Bone China

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Do not be modest, Miss Why, I know it was you.’

  ‘You were … on the Mail coach,’ I realise slowly. ‘At Exeter, when the man fell?’

  ‘My sister’s husband! We rode together, on the roof. Upon my word, that was the most terrible night of my life.’

  You would not believe it from the way he is beaming. My fear that night was correct: people noticed me. The consequences could be – very nearly were – dreadful.

  ‘And … and the gentleman will recover?’

  ‘It is our daily prayer. Time must tell, but our physician thinks him over the worst of the danger. He is still in Exeter, with my sister and our medical man. They do not think it advisable to move him yet.’

  ‘I was concerned about the possibility of infection. That crack to the head … I wished to stay and assist, but the surgeon dismissed me and of course I had to take my seat …’

  He grimaces. ‘We were paid up until Falmouth, too. In the end I arrived home much later on the stagecoach, only to trade places with my sister. Her children fall under my care while she is away. Pity the poor little souls, Miss Why.’

  ‘May I ask you to keep me informed of the patient’s progress, Mr Trengrouse? I should like to know how he fares.’

  ‘That I certainly shall.’

  Together, we notice his hat, coat and gloves heaped upon the floor, and both laugh.

  I stoop to pick them up. ‘Please go on through to Miss Pinecroft, sir. I shall put these away and fetch you some tea.’

  He seems to recall that he is my superior, clears his throat, straightens his waistcoat. ‘Thank you. Thank you, I shall see you presently.’

  The house feels brighter for having him in it. There is a lightness to my step as I make my way to the kitchen and begin preparations.

  A drop of laudanum ensures my hands are quite steady to carry out the heavy tray with its pots, cups, urn and spirit lamp. This tea service is blue and white like the collection, but it is Wedgwood jasperware, quite affordable. To my eyes, it is prettier than the produce of Nancarrow Bone China.

  I find Mr Trengrouse already reading aloud to my mistress, his chair much closer than I have ever pulled mine. It is a poor light. His head is bent over the page and he does not look up at my entrance.

  I have never seen hair quite like his. When people talk of ‘chestnut’ horses, they are usually describing an orangey hue, but this is exactly the colour of a conker from a chestnut tree: the same deep, burnished red threaded with brown. It becomes him.

  If I had a mistress with that colouring, she would truly be a challenge to dress.

  Miss Pinecroft listens passively. The curate’s presence seems to soothe her; her posture is less rigid, almost relaxed. The wrinkles on her face soften to creases.

  I set the tea tray down quietly. Mr Trengrouse finishes his reading and Miss Pinecroft croaks ‘Amen’, although it is not called for.

  ‘It is good of you,’ I say, ‘to come out like this for the parishioners with poor health.’

  He smiles again, leans his hands upon the closed Bible. ‘It is my duty. And it is always pleasant calling here. There are a few cottages with sick inmates I must attend later, and they will not be able to offer me tea.’

  This is my signal to begin serving. The tea leaves are good, fragrant. I take a steaming cup to my mistress, which she receives with an ill grace, evidently irritated that I have disturbed her devotions, and then one to Mr Trengrouse.

  ‘Will you not sit and drink with us?’ he asks.

  I waver. Accepting would hardly be proper, but refusal seems rude. Were Miss Pinecroft an ordinary lady, I do not suppose Mr Trengrouse would dream of asking me, but she will slurp at her tea in silence, unable to make conversation with him.

  ‘How kind of you. I shall fetch another cup.’

  He is pleased.

  ‘Do not forget that you are a member of this parish also, Miss Why,’ he says as I sit beside him with my tea. ‘I hope that you will stay and pray with us, once you have taken refreshment?’

  Without looking to Miss Pinecroft for permission, I nod.

  ‘You have not had the opportunity, I suppose, of seeing the area much, Miss Why? You have no acquaintance here?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I am recently come from Salisbury. My mistress’s life is much retired, and that suits me.’

  ‘Then you are new to Cornwall entirely,’ he announces.

