Bone China Page 21

  Something flickers in his face. He seems momentarily unsure of what to say. ‘Yes. Indeed I do. She is a … pure spirit.’

  Miss Pinecroft twitches.

  ‘Can you tell me her age?’

  His charm re-emerges. ‘Really, Miss Why, a gentleman would not enquire.’

  ‘Of course not. I merely wondered if there was anything I could do to assist her. As a nurse. I presume she has always been … well, I do not mean to say deficient, for she is very bright, but … I received the impression there was some … affliction. You cannot tell me its nature?’

  Mr Trengrouse regards me thoughtfully. At last he says, ‘It is true she is a little unusual. You haven’t encountered any problems with her, have you?’

  ‘Problems? No. I believe she requires only kindness and understanding.’

  ‘I knew it,’ he smiles. ‘I knew the moment I saw you at Exeter that you had a good heart.’

  I nearly splutter a mouthful of tea.

  He takes it for embarrassment, rather than the guilt that it is. ‘Forgive me for speaking so warmly. But you see, others have been less sympathetic towards the poor lady.’

  I wipe my mouth. ‘Who?’

  Mr Trengrouse darts a glance at Miss Pinecroft. She is not drinking her beverage, but neither is she watching us. I wonder how the world must appear to her without her spectacles. Blurred.

  As if she were underwater.

  My throat grows tight.

  ‘I say this in confidence,’ Mr Trengrouse whispers. ‘Mrs Quinn would prefer not to have it spoken of, but you are an inmate of this house after all. It’s only just that you know.’ He wets his lips. ‘Your mistress has not always required a nurse. For many years her needs were ably met by Mrs Tyack—’

  ‘I have never heard of this person.’

  He blinks his brown eyes. ‘Mr and Mrs Tyack. You do not call them that? Perhaps amongst the household staff they go by their Christian names.’

  We both avert our gaze, discomforted at the reminder of our difference in station.

  ‘Of course you mean Creeda,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Yes. Well … Creeda, as you say, only recently became unable to cope with all her responsibilities. A nurse was sought. Locally.’

  My mouth tastes as if I have bitten into something sour. Even now, I cannot push down my umbrage. It hurts me to think I was not the first choice.

  ‘I should have thought,’ I say stiffly, ‘that Mrs Quinn would have informed me if my position had been previously occupied.’

  ‘Please do not be offended!’ he cries, looking panicked. ‘I do not say this to make mischief. It’s a compliment to you. Other applicants for this role were horribly prejudiced. Your predecessor, for example, would not stay on account of Miss Rosewyn.’

  I shoot him a quizzical look.

  ‘It is true. She was an affected, hysterical miss. I do not mean to be unkind, but there it is. She said that poor Rosewyn frightened her! Can you imagine that? When all she had ever shown the nurse was her usual sweet affection?’

  The strange history of my employment begins to make sense. Did I not wonder why Mrs Quinn should advertise so far afield? That she should be willing to pay the expense of my journey here by Mail coach? I remember how awkwardly she behaved when I first heard about Rosewyn. How she had omitted any mention of her from the correspondence.

  If it were Creeda who had caused the issue, I would understand. Any young woman might take exception to her. But perhaps the last nurse was not brave enough to name the real culprit and made an excuse. She had the choice to leave. I do not.

  Creeda will hold the snuffbox over me like an axe, ready to drop.

  Tea slops into the saucer as my fingers quake.

  ‘But you,’ Mr Trengrouse is waxing on. ‘You, Miss Why, are infinitely superior in both skill and moral fibre. It’s obvious to me that you have no other goal in life but to care for your fellow man.’

  Shakily, I raise the teacup to my lips.

  Stop.

  I want to drop it, to cast it away from me, but I cannot. My hands will not move.

  ‘Miss Why?’ His smile melts. ‘Are you unwell? What a brute I am to have kept you talking, I did say that you looked pale …’

  I turn to him in mute appeal. Yet the confusion on his brow, the sheer lack of horror, make me tremble all the more.

  He cannot see what I do. It must be a trick of the laudanum, the effect of too much gin, but it looks so gruesomely real, staining the china, reeking of iron and rust.

