Bone China

by Laura Purcell

  ‘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 soft 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 wit
h 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. If you ask me, the dresses are not worth even that protection. They are outmoded and plainly coloured, made of indifferent material. More hardwearing than pretty. There are no redingotes or pelisses to bundle Miss Pinecroft up in. Whatever she spends her money upon, it is certainly not clothes.

  In the end I settle upon a woollen gown in dark blue, a nice thick linen fichu and a brown cloak 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.

  The maids tumbled outside, whooping and laughing. Mrs Quinn and Mrs Bawden followed amiably behind. But the trio at the rear were an ominous sight.

  Rosewyn grinned foolishly, a rose between two black thorns. Gerren linked one of her arms through his; Creeda took the other. Each guardian looked solemn, determined somehow, as if they were facing down enemy fire. Beside Rosewyn’s innocent joy it was terrible.

  Now Miss Pinecroft and I are alone.

  Church bells ring in the distance. The racing wind distorts them. I am better off here, anonymous in a dark room with an unspeaking companion. There is no disputing that fact. But in my heart, I wish I had gone with the others.

  The smell of my earlier fire lingers. Miss Pinecroft’s nostrils flare; she must know what I have done. I yearn to ask her why we cannot be warm, why we cannot have a little light. I doubt she would answer me. But the longer I stare into her face, the more I am convinced: I am not the only person who has seen and heard things within this house.

  A bell rings.

  I start to my feet, bewildered. Miss Pinecroft glances briefly at me before returning her gaze to the china.

  The bell jangles again. It is coming from the entrance hall.

  Warily, I steal to the door and push it open. Now there is a knock. I flinch, as if knuckles rapped against my body. Then I remember: the curate.

  Half-tripping on my skirts, I hasten to the front door. Once I have lifted the latch, it blows in towards me, sending me staggering again. I must present a comical picture, for the first thing I hear from the young man outside is laughter.

  ‘Careful! How she blows today.’ He holds his wide-brimmed hat firmly over a spill of deep red hair. He is much younger than I expected, little more than a youth.

  ‘Mr Trengrouse, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. How do you do?’ He bends in a bow, the flaps of his greatcoat whipping up behind him. ‘You must be Miss Why. I was told to knock this week, so that I did not frighten you with my entrance.’

  ‘I do not know why Mrs Quinn should suppose me easily frightened.’ I stand aside and let him in.

  He looks relieved to find shelter. In his right hand he clutches a Bible, dog-eared and much scuffed from overuse, but in a better co
ndition than Rosewyn’s.

  I close the door behind him and shut out the boom of the wind. ‘Allow me to take your hat and gloves,’ I offer. ‘You may wish to keep the coat. Perhaps you are accustomed to the temperatures Miss Pinecroft prefers, but I am still adjusting.’

  His smile widens. He looks like a man who is always smiling, who cannot help it. ‘Believe me, after the walk I have had, Morvoren House seems perfectly warm.’

  He shakes off his greatcoat, removes his hat. The gloves take a little longer. He starts to hand them all to me in one messy pile.

  ‘Thank you, I believe that I …’ All at once, the smile is knocked from his face.

  ‘Sir?’ I tug at his belongings but he clings to them, oblivious of my efforts. ‘Sir, are you well?’

  ‘Great God,’ he breathes. ‘It’s you.’

  Time seems to stop. He must have read the advert seeking my arrest.

  I imagined I would cry out, faint or run. None of these things is possible. I simply stare at the warm brown eyes that bore into mine. Such handsome eyes to instigate my doom.

  Mr Trengrouse releases his coat. Everything drops to the floor as he seizes my hand.

  His hold is painfully tight. For a moment he stares at my fingers, their tremor. Then he raises them to his lips.

  ‘God bless you! A thousand times, bless you!’

  I think I have truly lost my mind.

  ‘Did you believe that no one observed? I saw it all, although I was so struck with horror that I could not move a muscle. I, his brother-in-law! You put us all to shame.’ He gabbles on, not just smiling but positively grinning now. ‘Forgive me for not recognising you at first. Without your hat, and in the daylight … But I should never forget your face. Someone said you must be an angel when you disappeared, so suddenly like that. I could not find you to thank you! Were it not for your actions, I’m sure he would have died. The leg should certainly have been lost. Our own physician confirmed it. And where would poor Polly and the children be, with only myself and a cripple to support them?’

  I cannot … My mind struggles, dulled by laudanum. Memories are surfacing from its black greasy depths.