  ‘I am.’ Blowing on my tea, it occurs to me that he may know more about Creeda and the strange ways of this house. Mrs Quinn might take umbrage when I scoff at fairies, but surely a man of the church, even a Cornish church, will not hold truck with such superstition? ‘Already I have offended a servant or two by scattering their lines of salt and refusing to carry a bible-ball.’

  ‘Ah!’ he throws back his head, apparently delighted. ‘The folklore and the little people. Fascinating, is it not? My mother was not native to this area either; she used to collect up the local stories in a great book. Many places have their tales, but Cornwall is prolific, I believe.’

  Miss Pinecroft slurps at her tea.

  ‘I was unsure how you would view such fancies, given your profession.’

  He cradles his cup thoughtfully. ‘The Methodists abhor them. For my part, I cannot see the harm, providing one does not get carried away. With a head of hair like mine, Miss Why, you learn to view superstitions facetiously. And people are so fond of the stories. Some even make reference to Christianity.’ His eyes light with a memory. ‘My mother told me one that I often think about. It says that when our religion arrived on these shores, there was a group of elders who refused to convert from their pagan ways. Unable to receive salvation, they were not yet bad enough for hell, so they were doomed to shrink, smaller and smaller each day, until they finally disappeared. An ingenious explanation for fairies, do not you think?’

  My glance flicks to my mistress. She is ill at ease. This topic does not please her; she chafes under Mr Trengrouse’s playful tone.

  I swallow my mouthful of tea. ‘It is excessively diverting. But I cannot help thinking these ideas could be dangerous, if truly believed. Not everyone is so fortunate as to have your education; they may not see the tales for what they really are.’

  ‘True enough,’ he admits. ‘We had a to-do a few years back with a fisherman’s babe. It thrived to begin with, but after a few weeks it failed to suck. Folk put all kinds of notions into the mother’s head. Said it was not her child any longer but a changeling, unable to eat human food. Our vicar Dr Bligh was obliged to speak very plainly, I remember, to set her straight.’

  ‘That is precisely my meaning. Surely Dr Bligh deplores such beliefs in his parishioners?’

  He sees that I am in earnest and arranges his expression accordingly. ‘Well, Dr Bligh is a more learned man than I,’ he says with modesty. ‘He has studied much. He has spoken with professors. And it is his opinion that the bad fairies – not the useful ones who clean houses and such – well, that they are real.’

  My eyebrows climb.

  ‘I do not mean he thinks to see winged creatures frolicking around toadstools,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘No, it is more complicated than that.’ He raises the cup to his lips and drinks as he considers how to explain. ‘His belief is that fairies, or goblins, mermaids, pixies, ghosts – all of them – are the same at heart. Creatures of the devil. Enchanting, whispering in ears that are eager to listen.’

  Some of his mother’s fondness for storytelling has passed on; he speaks the last words with dramatic relish.

  ‘How frightening, Mr Trengrouse.’

  Miss Pinecroft slurps more tea.

  ‘I daresay he is correct. That is what the Enemy would do: manifest itself in the image of what we most desire. Or,’ he goes on pensively, ‘those that we have lost.’

  Waves slap against the cliff face. I close my eyes briefly, picturing them rushing headlong to the place where they break and scatter. What we desire and what we have lost. Are they not always the same?
r />   Something snaps.

  Both of us jerk to attention, aware once more of the woman in the wingchair whose house we sit in, whose tea we drink.

  ‘Miss Pinecroft?’

  She is staring at the china urns, thin-lipped.

  To my horror, I think she has shamed herself. But then I realise the patch upon her lap is spreading, fed by sepia drips.

  A lightning bolt streaks down the centre of her cup. Jagged, black.

  My mistress has gripped the jasperware so hard that she has cracked it.

  PART FOUR

  Forty Years Ago

  Chapter 17

  Stalactites pointed down at Louise like an infantry of bayonets. She could not take her eyes from them, even though her spectacles were beginning to mist and obscure the view.

  At her heel, Pompey tilted his head, first left and then right, puzzled. How must this cave appear to the poor dog? The way sound echoed, the flickering rock pools, the scent of damp stone. His senses would be overwhelmed.

