The Silent Companions Page 2

  ‘Enough to make a difference,’ he said bluntly.

  Elsie groaned. The fog pressed against her cheek, damp as a dog’s breath, carrying the scent of water and a deep, earthy tang.

  Sarah tucked her book away and picked up her skirts. She paused, petticoats lifted above her ankles. ‘After you, Mrs Bainbridge.’

  In other circumstances, Elsie would be pleased to have Sarah defer to her. But this time, she would rather not go first. The mist had already built with surprising speed. She could just make out the shape of Peters and his hand, reaching towards her. ‘The steps?’ she asked, without much hope.

  ‘Can’t get ’em down at this angle, ma’am. You’ll have to jump. It’s only a little way. I’ll catch you.’

  All her dignity had come to this. Heaving a sigh, she closed her eyes and sprang. Peters’s hand touched her waist for an instant before he set her down in the mud.

  ‘Now you, miss.’

  Elsie stumbled away from the carriage, not wanting Sarah’s big feet to land on her train. It was like walking on rice pudding. Her boots slipped and stuck at strange angles. She could not see where she placed them; the mist floated up to her knees, obscuring everything below. Perhaps that was as well – she did not want to see the hem of her new bombazine gown edged with filth.

  More chestnut trees appeared in patches through the fog. She had never encountered anything like this; it was not yellow and sulphurous like a London Particular, it did not hang, but moved. As the clouds of silver and grey slid to the side, they revealed a cracked wall by the line of trees. Bricks had fallen from it, leaving gaping holes like missing teeth. About halfway up there was an empty, rotting window frame. She tried to see clearly, but the images dissolved as the fog glided back.

  ‘Peters? What is this ghastly building?’

  A cry ripped through the damp air. Elsie spun round, her heart pounding, but only white mist met her eyes.

  ‘Easy now, miss.’ Peters’s voice. ‘You’re all right.’

  She released her breath and watched it seep into the mist. ‘What’s going on? I cannot see you. Did Sarah fall?’

  ‘No, no. I caught her in time.’

  Probably the most excitement the girl had experienced all year. A jest was on the tip of her tongue, but then she heard another sound: lower, more insistent. A deep, stretched groan. The horses must have heard it too, for they jinked in their harness.

  ‘Peters? What was that?’

  The noise came again: bass and mournful. She didn’t like it. She wasn’t used to these country sounds and mists – nor did she wish to be. Lifting her train, she tottered back to the carriage. She moved too fast. Her foot slid, the ground slipped beneath her and her shoulder blades smacked against the mud.

  Elsie lay on her back, stunned. Cool slime oozed into the gap between her collar and her bonnet.

  ‘Mrs Bainbridge? Where are you?’

  The blow had knocked the breath from her. She wasn’t hurt – she had no concerns for the baby, but she could not find her voice. She stared up into the billowing white. Moisture soaked through her gown. Somewhere, in a distant part of her brain, she cried over the damage to her black bombazine.

  ‘Mrs Bainbridge?’

  That groan came once more, closer now. The mist moved like a restless spirit above her. She sensed a shape over her head, a presence. She croaked feebly.

  ‘Mrs Bainbridge!’

  Elsie cringed as she saw them, inches from her face: two soulless eyes. A wet nose. Black wings like a bat. It sniffed her, then it lowed. Lowed.

  A cow. It was just a cow, tethered by a length of frayed rope. Her voice came flowing back on a tide of embarrassment. ‘Shoo! Get away, I have no food for you.’

  It did not move. She wondered if it could – it was not a healthy creature. A stringy neck supported its head and flies hovered over its jutting ribs. Poor brute.

  ‘There you are!’ Peters moved the cow out of the way with a few kicks. ‘What happened, ma’am? Are you all right? Let me help you.’

  It took four attempts before he managed to heave her up. Her dress left the bog with a sticky rip. Ruined.

  Peters gave a crooked smile. ‘Not to worry, ma’am. Don’t look like a place you need to dress up, does it?’

  She peered over his shoulder, where the last tendrils of mist were twisting away. Surely not. Surely the village floating into view could not be Fayford?