  I am holding a cup full of blood.

  Chapter 30

  Turpentine, sage, vervain, comfrey and plantain: my father’s ‘arquebusade water’ for cleansing gunshot wounds. Miss Pinecroft has suffered her injuries in a different kind of battle from the soldiers Father treated. No cannon or musket fire; the weapons are more subtle. I douse her cut hands, smooth on some balsam and wind them in lint. Can these really be the same scratches? They seem to reopen each night.

  My mistress knows. Whatever it is, inside this house, or on those cliffs, she has seen it.

  ‘Did someone hurt you?’ I whisper.

  Her thin shoulders tremble.

  The china room may as well be buried underground. Even when I step behind the curtains, my view is that of a white barricade. There is no beauty in the purity; it is so white that it burns.

  I shake as one with the ague. Shapes swirl and merge before my tired eyes; when I look at the porcelain figures, their cheerful faces are replaced with skulls. Another glance shows me my error, but I cannot be sure that the death-heads were never there. I cannot be sure of anything at all.

  Walking to the plate rack, I pick up the one with the faulty Willow pattern. The two figures on the bridge seem further apart today. Untethered, drifting away from one another. When I put it back, my fingertips are coated in dust.

  ‘I need to clean the china,’ I whisper, turning urgently to Miss Pinecroft. ‘Is all this happening because of the china?’

  She stares straight at me. For the first time, I see a real woman behind those cold blue eyes.

  ‘Tell me!’ I drop to my knees beside the armrest and clutch at her shawl. Surely, there is a part of her, a small part still awake that can answer me? ‘The music, the dripping – do you hear it too? What about the lights?’

  Shakily, she places a hand on top of my head.

  ‘What do you see in the china, Miss Pinecroft? Is it blood? I saw a cup of blood …’

  ‘Him.’

  I fall back as if she has hit me. Her hand still hovers, mid-air.

  ‘A … a fairy?’ I stutter.

  ‘Him,’ she rasps again.

  And then I hear the song.

  It drips into the ear, siren-sweet. This sound could lead me through fire; it could lead me to the ends of the earth. I feel it in my very marrow.

  ‘What is …’ I gasp.

  But Miss Pinecroft has departed as quickly as she arrived. Her blue eyes fog over, she turns towards the china display and I have lost her once more.

  She cannot hear the music.

  I must know. Everything within me yearns for an answer. Juddering to my feet, I begin to follow the sound.

  The stucco hall rings like a crystal glass. Poseidon stands in his alcove and his expression is triumphant. Entranced, I mount the stairs, not pausing even to lift my skirts.

  Can it truly be a thing of horror that radiates this sound? I remember what Creeda said of the fairies – how they sweep people away to their land flowing with honey and milk – and I think: why resist? Do people really fear being transported from this cold world to one of sunshine and song?

  At the top of the staircase, I turn towards the west wing. The melody runs right through me, a thread pulling tight. At the end of the hallway, Rosewyn’s door stands open.

  I do not want to break the charm. With infinite care, I place one foot in front of the other. My steps make no sound. Only the sea pulses in the background, accompanying the song.

/>   Elves of the night, enchant my sight

  Your forms to see in moon and sunlight.

  This is not Lady Rose’s voice, but there is a taste of it, a shadow. As if she might be using the lips of another.

  With this spell and with this sign

  I pray thee forward my design.

  My pulse spikes. This is not right. The sweetness is turning, like milk in the sun.

  Yet still it draws me onwards.

  I cross the threshold to Rosewyn’s room, treading in salt. The fire burns high.

  She sits at her table, as I saw her before, crooning over a small item in the palm of her hand. There is a flash of pink and gold.

  For a moment, it seems I am dreaming. But then she glances up and I am awake, ripped from the spell as if I have been doused in freezing water.

  Rosewyn is holding my lady’s snuffbox.

  ‘Put that down! Put it down this instant!’ I scream, actually scream at her, torn by anger and terror. She blinks at me, her lower lip wobbles. There is no song now, only the crack of flames.

  Blinded by fury, I stomp over and snatch the box from her grasp. Rosewyn cries out.

