So her obstinacy over her glasses is of long standing.
‘Then, as now, she was a woman of few words,’ he continues. ‘I believe her father died with some sort of shadow over his name. After the funeral she shut herself away.’
‘So how would she have learnt of Rosewyn’s plight to adopt her in the first place?’
‘Ah … That is where it becomes rather unclear. There was no warning of the child’s arrival. Only Mr and Mrs Tyack worked at Morvoren House back then. I don’t suppose anyone local would have learnt of Miss Rosewyn’s existence, had Dr Bligh not become concerned and decided to call. He was sent away pretty sharp, but he gathered that the dog had died, Miss Pinecroft had suffered a fit and there was a baby in the house.’ He pauses. ‘It pains me to say this, Miss Why. I don’t wish to shock you. But I understand – that is to say, that Dr Bligh never heard of a wet-nurse being summoned.’
I catch sight of the blue chair beneath my skirts. China blue, like Miss Pinecroft’s eyes, like Rosewyn’s … Understanding rushes upon me. I have often reflected that I do not know who my mistress was or what she did in her youth. There must have been a fall, an indiscretion.
Rosewyn is her daughter.
I regret promising to stay calm. This is my saving grace. I may have failed Miss Pinecroft, but I can still help her daughter.
I can see it all so clearly now. How the birth must have brought on Miss Pinecroft’s first debilitating fit, leaving Rosewyn in Creeda’s clutches. Rather than taking on the role of housekeeper herself, Creeda employed others – people she could intimidate and control – so that no one would interfere with her monopoly over the child. She has cultivated the heir so that when Rosewyn inherits, she will do whatever Creeda wants.
Unless I put a stop to it.
‘If this is true,’ I say slowly, mindful not to sound indelicate. ‘If I understand you, sir, then protecting Rosewyn is vital. She is a gentlewoman’s daughter and should be treated as such.’
‘But we have no proof,’ he reminds me softly. ‘And even if we did, the revelation would ruin the good name of mother and daughter alike. I don’t even know if Mrs Quinn would stay on here if she thought there was anything … disreputable about the family. Please promise you will not breathe a word of it.’
‘It is our secret, sir. But I can assure you that Creeda’s actions are more reprehensible than any hushed-up scandal.’
I turn it over in my mind. Mrs Quinn is the only person in this house with the authority to remove a member of staff now that my mistress is incapacitated, yet I cannot imagine her dismissing anyone, least of all Creeda. How can I make her see the injustice taking place right under her nose? Convince her that it was almost certainly Creeda’s strangeness, not Rosewyn’s, that made the last nurse quit?
It is a dangerous game to play. The newspaper stashed away in my trunk flutters before my eyes. If, as I strongly suspect, it was Creeda who broke the lock and read it, she may counter my accusation with one of her own.
I swallow.
Mr Trengrouse offers me his hand. ‘Come, Miss Why. We’ll find a solution. But for now we must think of poor Miss Pinecroft. Let us pray together.’
He helps me to my feet and escorts me over to the bedside. Miss Pinecroft is just as I left her, but my perception of her has changed. My fancy irons out her skin, travels up to tint the white hair that spreads over her pillow like a thick cobweb. Trapped inside this body is a young woman who had a pet dog, a lover, even a child. She may be cold like a porcelain figure, but there is warmth within.
Has she heard us, whispering about her? Can she hear me now?
I stroke her hair away from her ear, lean down and press my lips to it.
‘I will help your girl,’ I whisper. ‘Do not fret. This time, I promise you, I will not fail.’
Chapter 41
Hour laps over hour, and Miss Pinecroft’s condition does not change. I am the one who grows worse.
I have brought my trunk back upstairs. I thought that my hip flask and the clean taste of gin would help me, but it doesn’t. Alcohol merely confuses the passage of time. I could not say how long I have sat here in the chair beside her bed, my back aching and my eyes filled with those endless patterns of blue.
Even when I look away, there is no comfort. The newspaper I bought last week is spread over my lap, open at the vital page.
‘A rash and melancholy act.’ That is what they call it. No doubt they wished to spare Sir Arthur’s feelings. But if it was a fit of lunacy, as the coroner’s court declared, would Lady Rose have gone to that exact spot on Westminster Bridge? Would she have weighed all her pockets down with stones?
