Bone China

by Laura Purcell

  She had always shared a special relationship with Papa. Was that the real reason God had spared her: to comfort and assist him? A dismal realisation. She would so much rather be rescued on her own merit.

  She reached the stables out of breath and aching in the legs. The youth her father had employed, Gerren, whistled from within. Pompey cocked his head.

  ‘Come along, boy. Dinner will not cook itself.’

  They ought to have a maid, of course. Especially in a grand house like Morvoren, with that entrance hall dripping in stucco. Papa had not thought to replace Alice. But perhaps that was her responsibility now, along with the orders and the accounts – a book she hardly knew how to complete, as she had no idea for how much money Papa had sold the Bristol property and his practice.

  Mama would have known what to do. If only Louise had listened to her while she was alive. She recalled minutely the anatomy Papa had explained, the collection of bones that made up a human hand. But what use was that knowledge now, as mistress of a house?

  The ash trees swayed gently, rocking the black velvety buds on their twigs. It was a relief to quit the uneven grass for the relative smoothness of the gravel path that led to the front door. She would need to order some sturdier boots – though from where, she could not fathom. It would be hard enough securing a butcher to deliver out here.

  Pompey reached the entrance first. He snuffled loudly as he paced back and forth, nose hard against the bottom of the door.

  ‘I merely said the word dinner,’ she teased. ‘I have not served it yet, silly dog. You will not be able to smell it.’

  But clearly, he could smell something. Whatever it was made him whine.

  Louise opened the door. Pompey pushed inside, nearly knocking her off balance.

  Entering, she unwound her shawl and closed the door behind her. The entrance hall was still filled with boxes spilling their protective lining of straw and the bundles of the linen she had so carefully embroidered with numbers. Now that the rooms were papered, she could begin moving them all to their rightful places.

  A fresh beginning, Papa had said. Chambers without the lingering presence of those they had lost. But if that were the case, why were the rooms decorated in Mama’s favourite colour, powder blue? Why did the bedchambers bear the pastoral scenes en vogue in France that Mrs Pinecroft had been eyeing in the wallpaper catalogues? Well, men did not know about these homely things. To tell the truth, nor did Louise. Perhaps if Papa had burdened her with the task, she would have acted in the same way and relied upon the taste of her late mother.

  Pompey yipped, calling her attention away from the boxes.

  His paw prints tracked across the floor, towards the staircase. Louise followed them with her eyes, up to the iron banisters – and jumped.

  Standing on the first step was a girl, holding a rectangular casket.

  She did not have the demeanour of a housebreaker; she was too calm for that. Still, her attire verged on the untidy side of respectable: a thick linen shift with a collar, more grey than white, topped with a shapeless red dress and a man’s coat far too big for her. Dried mud coated the hem of her skirts. Her hair, which was dark and wavy, fell without restraint to her shoulders.

  ‘Can I …’ Louise started, feeling absurdly like an intruder herself. ‘Is there something I may assist you with?’

  The girl bobbed a curtsey. ‘Please, miss. I’m Creeda. Come from Plymouth.’

  Hers was a strange voice, unusually harsh. Pompey reared up and planted his paws against her leg. The girl shied away.

  ‘Creeda from Plymouth,’ Louise repeated. ‘I am afraid I do not—’

  Just then the door opened behind her. Papa strode in, windswept.

  ‘Ah! Good, she is here.’ He removed his hat without the least sign of perturbation. ‘I engaged a maid, my dear. Credence?’

  ‘Creeda, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Creeda. And you have brought …’ He pointed his hat towards the casket she held. ‘Excellent.’ Pompey trotted over to Papa’s feet and whuffed, as if demanding an explanation for this intruder. Papa laughed. ‘Easy there, old chap.’

  ‘A maid,’ Louise said slowly. ‘That is very fortunate. I was just thinking how desirable it would be to employ some help. But … did you say you came from Plymouth? Is that not a great distance from here?’