  But Papa, for his part, seemed delighted. ‘See how far it stretches back?’ He gestured, throwing his hand and his voice towards the pitch dark of the cave. ‘There will be room for half a dozen at least, perhaps ten if we are fortunate.’

  ‘Why not start with a small number?’ she suggested. ‘It may always be increased if we enjoy success.’

  Her caution seemed to irritate him. ‘Early intervention is vital. I wish to save as many people as possible, Louise.’

  Her name resounded in the rocky space. Pompey muttered.

  Louise bowed her head. Papa had not used to snap like that. ‘Of course, Papa. Of course.’

  One of the four Cornishmen accompanying them lifted his lantern and sent shadows flowing over the stone like water. ‘Don’t belong to me to say,’ he whispered to the fellow beside him, ‘but I shouldn’t like it. Living beneath the earth.’

  His companion was dressed in a worn coat of dark brown, nearly the same shade as the rocks. He did not take the same care in moderating his voice. ‘Naught different from a body working in the mine. Though how that’s supposed to help an invalid, I can’t tell ee.’

  Papa closed his eyes, inhaled heavily. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. You have spent your whole lives here upon the coast. You no longer remark how fresh and cleansing the air is.’ He breathed in again, as if to demonstrate. ‘It will work wonders upon the lungs. And look.’ He pointed to the mouth of the cavern. Outside the day was mild and springlike. ‘The sun cannot penetrate this shadowy space. It remains damp.’

  The Cornishmen swapped blank glances. Pompey’s claws clicked against rock as he paced unhappily back and forth, listening to the distant boom of the sea.

  Louise stepped forward, clearing her throat with a touch of self-importance. ‘It is a counterbalance, you see. The phthisis – or consumption, as you know it – is dry and hot; it needs damp and cool humours to treat it. There is nowhere on earth like a cave for cold moisture.’

  Papa nodded approvingly. She felt the accustomed glow in her chest. After all the years she had spent looking up to him, learning from him, her desire to impress had never faded. Papa was a great man. He had studied in Edinburgh, attended at the Royal Bristol Infirmary and been selected by Lord Redfern to act as personal physician to his noble family. He had done everything she would have liked to do, were ladies permitted the chance. But alas, other cares fell to her lot.

  Cares such as these hard, unyielding stones. It was a woman’s place to administer comfort, and somehow she had to achieve this within the confines of a cave. Although she understood the theory behind her father’s venture, she could not help a traitorous suspicion that an invalid might feel better laid up in bed with feather pillows, for the short term at least.

  ‘I shall require some time to make the accommodation more suitable for the men,’ she told her father. ‘They cannot sleep on rock, ill as they are. Shall we not construct something a little more homely for them, Papa?’

  ‘They are used to the infirmary at Bodmin gaol, my dear. You will receive no complaints.’

  Louise remained doubtful, but said nothing. After the calumny Papa had suffered, it would be unforgivable to have his own child question him.

  Bending down, she picked up Pompey and held him close to her. He was a great deal more amenable to this treatment than her little brother Francis had ever been. Snuggling deep within her arms, he let out a sigh. Louise knew, in the instinctive way she knew many things about her dog, that he also regretted the move from Bristol.

  Papa began to ask about transportation, access routes for supplies, and the local men answered. She let the words recede from her ears until they joined the rush of the sea to become a remote, meaningless babble. She would let Papa deal with the intricacies of the plan. He needed the distraction. Grief burnt within him, as bright as the delirium that had consumed their family. Occupation – any occupation – would do.

  For herself, she appreciated a chance to gaze about and think. Peaceful time spent in solitude – or even better, with her dog – was always her most effectual balm. Once more her eyes were drawn to the stalactites. How spindly they were. Like wax that had melted and set. Louise had never considered ‘underground’ to mean anything but dirt and worms: the three narrow plots in the churchyard and the soil that had filled them. But here were secrets she would never have guessed. So much space. The walls were marbled grey, brown and a curious copper colour. A kind of bony structure, holding up the world she walked upon. It was good to know that something did. Of late, it had felt as if everything sure and supportive had crumbled to dust.

  ‘My daughter will attend to all those needs,’ Papa explained. ‘She will launder the clothes and prepare the food for them once I have located suppliers.’