  ‘Please God, please God.’ I search for marks. There is nothing. It remains pristine, warmed by Rosewyn’s touch.

  I close my eyes and try to breathe.

  How has this happened? What can it mean? That it was Rosewyn who picked the lock on my trunk, went through my things?

  I thought her soft-brained and innocent. But she has shredded the Holy Bible to pieces, singing of elves and spells while she does it. The last nurse feared her. Is the salt in the doorway to keep something out … or to keep her in?

  I open my eyes to see her flushed, her cheeks slick with tears.

  She too is afraid.

  I clear my throat, attempt to soften my voice. ‘Miss Rosewyn … Wherever did you get this?’

  Miserably, she points to the door.

  ‘In the east wing? In my room?’

  ‘No, just there.’ Her throat bubbles. ‘Past the line of salt.’

  I follow her finger and see Creeda, framed by the open doorway. She has crept up on us like a cat.

  Hurriedly, I drop the snuffbox into my apron, but it is too late. She has seen it.

  The unmatched eyes flick from me to Rosewyn and back again.

  ‘They do leave her gifts, sometimes. They’re always trying to tempt her out from where it’s safe.’

  ‘I didn’t cross the salt,’ Rosewyn whines. Creeda glances down at the white line scattered like spindrift, and raises a sceptical eyebrow but Rosewyn points at me. ‘She did it.’

  Creeda bends. A joint cracks. Ignoring it, she begins to sweep the salt back in place with her hands. ‘You should know better, Hester Why.’

  I shift uncomfortably. Even after all I have seen and heard, doubt is leaking back in. This is my snuffbox, my secrets are at stake. If human agency is involved, I need to know.

  ‘Who leaves Miss Rosewyn gifts, Creeda?’

  She does not look up. ‘The little people, of course.’

  ‘Well, this was not theirs to give. It is mine. A … very dear person gave it to me.’

  Creeda snorts. ‘They won’t mind about that. All they do is take.’

  A log pops on the fire. Glancing over to the mantelpiece, I see the little jug of milk or cream still in place, its contents freshened.

  ‘Oh, that,’ she says, as if she has followed my gaze. ‘That’s to distract them, should they get inside. Same as the doll.’

  Rosewyn seems to notice she is not holding the toy and snatches it up from the floor, eyeing Creeda timidly.

  ‘What about the doll?’

  ‘A likeness of the child. It confuses them. They don’t know which one to take.’

  Having finished her task, Creeda unfolds and steps cautiously over the line of salt into the room. She does not dust the granules from her hands. They cling to her palms.

  A dull throb beats at the base of my skull. I wish I had seen a phantom, or even a wretched fairy. At least then I would know what to believe.

  ‘Are you saying that pixies have opened my locking-box, taken an item out and left it here for Miss Rosewyn to … what? To tempt her away?’

  Wearily, Creeda sits in her rocking chair. ‘Pixies and fairies are different, Hester Why. The sooner you learn that, the better. Now if the little people have some reason to be going through your things and tormenting you, that’s none of my business. But I know they seek the child. Always have. They think she belongs to them.’

  The old trick: blaming an affliction upon the supernatural. A child without the use of its legs, a harelip, a woman with the mind of a girl like Rosewyn.

  ‘Miss Rosewyn is not a fairy,’ I assert. ‘She is not touched by them. It is a malformation of the brain, or else some imbalance of humours … The surgeons have not quite confirmed the science but—’

  ‘Hold your tongue, girl, I’m not saying she is a fairy, only that the fairies claim her.’ Creeda starts to rock. The castors of the chair bump against the floor. ‘She came into being in the world that they rule. She was conceived underground.’

  ‘How could you possibly know such a thing? Miss Rosewyn is an orphan Miss Pinecroft adopted—’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what I do and don’t know about this child!’ Her growl does not disrupt the rhythm of her chair. ‘Didn’t I cross her cradle with iron, rub salt onto her gums? It’s been the work of my life to guard her. Nobody knows this child better than I do.’

  ‘She is not a child!’ I cry. ‘Look at her! She is a woman grown.’ Rosewyn does not act in support of my claim; she clutches the doll, watching us in miserable silence. ‘What do you think you are about: keeping her in one room, her clothes in disarray, forcing dolls upon her? She may not have the full use of her faculties, but this is degrading. It is cruel.’

