Bone China Page 20

  I wish she would tell me what haunts her. Through a gap in the curtains, I glimpse steel-grey waves. Until now, I did not think there could be enmity in the sea, but it is there. Taunting my mistress.

  Footsteps thud in the corridor and the door swings open, making us both jump. It is Rosewyn. Alone.

  She offers a shy grin before toddling inside. The way she moves, her facial expressions: all are exactly as a child. She does not seem to belong in her body.

  When she reaches the side of the wingchair, Rosewyn throws her arms around the old lady’s neck.

  There is a moment of tension; Miss Pinecroft’s eyes bulge, her fingers grasp the armrests once more. I try to imagine her adopting Rosewyn when she really was a child – somewhere near forty years ago. Was Miss Pinecroft softer back then? Indulgent to the small, unfortunate girl? I think she must have been, for Rosewyn’s affection is evident. She truly loves her.

  ‘Good day!’ Rosewyn kisses the papery cheek and seats herself on the floor.

  ‘Hello, Miss Rosewyn,’ I say. ‘What brings you downstairs?’

  Before she can answer, a heavy tread sounds by the door. Creeda stalks towards us, carrying the doll.

  Rosewyn hunches her shoulders.

  ‘You’re not to go running off. Haven’t I told you a hundred times?’ Creeda’s voice is sand-rough.

  I clear my throat officiously. ‘You needn’t be alarmed if Miss Rosewyn decides to visit her guardian. She is quite safe down here with us.’

  Creeda cocks an eyebrow above her brown eye. ‘She is, is she?’

  ‘Allow me to light the fire. I would not want Miss Rosewyn catching a chill.’

  Both the elder women move, but it is Creeda’s hand that nips my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t,’ she decrees. ‘Heat harms the porcelain.’

  This woman. She irritates me like an itch at the back of the throat. She reminds me of Burns – but that maid was spiteful, openly malignant. Creeda speaks with none of her passion. It is her very coolness, her self-possession, that grates upon me. ‘Nonsense! I never heard of such a thing. Why … is not porcelain fired in a kiln, when it is made?’

  She stares straight at me with those uncanny eyes. ‘Don’t presume to tell me. My family made this collection.’

  I was not expecting that.

  ‘Nancarrow Bone China,’ I whisper.

  She nods. ‘Yes. Nancarrow was my maiden name. I got everything when the factory closed down.’

  It is on the tip of my tongue to mention the error on the Willow pattern transfer, but I forbear and resume my seat.

  ‘I did not know you had been married, Creeda.’

  ‘I am married still,’ she barks.

  What man on earth would have the courage? I am about to make enquiries when I realise: Gerren. The band on her gnarly finger matches his.

  What a pairing! I would be amused, were I less miserable. Creeda is the spider in the centre of a web, connected to everything. Even Miss Pinecroft follows her commands. Who, really, is the mistress of Morvoren House?

  Outside, waves collapse into the embrace of the sea. Creeda proffers the doll to Rosewyn, who sulkily accepts it and places it in her lap.

  ‘Come on. Stand up, let’s be out of here.’

  Rosewyn turns her doll over and begins to plait its hair.

  ‘Rosewyn.’

  ‘Perhaps you might adjust Miss Rosewyn’s clothes, if you are taking her back upstairs,’ I tell Creeda. ‘They are inside out. It is not fitting for a lady to appear so, even before her family.’

  ‘Maybe not, but it’s right for this child. Her gown must be that way.’

  I had thought it a failure in the old woman’s eyes; that they might be weak, as Miss Pinecroft’s are. Can she really be doing this to Rosewyn on purpose?

  Rosewyn glances up, smiles and returns to her doll.

  She is natural – innocent. Fertile ground for any strange ideas this maid should choose to plant inside her head. It strikes me now that she is nothing but a doll herself, dressed and positioned to please Creeda.

  What sins might she push this unwitting soul towards? Was it Creeda who urged her to rip apart the Bible?

  Miss Pinecroft cannot defend her ward, but I can. I should.

  ‘I am not from Cornwall, Creeda. Perhaps you might explain to me what possible virtue your people see in wearing their clothes the wrong way around?’