  Forcing her attention back to the men on the other side of the rock pool, she found they were all watching her uncertainly.

  ‘Dr Pinecroft, sir?’ It was a fellow who had not spoken before. He removed his hat and turned it in his hands. There was a hole the size of a farthing in the side. ‘The men from Bodmin … they be rough, unmannered fellows. Worse than folk in Bristol, I should say. Shouldn’t let un near my daughters, sir. Mightn’t be safe.’

  Papa bristled, as he did now under any hint of criticism. ‘I am perfectly able to judge the best course of action for my family, thank you. Men with phthisis will be weak and languid, more interested in drawing their next breath than offering any insult to a young lady.’

  Pompey grumbled in his throat.

  She could see the men eyeing her, willing her to speak out against Papa’s plans. They did not understand. How could they?

  Papa stood apart from the others. Clean shaven, better dressed, his chin thrown up in defiance. So brilliant, dashing … and terribly alone.

  In need of defence.

  These days it was not enough to be Papa’s pet, the undisputed favourite of three children. His mainstay had gone and he needed Louise to become … another person. A rope to bind the flotsam of their family together.

  She would do it. God help her, somehow she would do it.

  Louise drew back her shoulders. ‘No doubt it seems a bold move, gentlemen,’ she said, with as much gaiety as she could muster. ‘So it is. But as Dr Pinecroft is always telling me, there can be no advancement in natural philosophy without risk. Only the intrepid make great discoveries. And I am willing to brave any inconvenience if the work may be of benefit to humanity at large.’

  The hard lines in Papa’s face relaxed. A trace, just a glimmer of the father she had doted upon crept through.

  ‘We are going to find a cure, my good men,’ he insisted. ‘With the pure air and the right treatments we will eradicate consumption. It has taken enough from this country. After my experiments are perfected, no more families will lose their loved ones to its cruel grip.’

  The men lowered their eyes. No doubt they had all seen people die of the disease. Almost everyone had. It was not selective in station, gender or age. Another form of it, t
he scrofula, had even plagued the King’s family. Were it not for visionaries like her father, mankind would struggle through such illnesses forever, never finding relief.

  ‘’Tisn’t … dangerous, sir?’ The man with the threadbare hat made one last timid effort. ‘The disease? Don’t it spread?’ He met her glance and quickly dropped it once more. ‘I … shouldn’t like thy daughter to catch it.’

  The man might as well have placed a candle snuffer over Papa’s eyes. The light vanished.

  ‘She has not caught it yet,’ he said.

  *

  Why had Providence spared her? With Papa it was obvious: he was a great man who would do great things, even cure this disease if possible. But Louise …

  Picking up her skirts, she began to climb the steep track that led from the beach to the back of the stable block. Pompey gambolled at her heels, glad to be released from the cave. His paws were caked in damp sand. So were her boots. It was just as well she had always clothed herself in plain, hardwearing fabrics; no modish gowns would have survived the ravages of the coast.

  Her sister Kitty would have despised this place. She had been the beauty of the family, an avid studier of fashion plates. Every outfit Louise had worn in Bristol drew her playful abuse for its dull colour or its lack of trim. It had vexed her at the time. Now she would give anything to hear Kitty’s voice again, even if it spoke unkind words.

  As she rose higher, the wind swept downhill and combed the hair back from her face. The view was magnificent. The shoreline stretched to her right, far into the distance, making it difficult to tell where the ocean ended and the sky began. Waves rolled luxuriantly, flashing white crests. Where the foam lapped upon the beach, she could see a sandpiper questing for insects.

  The natural world in all its beauty.

  They were fortunate to be here. Such a fine house, cheaply won, an ideal location for Papa’s experiments; so much opportunity to study the glories of the coast. She should feel grateful.

  She was trying to feel grateful.

  Pompey streaked ahead of her, his little legs a blur. Thank God, she still had him. It was possible to love Pompey without complication. The only pain he caused was when she remembered the day of his arrival. How ecstatic the children had been, how a much younger-looking Papa had immediately named him after the dog in the book he was reading to Louise: The History of Pompey the Little.