  Creeda was casting her gaze around at the stucco. ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘But coming from Plymouth,’ Papa explained, ‘she has also been able to bring a gift.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For you, naturally.’ He softened. ‘I may be distracted, my dear, but I do not forget … You are mistress of a house for the first time. The circumstances are not as we could wish, yet still it is an occasion to commemorate.’ Depositing his hat on the newel post, he reached out for the casket, which Creeda presented with another curtsey. ‘Here, now. Our maid’s family runs a porcelain factory up in Devonshire. Did I not tell you they have started mining the West Country clay nearby? See how white it comes up.’ He opened the box and held it before Louise. ‘What do you say? Is it not fine?’

  It was: delicately wrought, painted as blue as the cornflowers that grew in the valley. A pot, two tea bowls, a pair of coffee cups and their saucers, one jug for the milk and a lidded basin for sugar. No ecru marks stained the bottom of these pieces. How Mama would have coveted them.

  It was Mama’s preference, again.

  ‘This is delightful, Papa.’ She took the box from his arms. It was much lighter than she expected. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’

  He regarded her tenderly. ‘Every mistress requires her own tea service. You have become a woman, my dear.’

  By necessity, not choice. This was a gift chosen to suit Mama. Louise only possessed it because Mama was dead.

  But she could not let Papa think that his present had made her unhappy.

  ‘I will take it through to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I was just about to prepare dinner. Creeda, perhaps you can assist me? You will be wanting refreshment yourself, I think, after your journey.’

  ‘Yes, miss, thank you, miss.’

  ‘Capital. Become acquainted. I shall see you at dinner.’ Flashing a smile, Papa bounded up the staircase.

  Louise watched him stride along the landing to the west wing. He had always applied himself to medicine with energy, but he had never been a bounding sort of man in Bristol. She did not like to see this strained fervour in him. The desperation beneath it was all too apparent.

  Sighing, she turned to her new maid. ‘Follow me this way, Creeda.’ For the first time, she noticed that the girl staring back at her had heterochromia: one blue eye, one brown. It hardly lessened her sense of strangeness. ‘After dinner I shall have to consider where you will sleep. Forgive me, I was not informed of your arrival ahead of time.’

  ‘That’s all right, miss. You weren’t to know.’

  Louise led the way to the east wing, where she had recently cleaned out the kitchen. The box made a gentle chink against her hip. She did like the crockery – who could not? The workmanship was exquisite. Papa was sweetness itself for thinking of such a gift. Had he presented it to her on her wedding day, she would probably have been delighted. And yet …

  Perhaps that was part of her discomfort: the idea that she would not marry, now. For even if she were to meet a young man out here at the ends of the earth, however could she bring herself to desert Papa?

  And then there was the disparity between this gift and the many others she had received over the course of her life. The time was that he would present her with samples of the Materia Medica or some odd pickled organ from his old colleagues in the dissecting rooms, knowing her fascination with such things. While Mama lived, he had seemed keen for Louise to flex her intellect. But now … now, this present implied she was only required to make tea.

  The kitchen was a long, narrow space without a window. It had a curved brick fireplace and a profusion of hooks which would serve nicely when she got around to unpa
cking all of the pans. Most useful of all was the water heater in the corner. Laundering for Papa and the consumptives was going to be a formidable task, even with Creeda’s help.

  Louise placed the tea set carefully on the table that occupied the centre of the room.

  Pompey tapped his front paws in the little dance he always performed in anticipation of food.

  ‘Impatience,’ she scolded. ‘Creeda, would you go through to the cold larder there? I have saved some offal; please give it to the dog in a bowl.’

  Was that reluctance she saw in the maid’s face? It lasted only an instant; Creeda obeyed without a word.

  Louise began to unpack her new things. The teapot had a heft to it, but the other pieces felt light as thistledown. The glaze was rather harsh compared to the porcelain she was used to, yet the painting softened that. It was an original design of floral garlands. She could not make out precisely which flowers were represented – they were certainly none she had ever seen in the flesh.