It was the baby, I try to tell myself. The loss of another baby that unbalanced her, and that was mainly Burns’s doing, not my own. But the voice of conscience will not be silenced. It says I might as well have stood behind her and pushed her into the water with my own two hands.
She was a kind mistress. Why had that not been enough for me? I could have spent my life in her service. Watched her flourish, and her children after her. I did not need ownership to adore her, I could have done that from afar. And in her own way, she would have loved me.
But I always wanted more.
You ought to give things to the one you love. Not take, as I have done. The snuffbox and the dress are the least of my spoils. I took her child, her servant and confidante, her trust. She had no family to comfort her. Only Mrs Windrop’s barbed glares and the awkward ministrations of Sir Arthur.
I weep in silence.
There are so many I have failed to save. Old Mrs Wild. Robert – God, dear little Robert Farley! Miss Gillings survived, but that was no thanks to me. I killed Lady Rose and I am responsible for the fit that has felled Miss Pinecroft.
Am I truly cursed? Why do I damage all I touch?
Snow paws against the window, pleading to be let in. Gradually, the sound calms me. Reminds me of something … Not a person seeking entry.
Rosewyn, trapped in her room, trying to get out.
Unsteadily, I gain my feet. They are cold and numb. Miss Pinecroft sleeps, one vein pulsing through the onion-skin of her neck. I may leave her for a moment.
In the corridor it is brighter. A few of the candles are lit, but night has not yet fallen. Outside, the iron-grey sky bleeds into the pewter waters below. It is unclear where one ends and the other begins.
I suppose it must be late in the afternoon. Somewhere, one of the maids is brushing a hearth. Beneath the scrape of her brush I hear another sound.
Hairs stir on the back of my neck. It is not the angelic singing from before – this is human, raw. A tune I know well by now: the sound of a female crying.
I follow it to the staircase. Rosewyn sits halfway up the steps, bent over on herself. They have finally released the poor thing. Her hair covers her face in a tangled curtain, her gown – still inside out – is crumpled and showing her calves. It is a childish posture, but there is nothing immature about the sobs heaving from her chest. They sound like those of a full-grown woman. She is a full-grown woman, I remind myself.
Carefully, I sit down beside her on the cold marble step and place a hand on her shoulder. She tucks herself in tighter, a hedgehog curling in on itself.
‘Take comfort, Miss Rosewyn. I know you are worried for your … guardian, we all are. She has been very ill but I will do everything I can. Perhaps now you would like to come upstairs with me and visit her?’
One red-rimmed eye peeks through a gap in her hair. ‘Do you have her?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Did you take her, because I had your snuffbox?’ She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
‘I do not know what you mean, Miss Rosewyn.’ I look around, noticing her isolation. ‘Where is Creeda?’
A fresh wail breaks from her lips. ‘Don’t tell her! She’ll be so angry. I am meant to keep it with me, always.’
‘Are you talking about your doll?’
‘I had her,’ she snif
fs. ‘I was tired, I needed to sleep. She was right under my arm. But when I woke up …’
‘She must be somewhere in your bed. Shall we go and see?’
‘I looked!’ she retorts, indignant. ‘I looked everywhere.’
Her voice echoes back at us.
Creeda emerges from the corridor leading to the china room. She looks older than she did, that beak of a nose dominating her face. If she is surprised to find us sitting here, she does not show it.
‘You don’t have your doll, Rosewyn.’
Rosewyn flinches. ‘I lost her!’ she gabbles. ‘I lost her, but it wasn’t my fault.’
Creeda drops her head, as if she has the weight of the world on her back. ‘Then it’s as I feared.’
Surprised, perhaps, by the quiet tone, Rosewyn peeps up beneath her fringe. ‘You are not angry with me?’
‘Angry, child? No. This is what we had the doll for. We gulled them. They’ve taken her and not you.’ She releases a long sigh. ‘But they’ll realise. They’ll come back.’
I feel Rosewyn’s shoulder shiver against mine.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ I hiss. ‘It is a lost doll. It will probably turn up in a press or beneath a bed.’