  She considers me. Her hooked nose juts further forward than ever. ‘I don’t know, Miss Why, if you ever heard of people being pixy-led.’

  ‘No, that is not a term I am familiar with.’

  I imagine she is about to spin me a similar tale to the one Lowena recited at dinner on Saturday: floating lights, hidden bogs. As if the most dangerous hazard here were not the great clifftop, yawning where all can see it.

  Creeda glances at the china. ‘They … want. Always more.’

  ‘Who?’ I ask, incredulous.

  She deliberately misunderstands. ‘Our people. We keep their race alive. They can’t breed, you see. So they take us.’

  Father told me once of the lunatics in Bedlam and their hideous fantasies. I never thought to see one in the flesh.

  ‘Of course they’re clever about it,’ she continues. ‘They know, by now, what moves us. I never hear of children tempted by succulent apples these days. It’s deeper than that. They call out for help. They shout in the voices of our loved ones who have died.’

  Miss Pinecroft tightens her grip on the armrest.

  I cannot reply to this madness.

  ‘Once they take you underground, you belong to them. But some people have turned back, before it was too late. They broke the charm by flipping their clothes inside out. So I protect my charge. I make sure Miss Rosewyn is guarded against them at all times.’

  On the floor, Rosewyn finishes her plait and hugs the doll to her chest. It is the first time I have seen her show it tenderness, but she does not appear to be clinging to it with love: she holds on as one who is afraid.

  ‘Fairies, you mean?’ I scoff. ‘Imaginary creatures, waiting to take us underground? Bosh! This is nothing more than folklore! It is no excuse to dress poor Miss Rosewyn in such a whimsical manner. Why, if it is so dangerous, do you not all have your clothes on inside out? Why do you suppose they would want only her?’

  I expect Creeda to be offended, to shout back. But not a muscle moves in her face. She merely looks sad, a priest before unrepentant sinners.

  ‘Don’t you listen, Hester Why? They want offspring. A woman young enough to bear them.’

  ‘They cannot be very powerful fairies,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Barren. Stopped by backwards clothes and a line of salt.’

  Rosewyn presses a finger to her lips and makes a desperate hushing sound. ‘Shh! You mustn’t speak of them that way!’

  ‘They are not real, miss. I may speak of them in any manner that I choose.’

  She shakes her head, solemn. ‘They listen.’ Her arms tighten about the doll. ‘They listen and then they punish.’

  Chapter 28

  Eighty-six.

  The lock clicks, but I do not remove my hand from the key. Cannot.

  There is no doubting it this time. Candles burn in the sconces on the wall, flooding the corridor with light. Nothing could be clearer. The dial on Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom door has turned all the way to eighty-six.

  For a moment, I stare. Then I begin to laugh.

  The entire house is mad. From the maids in the kitchen to the simpleton trapped in the nursery, it is all completely and utterly mad.

  I walk alone in sanity – and I am the one foxed on a mixture of laudanum and gin!

  The wind howls and ravens about the house, crashing the branches of the ash trees together. The waves roar back. They are wild creatures, these elements. They will tear one another apart.

  Removing the key, I place it in my apron and stumble towards the east wing. Nausea treads upon my heels. It has grown steadily worse since my conversation with Creeda –
if indeed, you can refer to that as a conversation. It was more like the ravings of a mad woman.

  They punish, Rosewyn said earlier. Certainly, I am being chastised. But my foes are not fairies, jabbing with their tiny hands. The wretch that has brought misfortune upon me is none other than myself.

  I open a door to find I have accidentally walked into the room Lowena shares with the cook Mrs Bawden. The housemaid sits on the edge of the mattress, tying her black hair in rags ready for bed, and my abrupt appearance makes her start. Apologising, I lurch back into the hallway to seek my own room. Am I really so inebriated? I must be. Yet my temples burn and my mouth is dry. That is usually a sign I have not drunk enough.

  Another door gives way and this time I lumber into the correct chamber. The silvery moonlight is alive with shapes. My own shadow stretches, monstrous over the bed. Already the moisture is welling up and turning to vapour, I feel it cling to my arms, breathe against my cheek.

  Falling to my knees beside the bed, I reach for the key to my trunk – but my trunk is already open.