  Pompey ran the length of the kitchen as Creeda emerged from the cold larder with his offal.

  The maid winced. ‘Good dog. Good boy.’

  She set the bowl down warily, almost leaping away when Pompey fell upon it.

  Louise was obliged to hide her surprise. Pompey was about as dangerous as a butterfly. ‘I am sorry, Creeda, I did not consider how used I am to the animal. Are you much frightened of dogs?’

  Creeda looked at her quizzically. ‘Oh no, miss. I don’t mind them.’

  She spoke with such an inflection that it made Louise wonder who did.

  ‘He will not harm you,’ she added, removing the last tea bowl from the casket. ‘He was perfectly trustworthy with my infant brother. A soft old thing and a useless guard dog.’ She considered the tea bowl. ‘This set really is very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you, miss. I painted that.’

  Louise’s head flew up in astonishment. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Well, why should a maid not also be an artist? It was no different from a daughter who also studied medicine.

  ‘You have a talent, I think,’ she said kindly. ‘I did not recognise the species of flower, though.’

  ‘They were flowers I saw, miss.’ Creeda’s unmatched eyes darted away to watch the dog.

  Perhaps Louise was trying to distract herself from the grief that lurked, always ready to pounce, but she found her mind filling with questions. Why would a porcelain factory let such a talented decorator go? It seemed an utter waste for a skilled worker to be reduced to domestic service, which nearly any poor girl could do. Even supposing Creeda had disliked the factory work, it was a family business. Had there been some disagreement?

  It struck her that the girl appeared to have brought no luggage. She came with nothing but china. It grew more curious by the instant.

  ‘You’ve ash trees,’ Creeda said thoughtfully, still regarding the dog.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Talking of plants, miss. You’ve ash trees around the house. I noticed them coming in.’

  ‘Yes. The pattern of planting is rather inconvenient. Although the house is recently built, it is not of our design. I do not know if we should have the trees removed … We possessed only a physic garden in Bristol, I cannot claim much knowledge of botany beyond its medical use.’

  Creeda shook her head. ‘It’s hard to cut down an ash tree, miss. They say their roots reach to the underworld.’

  Louise nearly laughed, but she saw the maid’s face was deadly serious. Those odd eyes did not blink.

  ‘Do they really? I had not heard that saying. What other folklore do you know, Creeda?’

  Creeda’s back straightened, as if here was a topic she might converse upon with authority. ‘It’s not folklore, miss, it’s the honest truth. It’s unlucky to cut down an ash tree, because of what they represent: the past, present and future, all as one. There’s a … timelessness to them.’

  Absurdly, Louise’s cheeks grew hot. She felt embarrassed for the girl and her foolish tales. Where had a maid learnt such nonsense? There could not be many ash trees in a port like Plymouth. Perhaps Creeda had read it in a book. But again that begged the question: what was a girl with knowledge of her letters doing washing plates and emptying chamber pots out here?

  ‘How diverting, Creeda. Well, perhaps I will leave the ash trees alone. We have enough to do without adding landscaping to our worries.’ She began to lay the fire, chiefly to make herself feel less awkward.

  But rather than helping her at her task, Creeda continued to stare.

  She should say something. Scold. Just how did one go about upbraiding a servant? She had never had cause to do it before. She had always been the placid daughter, the agreeable child. If only Mama were here …

  ‘I reckon you’ll have another use for the ash tree,’ Creeda’s voice dropped to hushed tones, as if she were speaking of the dead. ‘A fine young woman like you.’

  Louise’s cheeks were still warm from the previous blush, but she felt them flush again. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘If you put ash leaves under your pillow, you’ll dream of your future husband.’

  Louise’s throat tightened. ‘I do not mean to marry,’ she managed eventually. ‘Would you please pass the tinderbox?’