  A row of tumbledown cottages squatted beneath the trees, each with a smashed window or battered door. Holes in the walls had been hastily patched over with mud and dung. Broken thatch made a pathetic attempt to stretch over the rooftops, but it was flecked with mould.

  ‘No wonder we got stuck.’ Peters gestured to the road flowing before the cottages. It was little more than a brown river. ‘Welcome to Fayford, ma’am.’

  ‘This cannot possibly be Fayford,’ she told him.

  Sarah’s pale face appeared beside them. ‘I think it is!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, heavens.’

  Elsie could only gape. It was bad enough to be trapped in the country, but here? Marrying Rupert was meant to lift her above her station, provide her with well-fed cottagers and humble tenants.

  ‘Stay there, ladies,’ said Peters. ‘I’m going to get this wheel out while the mist is clear.’ He walked back carefully over the mud.

  Sarah crept up next to Elsie. For once, Elsie was glad of her presence. ‘I hoped for pleasant country walks, Mrs Bainbridge, but I fear we will have to stay indoors this winter.’

  Indoors. The word was like a key turning in a lock. That old, trapped feeling from childhood. How could she take her mind off Rupert if she had to stay indoors?

  There were books, she supposed. Card games. It would not take long for them to become tedious.

  ‘Did Mrs Crabbly ever teach you how to play backgammon, Sarah?’

  ‘Oh yes. And then of course . . .’ She froze, eyes widening.

  ‘Sarah? What is it?’

  She twitched her head at the cottages. Elsie turned. Grubby faces hovered by the windows. Wretched people, worse than the cow.

  ‘They must be my tenants.’ She raised a hand, feeling she should signal to them, but her courage faltered.

  ‘Should we—’ Sarah squirmed. ‘Should we try to talk to them?’

  ‘No. Stay away.’

  ‘But they look so miserable!’

  They did. Elsie cudgelled her brains for ways to help. Visit them with a basket and read a Bible passage? That was what rich ladies did, wasn’t it? Somehow she didn’t think they would appreciate the effort.

  A horse whinnied. She heard a curse and turned to see the carriage wheel burst from the quagmire with an almighty gurgle, spraying mud over Peters.

  ‘Well,’ he said, casting a wry glance at Elsie’s gown. ‘That makes two of us.’

  The carriage rolled forward a few paces. Behind it, Elsie saw the battered ruins of a church. Its spire had disappeared, leaving only a jagged spike of wood. Yellow, sparse grass surrounded it, crammed close with headstones. Someone watched them from the lychgate.

  Bubbles fizzed in Elsie’s stomach. The baby. She put one hand on her muddy bodice and used the other to take Sarah’s arm. ‘Come on. Back in the carriage.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Sarah scrambled forward. ‘Let us get to the house as soon as possible!’

  Elsie could not share her enthusiasm. For if this rat’s nest was the village, what on earth would they find at the house?

  The river whispered to them; a rushing, disembodied sound. Moss-speckled stone formed a bridge across the water – it must be the very bridge from which the house took its name.

  It was not like any of the bridges in London. Instead of modern architecture and engineering, Elsie saw crumbling arches teased by foam and spray. A pair of discoloured stone lions flanked the posts on either side of the water. It made her think of drawbridges, the Tower of London – Traitors’ Gate.

  But this river was not like the Thames; it was not grey or brown but clear. Sh
e squinted, her eyes catching a flick beneath the surface. Dark shapes, swirling. Fish?

  When they reached the other side, an old gatehouse sprang up as if from nowhere. Peters slowed the carriage, but no one came out to greet them. Elsie put the window down, wincing at the sensation of her clammy sleeve moving against her arm. ‘Carry on, Peters.’

  ‘There!’ cried Sarah. ‘The house is there.’

  The road sloped down across a range of hills, where the sun was beginning to set. At the very end, crouching in a horseshoe of red and orange trees, was The Bridge.

  Elsie put up her veil. She saw a low-slung Jacobean building with three gables on the roof, a central lantern tower and redbrick chimneys looming behind. Ivy poured out of the eaves and engulfed the turrets at either end of the house. It looked dead.