  Creeda purses her lips, seemingly amused.

  I must leave this room. These crazed women will be the undoing of me.

  When I reach the door, Creeda’s voice scratches, ‘Lock it away with iron and oatmeal, Miss Why. Point the toes of your shoes outwards when you place them beside your bed. I told you, they’re after a woman of childbearing age. Whatever happened to your bible-ball?’

  Purposefully, I plant one foot in the salt. ‘It was a person who unlocked my trunk last week. A meddling baggage of a person.’

  She utters a low laugh. ‘Believe that, then. Believe it if it gives you comfort. You will come crying for my help soon enough.’

  Flicking the hem of my skirts in a shower of salt crystals, I storm from the room.

  Chapter 31

  Clearly, I can trust no one in this house.

  I cannot lie on the thorny bed of Merryn’s resentment; I cannot be under the watch of Creeda’s evil eyes. Miss Pinecroft refuses to retire to bed – very well, I shall stay here with her. Keep her safe.

  Only one candle winks. By its valiant light, I see my breath turn to smoke. The temperature is lower than ever. My gaze cannot help but dwell upon the fireplace and the heaps of ash that might relieve my discomfort. And then I realise: it is always full of ash.

  Where does the ash come from, if she never lights a fire?

  Perhaps I shall discover tonight.

  I have brought my trunk and a blanket down to the china room with me. No one shall invade my privacy again if I can help it. Even the laudanum bottle has been interfered with, the tidemark lower than when I left it this morning. I cannot imagine Merryn dosing herself, but Lowena? Who can say? She is dark, mysterious. I do not really know her. Or perhaps it was Creeda, drawing on the opium’s power to manifest her fairies.

  Miss Pinecroft pays no mind to my rustlings with the trunk, but when I wedge it firmly beneath my chair and spread the blanket over me, she begins to flutter. Her eyes are small, darting fish, torn between me and the china.

  Candlelight renders the collection strange. Shadows spread, darkness trickles down the plates.

  ‘Go to bed,’ Mis
s Pinecroft orders.

  I shake my head. ‘I am your maid. I will remain with you.’

  Maybe it is the poor light, but I think her chin trembles. As if she yearns for this secretly: company, through the long, cold watches of the night.

  ‘Dangerous,’ she croaks.

  ‘If you do not consider sleeping downstairs a danger to your health, I do not see how it can be to my own. I am many years younger.’

  Miss Pinecroft inspects the curtains, drawn tight against the closed windows, and the racks of plates and the shelf of urns. What she searches for, I cannot say. She glances up at the ceiling. The briefest of actions, but it tells me she has swallowed Creeda’s poison: she too believes Rosewyn is in danger.

  Perhaps she is. Rosewyn, Miss Pinecroft and I: we are all of us in Creeda’s power now.

  Gradually, my eyelids droop, my limbs grow heavy. Exhaustion wraps its arms around my neck and everything solid drifts away.

  At the edge of my consciousness, I can hear the clock tick. My pulse slows to its rhythm.

  I haven’t been able to rest peacefully like this for a long while. No visions of Lady Rose rise to torment me. I can scarcely recall her face. The sweats and pains that plague my body when I do not drink seem a distant memory.

  Was it not terribly chill earlier? The ice has lost its claws. In fact, I can feel sunlight feathering my cheek, playing over my shut eyelids. It is achingly pleasant.

  Until, of a sudden, it is not.

  Something has shifted and the current has turned. There is a sensation of intense strangeness, like that inside Miss Pinecroft’s bedchamber; the same prickling, the same conviction I am being watched. I hear a quick, hissing breath.

  Snip.

  My eyes fly open. They cannot make immediate sense of what they see. Our candle has guttered but another looms close to my head. Something glints. An old face hovers above, shadows sinking into the wrinkles.

  ‘Creeda!’

  My breath extinguishes the flame.

  She is standing with a pair of scissors in her hand. Dropping the smoking candle, she snatches something up off the floor; it is too dark to see what.

  ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’