  And of course it was true. Her views of future happiness had never depended on a husband, unless he was a doctor she could assist like Papa. But there was something rather awful in having the choice taken from her. To have I will not marry changed to I may not.

  Creeda handed her the tinderbox. Young as they were, her hands had a sandpaper roughness to them. ‘Don’t be so sure, miss. I can tell these things.’ She nodded, looking much older than her years. ‘Aye. I wouldn’t give up hope. There may well be a man in your future, yet.’

  Louise remembered poor Papa, the vulnerability on his face as he presented her with the tea set.

  ‘My place is here,’ she said shortly. ‘And I do not consider this an appropriate topic of conversation for a maid and her mistress.’

  Creeda gave a slow smile and set about her work.

  Chapter 18

  Cowards. The lot of them: measly, self-serving cowards.

  He turned the pages of the medical journal faster and faster, sending a pile of letters neatly addressed to Dr Ernest Pinecroft sliding to the floor. No matter how hungrily his eyes scanned the print there was nothing, nothing, nothing. With a cry of frustration he reached the last page and slammed his hand down upon the desk. Another quarter of the year passed, and no one dared publish on phthisis.

  He began to pace the small room he had devoted to his work, at the far end of the west wing. Astonishing, how quickly a new house could fall into disarray. Strewn across the floor were the stock ties he had torn from his neck at the end of each day. Books lay splayed open on every available surface and his pipes were tipping their burnt-out ashes into his inkwell. There was a tumbler, somewhere, hidden in this chaos, but since he could not locate it quickly, he took a small nip of brandy straight from the decanter. As he wiped his lips, he noticed for the first time the incongruity between the heavy oak-wood desk he had removed from Bristol by water and the elegant blue-and-white paper decorating the house. A large masculine smear across something female and delicate, like tobacco staining an evening gown. Well, what did it signify? She would never see it.

  He threw himself down on his chair, still cradling the decanter. His wife would have known the words to put him in a better mood. She had been there, leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, for more than a score of years. Now she was silent, just like his peers.

  It had never been fashionable to devote oneself to the study of phthisis. Foolhardy, his friends would say, for everyone knew the disease was incurable. But Ernest could not accept that damning statement, and it enraged him that others would swallow such dross. What kind of a healer simply threw up his hands and said there was nothing to be done? He swirled the brandy around its decanter, watching the light pl
ay upon the liquid. ‘All diseases began as incurable,’ he muttered.

  And that was another thing. If consumptives were doomed from birth, unable to be saved, how was it he had incurred such scorn? You could not, in good sense, brand a disease as unbeatable and simultaneously blame a man for not being able to treat it. But that was what had happened to him, all the same.

  The light reflected off the glass and caught on the mourning ring adorning his smallest finger. Her hair, plaited with that of the two children. He could scarcely tell one from the other. Letters were engraved beneath the glass: L for Louisa, C for Catherine and F for Francis, but this felt like a falsehood. Catherine had been Kitty from birth and Louisa, his dearest wife, he had always called Mopsy.

  That was what she resembled: a mopsy, a pretty child. Always slender and fine boned. So innocent with the roses in her cheeks and the sparkle of her eyes, and yet mischief would suddenly possess her elfin face. He sighed, set the decanter down precariously on the desk. He should have noticed from the start. But he was young then, he had not even completed his studies when the discovery of little Louise necessitated their marriage. He saw only Mopsy’s enchantment, not that she was what others would call the ‘consumptive type’.

  Was that it? A certain type of person, selected by the disease with almost religious predestination? There could be no doubt that Kitty and Francis resembled their mother, whereas Louise was the spit of him, a feminine version of him, save for her mother’s blue eyes, which blinked owlishly behind her spectacles. He riffled through the papers and found again the list of prisoners en route from Bodmin gaol. Men ranging from their mid-twenties to sixty years of age, serving hard labour for their crimes. Their existence rather belied the theory. He would be a good deal surprised if these ruffians and vagabonds resembled his dainty wife in any shape or form.