Creeda grips the iron banister and begins to mount the stairs. Her smile is bitter, carved into her cheeks. ‘Come, Miss Why. You’ve seen them, haven’t you?’
My skin crawls at her proximity. ‘I saw you cutting off a lock of my hair at night.’
She nods, unashamed. ‘A protection charm.’
I place an arm around Rosewyn’s shoulders. Can delusions be infectious, I wonder? They carry no effluvia but they seem to spread gradually, wine in water, changing the colour of a person’s mind.
‘I believe Miss Rosewyn does need protection, but it is not from goblins and ghouls.’
Creeda turns both eyes on me. It is the blue one that expresses her indignation. ‘Don’t you dare interfere with—’
She is forced to stop when Mrs Quinn waddles through the baize door. Despite the earlier chaos, our housekeeper looks her usual cheerful self. Her only concession to Miss Pinecroft’s illness is that she has taken the ribbon out of her cap. ‘What’s this, then?’ she asks. Then she sees Rosewyn’s tears and my sombre face, and her mouth opens. ‘Oh no, Miss Why. Don’t tell me the mistress …’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Miss Pinecroft is sleeping. I came down to comfort Miss Rosewyn.’
Rosewyn places her head upon my shoulder. My chest feels as if it may crack. At last, I am truly needed.
And she needs me to have courage.
‘Miss Rosewyn is distressed, Mrs Quinn, and I cannot wonder why.’ I take a breath. ‘I regret to inform you that Creeda has been mistreating her.’
Mrs Quinn looks as if I have struck her between the eyes.
‘Mistreating?’ Creeda gasps. ‘All I ever did was protect her!’
My own mind is not sound; I am the last person entitled to laugh at this unfortunate, deranged woman. But perhaps that is why I hate her so much. I see in her the damage a maid can do to her mistress. I see elements of myself.
I stare the housekeeper squarely in the face. ‘Look at her, Mrs Quinn. See how she is dressed. Her hair. Does she appear well cared for?’
Rosewyn’s breath is hot against my neck. She presses in to me, whimpering like a dog.
‘But …’ Mrs Quinn blusters. ‘Miss Why, Creeda has cared for Miss Rosewyn for a great many years …’
‘That does not make what she is doing right. Mr Trengrouse agrees with me. What gives Creeda the authority to lock a member of the family in her room? For pity’s sake, do you not hear the girl crying at night?’
Creeda moves uncomfortably. She is divided, I think, like her eyes. Two sides at war with themselves.
‘For safety,’ Mrs Quinn falters. ‘Isn’t it, Creeda? Like Miss Pinecroft and her wandering. Miss Rosewyn needs special care. She’s never been quite so … sharp … as others.’
My temper snaps. ‘Neither have the staff of this house,’ I retort. ‘For it seems they will swallow anything. Miss Pinecroft does not wander at night! She never moves from the moment I leave her. And we do leave her, in her state of health, sitting unwashed in a room with no fire! God above. Do you wonder that she is so ill? Freezing day and night surrounded by whatever foul liquid Creeda keeps in the urns.’
Poor Mrs Quinn. She has spent her employment afraid to say boo to Creeda, but now I am here, speaking with the passion of an avenging angel, and she does not know who to fear the most.
‘You just … being from London. You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing in the china. Is there, Creeda?’
‘Urine,’ I declare, before Creeda can answer. ‘It was urine, was it not? Ask Lowena and Merryn, they saw it too. Urine, nail clippings and human hair. Was that my hair, Creeda? She took some, Mrs Quinn, while I slept.’
‘That wasn’t yours!’ Creeda brays. Her hands clutch at her head. ‘It was mine. To protect me. The newer servants are higher in the cabinet.’
Mrs Quinn has gone very pale.
‘Your bottled spells do not seem very effectual,’ I scoff. ‘They have done nothing to help Miss Pinecroft.’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know any more,’ she mutters. ‘I thought I knew their ways. But I’m getting old. Maybe I don’t remember it all.’
‘Creeda,’ Mrs Quinn exhales in astonishment. ‘Are you saying … All this Miss Why tells me about bottled spells and stolen hair …’tis true?’