  Everything was dead. Parterres lay prostrate beneath the soulless gaze of the windows, the hedges brown and riddled with holes. Vines choked the flowerbeds. Even the lawns were yellow and sparse, as if a contagion spread slowly throughout the grounds. Only the thistle thrived, its purple spikes bristling from amidst the coloured gravel.

  The carriage drew to a halt on a gravel sweep, opposite the fountain that formed the centrepiece of the decaying grounds. Once, when the stone was white and the sculpted figures of dogs on top were new, it must have been a handsome structure. No water sprang up from the jets. Cracks wiggled across the empty basin.

  Sarah drew back. ‘They’re all out to see us,’ she said. ‘The entire staff!’

  Elsie’s stomach plunged. She had been too busy staring at the gardens. Now she observed three women dressed in black waiting outside the house. Two wore white caps and aprons while the third was bare-headed, showing a coil of iron hair. Beside her stood a stiff, formal-looking man.

  Elsie looked down at her skirts. They were patched like a rusty iron gate. Mud made the bombazine heavy and caused it to cling around her knees. What would her new servants think if they saw her in such a state? She would be neater and cleaner in her factory clothes.

  ‘A mistress must meet her household. But I had hoped not to do it caked in mud.’

  Without warning, the carriage door swung open. She jumped. A young man stood before her, his slim figure clad in a black suit.

  ‘Oh Jolyon, it’s you. Thank goodness.’

  ‘Elsie? What on earth happened?’ His light brown hair was swept back from his face, as if to highlight the dismay written there.

  ‘An accident. The carriage wheel got stuck and I fell—’ She gestured to her skirt. ‘I can’t see the household like this. Send them back inside.’

  He hesitated. His cheeks flushed beside his whiskers. ‘But . . . It would look so strange. What am I supposed to say?’

  ‘I don’t know! Tell them anything!’ She heard the brittle sound of her own voice and felt dangerously close to tears. ‘Make up some excuse.’

  ‘Very well.’ Jolyon closed the door and stood back. She saw him turn, the breeze lifting a curl of hair at his collar. ‘Mrs Bainbridge is . . . indisposed. She will have to go straight to her bed. Set a fire and send up some tea.’

  Mumbles sounded outside, but then there was the welcome crunch of feet trudging back over gravel. Elsie breathed a sigh of relief. She did not have to face them – not yet.

  Of all people, Elsie found servants the most judgemental: jealous of their master’s station, since it was tied closely to their own. Rupert’s London household had turned their noses up at her when she arrived from the match factory. Her confession that she hadn’t kept domestic help since her mother died had sealed their contempt. Only respect for Rupert, and Rupert’s warning glances, made them civil.

  Sarah leant forward. ‘What will you do? You’ll need to get changed straight away, without being seen. And Rosie isn’t here!’

  No. Rosie was unwilling to leave her London life and wages to live in this backwater. Elsie could not blame her. And to be honest, she was secretly relieved. She’d never felt comfortable changing in front of her lady’s maid, having strange hands against her skin. But she would need to hire another one soon, if just for appearances’ sake. She did not want to get the reputation of being one of those eccentric widows populating the countryside.

  ‘I daresay I’ll manage without Rosie for now.’

  Sarah’s face brightened. ‘I could help you with the buttons at the back. I’m good at buttons.’

  Well, that made one thing.

  Jolyon appeared back beside the door, opened it again and extended a hand. ‘The staff are safely inside. Come on now, climb out.’

  She struggled down the steps and landed awkwardly with a sprinkle of stones. Jolyon raised his eyebrows at her dress. ‘Good heavens.’

  She snatched her hand away.

  While he helped Sarah down, she looked over the house. It revealed nothing. Curtains were drawn across the windows in an unrelenting screen of black. Ivy fluttered against the wall.

  ‘Come. The trunks you sent ahead are in your room.’

  They climbed a shallow flight of steps to the open door. Before they crossed the threshold, a musty tang reached out and forced its way up Elsie’s nostrils. Someone had tried to cover it with a softer, powdery note. There were scents of a linen drawer: lavender and green herbs.

  Jolyon walked briskly on, as he did in London, his footsteps tapping over a grey stone floor set with lozenges. Elsie and Sarah dawdled behind him, keen for a look at the house.

