‘I need water. Hot water.’
She nods, mute.
Leaning against the doorframe for support, I watch her work, aware of the unsightly birthmark upon her cheek. Is that why she was hired here? Because she is a girl the fairies would not wish to take?
No, that cannot be. Mrs Quinn hires the staff, not Creeda. Although she told me with her own lips that Creeda read my reference letters … Creeda needed to approve of me cleaning the china.
How far does the clawed hand of that woman reach?
The water heater hisses.
I thought I had run here to save my own skin, but perhaps there is a higher purpose behind my arrival. Only a person like me can spot Creeda’s tricks, stop her. Maybe this is how I will make amends.
The pail Merryn warily places on the floor is scalding hot, but I do not wait for it to cool. Seizing the handle, I totter back the way I have come.
Water slops and spills. I pay it no heed. The hand that holds the bucket is no longer as white and dead as it looked beside the chamber pot; it is steamed red.
Since the moment I arrived eleven days ago, I have heard nothing but entreaties to keep the china room cold, to wash the plates with tepid water. I will not play their games any more. We will have flames and heat and cleansing steam: I will smoke this evil out.
Miss Pinecroft turns in her chair to see me stumble across the threshold. It is the first time she has done so.
‘Hester?’ she whispers.
I think I might be sick again. Swallowing down the bile, I pull a cloth from my apron and hold it against my mouth. Nothing comes.
‘Hester?’
‘I have left it long enough. I am going to wash the china.’ I lower the cloth and plunge it into the searing water.
Pain bites instantly, but it is satisfying, somehow reassuring, like a steadying drop of gin. Gin … I have not taken liquor for many hours. My body craves it, yet the thought of putting anything past my lips now …
Later. There will be time for everything else later, once I have broken the hateful woman’s spell.
Determined, I step up to the rack and remove the first plate. Nancarrow Bone China. I scrub furiously, front and back. The skull leers from the base, knowing.
The next plate. The next. I am not taking the time to dry them but slam each back into place. Water drips like tears onto the floor. My wet thumb squeaks against the varnish.
‘Careful,’ Miss Pinecroft gasps.
I hear movement, as if she is attempting to stand.
What has Creeda hidden here? What is her secret – and why can I see nothing of it?
Excitement and fear quake through me. Only with great difficulty do I manage to pick up another plate. This one is familiar: the Willow pattern with the missing figure.
No.
Two missing figures.
Blinking, I reconsider the bridge. It is no mistake: there is the man with the staff, standing alone. Reddish brown speckles the place his bride once occupied, flecks of something dried onto the plate.
Shakily, I pass my cloth over the spots, leaving a slick trail. Down, down, run the droplets, snaking their way from the painted bridge to the white void representing a lake.
And there it is.
The missing figure, the one that I looked for, is in the water. She has jumped off the bridge.
A bead of water magnifies the head, bobbing just above the surface. Blue painted lines indicate ripples around the body as it thrashes. Little use in that now. The stones in her pockets will weigh her down: I know, for I have read the report. I have seen this so many times in my nightmares.
I reel backwards, desperate to put space between myself and this terrible sight, but my hands have set rigid and will not release the plate.
Look what you have done, Esther. Look what you have done.
I stumble into something; there is a crunch like bones.
‘No! No!’ Miss Pinecroft cries hoarsely. ‘How could y- y—?’
Whipping round, I see that I have dislodged one of the urns off its shelf and it has smashed. The lining, revealed at last, glows curd-white.
There is liquid. Thick and dark, like honey. It spreads, slowly forms a viscous pool. Rosemary needles are sprinkled through, but they do nothing for the stench.
Little wonder Miss Pinecroft did not want a fire in this room. Heating such a monstrous potion would make its stink unbearable.
‘What on earth is this?’
It is not just rosemary caught in the liquid. There are nail clippings. Pins. A lock of human hair.
I cannot help it; I retch.
Miss Pinecroft makes no noise at all.
It is as though lightning has struck her. She stands before the chair, one arm extended to point at the urn, but she cannot support it. Her hand droops; everything seems to droop.
