be a relief to her when I close the wardrobe and the whole business of dressing is done.

  Staggering to her feet, she leans upon my arm as she did last night, although her movements appear stiffer. That bedchamber cannot be salubrious, shut up tight with condensation and rosemary needles: it needs a good airing. After we shuffle out, I leave the door ajar.

  We gain perhaps three steps before pain sears up my arm.

  ‘Lock.’

  Startled, I look down to see Miss Pinecroft driving her bony fingers deep into my flesh. The blue watery eyes are alive with an intensity I have never seen before.

  ‘Lock the door.’

  I dare not disobey.

  The golden dial shows the number seventy-nine.

  Church caused a bustle in Morvoren House – the first I have seen since my arrival on Friday. Miss Rosewyn galloped down the stairs in high glee, an oversized child expecting a treat. How she can reconcile her attendance with the destruction of Scripture remains a mystery to me.

  Creeda followed her charge like a mourner behind a hearse. Clenched by her side was that elaborate doll I glimpsed yesterday. It wore a new gown. A tiny imitation of the coral silk adorning Miss Rosewyn.

  Mrs Quinn, Mrs Bawden, Lowena and Merryn were also decked out in their Sunday best; even Gerren wore a neckerchief and smart jacket.

  ‘A brisk walk today!’ sang Mrs Quinn. ‘We’ll outrun that cold wind.’

  To her and the maids it was a jaunt. But Creeda had a grim determination about her.

  ‘Take Dolly,’ she ordered Rosewyn.

  I’d assumed Rosewyn refused to go abroad without her toy. Now I saw that this was not the case. She took the doll reluctantly from Creeda’s hands, and rather than hugging it close, she held it limp. As a woman of her age should.

  Mrs Bawden opened the door. Everyone exclaimed as freezing air rushed in; I could feel its chill, even where I stood looking out from the china room.