  The door opened straight into the Great Hall, a cavern of antique splendour. Medieval details stood out: a suit of armour, shortswords displayed in fans on the wall and worm-eaten roof beams above.

  ‘Did you know Charles I and his queen once stayed here?’ asked Sarah. ‘My mother told me. Imagine them, walking right across this floor!’

  Elsie was more concerned with the fire blazing in a black iron grate. She hurried towards it and held her gloved hands out to the flames. She was used to coal; there was something unnerving about these crackling logs and the deep, sweet smell of their smoke. It reminded her of the deal they used in the match factory to make the splints. The way it split under the saw.

  She looked away. Either side of the fireplace stood two heavy wooden doors, embossed with iron.

  ‘Elsie.’ Jolyon sounded impatient. ‘There will be a fire in your room.’

  ‘Yes, but I—’ She turned, and the muscles in her face set like wax. Under the stairs. She had not noticed it before. A long, narrow box lay on a table in the centre of an oriental rug. ‘Is that . . .?’

  Jolyon hung his head. ‘Yes. He was in the drawing room at first. But the housekeeper informs me it is easier to keep this room aired and fresh.’

  Of course: the smell of herbs. Elsie reared back, feeling her insides curl. She wanted to remember Rupert smiling and dapper, as he had always been, not as a lifeless doll on display.

  She cleared her throat. ‘I see. And at least the neighbours will not have to traipse through the house when they come to pay their respects.’ That dreadful listlessness which had possessed her when she first heard of Rupert’s death started up, but she pushed it back down. She did not want to be swamped by grief or bitterness – she only yearned to pretend it had never, ever happened.

  ‘There do not seem to be many neighbours.’ Jolyon leant on the banister. ‘Only the vicar has come so far.’

  How terribly sad that was. In London, men would be honoured to see Rupert one last time. She regretted, once again, that they had not brought him back to town for a fine burial, but Jolyon had said it was impossible.

  Sarah walked to the coffin and peered in. ‘He looks peaceful. Dear man, he deserves to be.’ She turned to Elsie and held out a hand. ‘Come, Mrs Bainbridge, and look.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s all right. Come. It will do you good to see how serene he is. It will help with the grief.’

  She severely doubted that. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Mrs Bainbridge—’

  A log exploded in the grate. Elsie
yelped and jumped forwards. A shower of sparks dusted her skirts and melted to ash before they reached the rug. ‘Goodness.’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘These old fires. I could have been set alight.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Jolyon ran his fingers through his hair. ‘We must get you upstairs before the servants come and – Elsie? Elsie, are you listening to me?’

  The leap away from the fire had done it. She was close enough to see the peaks of Rupert’s profile rising over white satin: the grey-blue tip of a nose; eyelashes; curls of salt-and-pepper hair. It was too late to look away. She inched forward, each footstep placed with the care she would use to approach a sleeping child. Gradually, the high wall of the coffin receded.

  Breath left her in a rush. It was not Rupert. Not really. What lay before her was an imitation, as cold and featureless as a stone effigy. Its hair was perfectly greased in place, with no hint of the curl that always fell over Rupert’s left eye. The broken veins that had adorned Rupert’s cheek were a mere smudge of grey. Even his moustache looked false, standing out prominently from drying skin.

  How that moustache had tickled. She felt it again at her cheek, under her nose. The way she had always laughed when he kissed her. Laughter was Rupert’s gift. It felt wrong to stand around him solemn and silent. He would not have wanted that.

  As her eyes travelled down to his chin and the dots of stubble that would now never grow, she noticed small, blue flecks on the skin. They reminded her of childhood and sewing needles, sucking hard on a finger.

  Of course, they were splinters. But why would he have splinters on his face?

  ‘Elsie.’ Jolyon’s voice was firm. ‘We must go up. There will be time enough to say goodbye tomorrow.’

  She nodded and rubbed her eyes. It was not hard to drag herself away. Whatever Sarah thought, staring into a coffin was nothing like bidding farewell to her husband. The time for that had passed with his last breath. All they had in the casket was a pale shadow of the man who had once been Rupert Bainbridge.

  It took two flights of steps before they cleared the beams of the Great Hall and emerged onto a small landing. Only a few lamps were lit, flaring in patches and revealing red flock wallpaper.