Her palsied mouth works, unable to catch words. Then it clamps shut. The blue eyes bulge.
Without a sound, she drops.
‘Miss Pinecroft!’
Now my fingers do fall slack against the plate. It smashes to the floor. I do not care. I am on all fours once more, turning my mistress over, cradling her head.
‘Help!’ I scream. ‘Fetch help!’
Merryn and Lowena tear into the room together. They take one look at the mess, the china scattered like broken teeth – and they freeze.
I see myself through their eyes: drink-deprived, retching, grovelling uselessly over the woman I swore to protect.
‘Help me,’ I plead.
Merryn begins to cry.
Chapter 40
Once, I would have revelled in this: the hushed panic of the sickroom where I reign supreme, other servants hurrying in deference to my orders. A chance at last to use my costly palsy water. But I do not experience that gentle hum of satisfaction, deep within my bones. I feel no sense of purpose. Instead, there is something else. A tightening, a dread.
The blue people on the walls and the bed hangings seem to crowd together, whispering. I cannot hear the drips as I once did. It is hard to hear anything above the knocking of my heart.
Another drop of laudanum slides from the bottle and down my throat. It softens nothing. My eyes are pinned open and forced to behold the agony I have caused through my carelessness. There is no doubt in my mind: if I had not broken the urn, Miss Pinecroft would not have suffered the fit.
She is stiff upon the bed, her lips ghost-pale. I dribble the palsy water between them: lavender and malmsey wine, herbs, the same spices I use in her drinking chocolate. It only trickles from the corners of her mouth.
No physician will come to aid me. Gerren has set out on the indomitable pony for help, but I hold no hope of his success. Icicles hang from the window and the glass is marbled with frost. Every now and then, snow huffs through the chimney and makes the fire hiss like a cat. Gerren will be lucky if he is not lost in a drift himself.
His wife does not seem overly concerned; at least, not for him. I hear her at the end of the corridor, admonishing Rosewyn.
‘Hold it tight! Tight! I am locking the door. Don’t you even think about moving.’
There is a slam, the click of a key turning in a lock.
Hairs stir on my arms as Creeda stalks closer. The door to Miss Pinecroft’s chamber is open wide. Weak as I am, I will not be able to protect my mistress against the witch.
Is this what she wanted all along? Did she hex me on purpose so I would break the china? It would make a dreadful sort of sense to eliminate Miss Pinecroft and rule the house through Rosewyn, who must now surely inherit.
‘She’s been blinked.’
I twist round at the sound of Creeda’s voice. She stands on the landing, a good few paces from the door. The emotion on her face startles me.
I expected triumph. Something malign, sinister. But there is no mistaking the expression written there.
Creeda is terrified.
‘It is an apoplectic fit.’ I sound withering in my derision, far more confident than I feel. ‘I understa
nd that she has suffered them before.’
In answer, Creeda gestures at the brass lock on the door.
Ninety-nine.
‘Blinked,’ Creeda repeats. ‘Even you, Hester Why, must see it. Something’s going in and out of that room at night. Feeding off her.’ She shoots one anguished glance at Miss Pinecroft before turning and clomping down the stairs.
A moment later I hear her again. ‘Leave that! Leave it be. Go on with you.’
Buckets clanking, the skitter of maid’s feet. Whatever monstrous objects she hid within the urn, she does not want them touched.
I take my mistress’s hand. It is limp and cold as a dead fish. ‘What is happening?’ I beseech her. ‘What can I do for you?’
She is inscrutable as always. For once, it is not her fault.
This apoplectic fit has damaged her nerves more severely than the last. Already I can see the alteration: slackness all over the body and the candles in the brain gradually winking out. There is no saying whether we shall get her back.
I wish it were the season for lady’s smock. That would be the best herb to use. But the frost has devoured everything and there is so little at my disposal. I should have stocked the cupboards against this. That is what I am paid for. How uncaring I have been, how flagrantly selfish. I should have thought of more than my precious laudanum.
But there is one person in this house who requires even more help than Miss Pinecroft.