  The room spins.

  Feverishly, I grope through the contents, past the bloodied travelling dress and the newspapers.

  The snuffbox has gone.

  A strangled gasp escapes me. I search again and again, my hands moving faster each time. I am about to tip the whole thing upside-down when it hits me: the travelling dress and Sir Arthur’s advertisement were at the top of the open trunk. I did not leave them there.

  Someone knows about me. They have read the advertisement mentioning the snuffbox and taken it for evidence.

  I grab for the chamber pot and vomit. Little food has passed my lips. The liquid that comes from me is bile.

  Why, oh why, did I keep the blasted clipping?

  ‘Poor thing! What ails thee?’

  I whip around as if stung. Merryn stands in the doorway, holding a candle.

  Merryn.

  Those bright eyes, those busy hands. I knew sharing a room with this girl should be my undoing.

  Wiping my chin, I put the pot down and struggle to my feet. The world slants away; Merryn’s candle dips and sways before my eyes.

  ‘You!’ I fling the word at her. ‘How dare you?’

  Her jaw falls slack. She gapes at me like an idiot.

  ‘You have opened my trunk! Is it not enough that I must share my bed with a lowly scullery maid? Am I to have no privacy? These are my things. Mine. Keep your grubby hands off them.’

  Merryn’s shoulders start to quake. ‘I never …’ she whispers, ‘I never would.’

  ‘Then who? Who else would be in my room, going through my personal property, but a scullery maid? Tell me, what is your wage, Merryn? Pitiful, I expect. You thought to supplement it with the snuffbox, didn’t you?’

  She looks frightened. ‘I an’t a thief.’

  ‘You are a sneak! What did you think of the advertisement? Is it a fair description? Are you in a way to be thankfully requited?’

  ‘Please, miss, I don’t—’

  ‘You must tell me what he gives you. Of course he did not write specifics – or did he? I do not recall, the words will be fresher in your mind, having read the advertisement so recently—’

  ‘Miss!’ she shouts. ‘Thee be mistaken! I cannot read.’

  A dreadful pause follows. Merryn’s chest rises and falls. All I can hear is the sound of her laboured breath.

  I am suddenly and terribly sober.

  Of course she cannot read. No doubt Lowena cannot either. And it would take a good deal of heft to break the lock upon my trunk. Merryn’s arms are thin.

  ‘I …’ I begin, at an utter loss. I cannot take the words back. The moist air still drips with their venom. ‘Merryn, forgive me, I do not know what …’

  A tear slides down her cheek.

  I am a brute, an absolute brute.

  This girl has shown me nothing but kindness.

  ‘I am so sorry.’

  Her bright face snaps shut. She blows out the candle and drops upon the bed.

  In vain, my jumbled mind tries to piece the conversation back together. How much did I reveal? Whatever the actual words used, I have admitted to keeping a secret locked away.

  Fumbling in the darkness, I pack the contents back into their rightful order, push the lid down tight. Silver gleams back at me. The lock is not broken, as I had supposed. There is no damage at all.

  I have never left it unfastened. Never would – my life depends on its integrity. There is cunning at work here. Someone has picked the mechanism – perhaps the same person stealing in and out of Miss Pinecroft’s room, turning the dial.

  But who?

  Try as I might, I cannot repress the image of fairies, their slender little arms groping through keyholes.

  Merryn has turned her back to me; her body stiffens as I climb carefully into bed. It is excruciating: her hurt seems to prickle through the sheets.

  Outside, the sea huffs and frets.

  I know I will not sleep tonight. When I close my eyes, there is a number etched on the back of the lids. Eighty-six.

  Chapter 29

  Never did a weary slave bless heaven so fervently for the Sabbath day. They have all left the house: the lunatic Creeda, Rosewyn and her doll, Merryn with her dejected countenance. For a few hours, I will be free of their reproachful looks.

  Only Miss Pinecroft remains, opposite me in her wingchair. Though she went to bed in her own chamber again last night, she does not appear to have slept. Her white eyelashes are stark against the bloodshot orbs beneath.

  My own health remains poor. Breathing has become an exertion. Now, more than ever, I wish that Miss Pinecroft would allow me to light a fire.