Creeda lowers her hands, offers a sly, defiant smirk. ‘Why do you suppose the fairies don’t bother you?’
Queasily, Mrs Quinn reaches up to pat her cap. Whatever hair Creeda stole from her must have been cut long ago, but she still checks. ‘I can’t … I don’t know what to make of this. Whatever would the mistress say?’
‘She can say nothing!’ I cry. I know I am being cruel, but Mrs Quinn has buried her head in the sand for years. Only a violent tug will pull her out. ‘Miss Pinecroft has long been incapacitated, and she pays you to keep things in order.’ I gesture at Rosewyn, trembling and tear-stained. ‘This is not order. This is what happens when you are content to merely laugh along with the maids. Don’t you think it’s time you started taking your responsibilities as housekeeper a little more seriously?’
It is as though I have slapped her. Mrs Quinn sways gently on her feet.
Too much. My thudding pulse begins to falter. She will dismiss me on the spot.
It is some minutes before the housekeeper gathers herself to speak.
‘Creeda,’ she says eventually. Her voice is dangerously quiet. ‘I think you’d better move to Gerren’s room. Until I’ve looked into this.’
‘You can’t keep me away from—’
‘I can,’ she replies coolly, and I am proud of her.
‘The child needs—’ Creeda begins, but again Mrs Quinn cuts her off.
‘I’ll stay with Miss Rosewyn tonight.’
With a fresh sob, Rosewyn clings to me.
‘No!’ she cries. ‘Miss Why. I want Miss Why!’
I thought I had heard her sing before, but this – this is true music.
‘Miss Pinecroft is unwell,’ I try to explain. ‘I must sit with her …’
Rosewyn’s big blue eyes fill with tears. ‘Don’t leave me.’
‘Very well, very well,’ Mrs Quinn chides. She appears on the point of tears herself. ‘’Tis only one night. I’ll get one of the girls to watch the mistress. Miss Why can stay with you, Miss Rosewyn. And Creeda … Gerren’s room.’
Creeda’s whole frame trembles against the iron banisters. It is impossible to tell whether fear or fury makes her shake so hard.
‘Now,’ Mrs Quinn demands.
Her knobbly fingers ball into a fist. For a moment, I truly think she will do the housekeeper harm.
‘You’ll regret it!’ she warns.
With that, she stalks up the stairs.
Chapter 42
I longed for this room. Downst
airs, shivering by Miss Pinecroft’s side, I thought that Creeda was lucky to sit in Rosewyn’s chamber with the fire burning. But it is different by night.
A swimming mass of shadows covers the table where Rosewyn sits to draw, sew and pull pages out of her Bible. There is something forlorn in the scattered pencils and ragged collection of gull’s feathers she has pasted to a piece of paper. These are not hobbies but pastimes: activities to speed the passage of hands around the clock. In gaol, they give the prisoners hemp to pick. I see little difference between the two.
The jug of milk glows on the mantelpiece. I have known ladies display items of pride in this place: invitations from the best society hostesses, silhouettes of their friends. In Morvoren House, the mantelpiece is a monument to Creeda’s insanity.
For all my brave words earlier, I cannot pretend she is alone in feeling there is a mighty power here lurking, always out of sight. I sense it tonight. Waiting.
Or is that just a guilty conscience?
Rosewyn sleeps on her back. One arm curls across her chest, mimicking the familiar gesture of cradling the doll. My searches of the room have been in vain; I cannot find the toy, yet that is hardly proof of the supernatural. Mrs Farley’s children were always losing things.
But Rosewyn is not a child …
There is so much I do not understand about this house and the woman who sleeps in the bed before me. Who was her father? I cannot make out if she is truly simple or just a victim of circumstance. Would she have been this fey and infantile if her mother raised her, or have the days locked up in this house with Creeda taken their toll?
I doubt the harm can be undone now.
I changed into my nightgown and said I would sleep on the truckle bed, but I cannot settle myself to rest. Sitting instead on the stool before the dressing table, I stare into the mirror. It is molten gold in the firelight. My face is limned in amber, strange.
What if I were one of Creeda’s changelings? Cursed to wander from place to place, unable to belong. I would not know if I was swapped at birth.
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