From behind the walls, Rosewyn whimpers softly. Not for others to hear, the noise flows down the corridor towards me rhythmically, perfectly even in volume and in pitch, as though it is something she does not control, as natural as her own heartbeat. I wonder how many hours she has spent thus. Alone. Waiting.
‘A moment,’ I whisper to Miss Pinecroft, patting her hand. ‘I shall be gone for just a moment.’
Leaving the door to Miss Pinecroft’s chamber open, I creep to Rosewyn’s room. My footsteps fall as softly as they would in church. I do not want to startle her. This morning’s screams and uproar will have scared her enough.
It is only when I reach the locked door that I realise how canny Creeda has been. Her line of salt fills the gap between the wood and the floor exactly. She did not put a grain out of place when she closed the door. How many years of measurement and practice would that take?
I sink down, peer instead through the keyhole. Rosewyn sits on the floor, knees hugged against her chest, slowly rocking. It reminds me of the day I took the Farley children to see the poor caged beasts at the Tower Menagerie. It is heartbreaking.
‘Miss Rosewyn,’ I whisper.
She moans.
‘Come here. To the door.’
She does not even look towards it. Her hands fly up to cover her ears. ‘I mustn’t listen to you!’ she wails.
‘It’s me,’ I say, louder. ‘Miss Why.’
A pause.
‘Miss Why?’ she repeats. Her hands remain clapped to her ears. ‘You were angry at me.’
‘Pray forgive me, miss. I was not truly angry. I was … frightened.’
‘I am frightened,’ she bleats.
‘I know.’
Slowly, she unfolds. Taking a quick survey of the room, she scuttles across the floor on her hands and knees until she is sitting right before me. Her blue eye peers back through the keyhole.
‘You must not upset yourself,’ I continue soothingly. ‘All that noise downstairs … It was nothing to be scared of. Miss Pinecroft came over unwell, that is all. It was a shock and something broke.’
‘Was it fairies? Did the fairies hurt her?’
‘No. I was there the entire time. I saw nothing.’
How I wish that were true. It is still printed on my mind: the faulty plate and the painted figure thrashing in the water. But Rosewyn has no need to hear of that.
‘I want her,’ she moans.
‘Soon. I will take you to visit your guardian as soon as I can …’ Helplessly, I work the door handle. What is to be done? I may be a thief, but I am not one by trade. I cannot pick a lock.
We are interrupted by the sound of a latch and hinges squealing. Wind gusts from the entrance hall below. I jump as Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom door slams shut.
I hear boots. Gerren’s voice muttering something, and then Mrs Quinn, much louder.
‘Lord bless you, Mr Trengrouse! You’ll have caught your death of cold. Come inside, quickly!’
Has Mr Trengrouse really trudged all the way back through the snow with Gerren?
‘How is Miss Pinecroft?’ he pants. ‘Does she live?’
‘Yes, sir, but the fit has weakened her. She don’t seem to know us.’
‘Poor lady. I fear I shall not be of much use – you have Miss Why, after all – but I would pray over her, if you will let me.’
‘We’d take it kindly, sir. Come, give me your things. I’ll dry them before the kitchen fire. Goodness, they’re frozen stiff. Let me fetch you some tea. ’Tis so good of you to come, sir.’
I climb to my feet. ‘I will be back, Miss Rosewyn.’
Her whimper rises once more as I walk away.
Back in the toile-de-Jouy chamber, my mistress lies motionless, the blink of her white lashes the only sign she is still alive. Her breath is grainy. Full of sand.
Mr Trengrouse taps gently on the door and enters, bringing the scent of frost with him.
This is the first time I have seen him without a smile. It has not been an easy journey for him, that much is clear. Snow forms a tidemark at his knees; his boots are coated in a thick white crust.
‘Miss Why.’ He bows. ‘I am so terribly sorry that this has happened. I came as soon as I could.’
I clench my hands around the band of my apron, feeling like the imposter I truly am. I hate for him to see that I have failed yet another mistress. Up until now he believed I could cure anything: the angel who leapt from the coach to save his brother-in-law.
‘Who is watching the children?’ I ask.