  I picture the fire in the kitchen, blazing merrily, its light shining on Merryn’s face, and my stomach lurches with guilt. She has not spoken to me since Tuesday evening. Even in this house, amongst the friendliest staff I ever met, I have found a way to sour the atmosphere. Yet for all their kindness, one of them is against me. They have taken the precious snuffbox. They can literally hold my dearest memories and my life in the palm of their hand.

  Mrs Quinn showed a good deal of curiosity about my luggage when I arrived, but surely, if she had seen the contents, she would have dismissed me immediately? The advertisement, the dress drenched in blood: these are not sights to keep concealed.

  Mrs Bawden, Gerren and black-haired Lowena present themselves to my mind’s eye by turn, but deep down I know there is only one suspect. Only one person in this house could have committed the vile act.

  The curate knocks on the front door. When I open it, I am surprised to see the sky is metallic and sleet is falling; ice crystals bounce from the rim of Mr Trengrouse’s hat.

  ‘Come inside, sir,’ I urge him, stepping aside.

  ‘It is starting,’ Mr Trengrouse tells me. He brushes spots of white from the shoulders of his greatcoat. ‘The real snow has finally arrived. In a few hours, the paths will be impassable. I must not stay for long, Miss Why.’

  I take Mr Trengrouse’s coat, hat and gloves. They are colder even than my hands. ‘At least stay for tea, sir. Drink something warm before heading back.’

  There it is again – the smile that lights up the room. ‘Thank you. You are all goodness.’

  If only that were true.

  He is more conscientious in his religious duties this week. He keeps reading to Miss Pinecroft as I blunder in with the tea tray, scarcely able to hold its weight, and prays while I prepare three cups. It is a pleasure to hear the lilt of his voice, educated, with only the slightest trace of the local accent.

  Miss Pinecroft takes her tea from me with her bandaged hands. ‘Take care,’ I whisper. ‘Please do not hurt yourself again.’

  ‘Are those scratches from the broken cup last week, Miss Pinecroft?’ Mr Trengrouse asks as I go to fetch his tea. ‘Unfortunately, ailments do linger, the older we get. We are fortunate to have Miss Why looking after you. No doubt she will have you back to full health in no tim
e.’

  I pass Mr Trengrouse his cup. ‘But are you unwell also, Miss Why? You look pale.’

  I turn my face away. ‘I am … not myself.’

  ‘Should you not go and lie down?’

  Even if I did, I would not sleep. I have taken laudanum, but my head pounds as if I have not seen the bottle for a week.

  Sitting beside him, I cradle the warm cup in my hands. ‘I have my duties, sir.’

  He watches me intently with those gold-flecked eyes. ‘Whatever will my sister say if I allow you of all people to neglect your health?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ I seize the change of subject eagerly. ‘Do tell me how they all get along at Exeter.’

  ‘Better,’ he announces happily. ‘Much better. As you know, the progress is bound to be slow, but the physicians are pleased. It is only unfortunate that this snow will keep Polly away for another week at the least.’ He sips his drink. ‘Pity me, Miss Why, with my household of children. I shall be run ragged. Three boys and two girls, all under the age of ten.’

  I picture Mr Trengrouse before a hearth with a gaggle of red-headed children about his knees, and wonder what it must be like, to share a love like that. A comfortable, steady affection that does not consume all it touches.

  ‘I was … very fond of a child once.’ If I close my eyes I can still feel him, leaning against my leg, sense the small, hot hand that reached for mine. ‘Robert.’

  ‘One of my nephews is also named Robert.’ He blows on his tea to cool it. ‘I suspect your charge has grown into a fine young man by now. Alas, our Robbie looks set to be the worst kind of blackguard. Stealing apples from the orchards, always pushing his sisters.’ He grins. ‘He is but four years old. I have hopes of reformation.’

  I cannot return his pleasantry. The child has bobbed to the surface of my mind. Not cherubic as he was in life: instead his cheeks are stiff, the eyes sunken. Was it my fault? Can I be such bad luck that I simply drained the life from him?

  I take a breath, gather myself. ‘I confess, it sometimes feels as if we have a child here at Morvoren House. Do you know Miss Rosewyn?’