‘My housekeeper, same as when I come on a Sunday.’ We stand shoulder to shoulder, looking down on Miss Pinecroft as if she were already in her coffin. ‘She thought I had lost my wits to come out in this weather.’
‘You are all goodness, sir. I doubt anyone else would rush to our assistance.’
Miss Pinecroft stares up at us. God forgive me, she reminds me of the pilchard in Mrs Bawden’s Stargazey pie.
‘Dr Bligh would be here too, but for his age. He cannot ride through the snow.’
Although my mistress is often silent and still, there are people who care for her well-being. It makes me feel as though I am being slowly crushed. I was the one meant to protect her. Didn’t I vow to make amends for my past? Yet here she is, stretched out and gaping like a landed fish.
My own incompetence sickens me.
‘Please, Mr Trengrouse.’ I grab at his sleeve. ‘I must talk to you. I need your help …’
His face registers alarm. ‘Of course. I shall help you in any way I can.’
After a brief hesitation, I dart to the door and close it. This is not proper. I should not be behind a shut door in a bedroom, with a man, but I cannot risk being overheard.
‘Whatever is the matter, Miss Why?’
‘It is this house!’ I burst out. ‘Oh, Mr Trengrouse …’ The sight of his dismay causes me to stop and gather my breath. ‘Forgive me, sir. I have not slept. I am so afraid for my mistress and poor Miss Rosewyn. You have compassion for Miss Rosewyn, don’t you? You said yourself …’
Gently, he takes my shoulder and guides me to the easy chair. ‘Yes. I am very fond of Miss Rosewyn. But what’s all this? Has she distressed you in some way?’
I sit down heavily. ‘No. Creeda has. Creeda is keeping her prisoner! Even now she is crying behind a locked door. Surely, such measures cannot be warranted?’
Mr Trengrouse frowns. His gaze flicks between me and the figure in the bed, torn.
‘Please try to calm down, Miss Why. Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? Perhaps at t
imes Miss Rosewyn is too boisterous and can be a danger to herself.’
‘It is not that,’ I insist. ‘It is cruelty. Can we not appeal …’ My head swims. No doubt the guardians who signed Rosewyn over have long since perished, and she is not a minor, but there must be someone responsible for her welfare? ‘I am sure no charity would wish to see Miss Rosewyn in such hands. Can’t you tell me where she was adopted from?’
‘That all took place long before I was born, Miss Why.’
‘But there must be records. Was she on the parish? As the curate you must at least have a list of the places nearby that care for orphans.’
He bites his lip, will not meet my eyes. ‘That is the crux of the problem. There are no such institutions around here, Miss Why.’
I do not understand. He is shifting his feet in embarrassment and keeps glancing at Miss Pinecroft, as if to ask for her permission.
‘She came from somewhere. Would Dr Bligh know?’
Mr Trengrouse releases a slow sigh. ‘Dr Bligh … Dr Bligh was here at the time, yes.’
‘Then I will go and ask him.’
He puts out a hand as I attempt to rise from my seat. ‘In this weather, with your mistress so unwell?’
‘It is a matter of urgency.’
‘Please, Miss Why.’ His voice gets louder. ‘It is … delicate.’
I stare at him. He squirms under my scrutiny. I feel guilty for pushing my advantage, but I cannot help myself. ‘Please, sir, tell me what you know. You owe me a debt. Or at least your brother-in-law does.’
He hangs his head, thinks. ‘I shall tell you,’ he decides. ‘In confidence. Only please promise me you will remain calm and stop all this talk about running outside.’
‘You have my word.’
He exhales. His brown eyes flick back towards the bed before he comes round to the side of my chair and kneels beside me. ‘I do not wish to speak slander,’ he whispers. ‘Remember that gossip is rarely true. But Miss Pinecroft does not seem long for this world and …’
I nod impatiently.
Still he struggles. ‘You see, Dr Bligh was acquainted with Miss Pinecroft, briefly, when she was a young woman. They met to arrange the burial of her father – the plaque is still in our church. Even then her health was not strong. She didn’t venture out much, except with a small dog. He says that she had a squint.’
Bone China Page 26