Sipping at my laudanum, I think of the bottle in the cupboard that I replaced with one of weak tea. One thing substituted for the other, as simple as that. A taste would expose the fraud there, but with a person …
Maybe that is why all my employers die.
Maybe that is why I can hear the fairies sing.
I hear them now: a high, pure note soaring above the sea’s lamentation.
The bottle of laudanum drops from my hand and lands on the carpet. I watch the liquid flow until it is nothing but an empty vessel and a sodden mark.
When I glance up at Rosewyn, she sleeps on, no part of the heavenly choir. Yet she is touched. Blessed. An orb of light hovers at the foot of the bed.
It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Painful in its loveliness. There is no fear, only an ache in my chest that moans, This, this. This is what you sought, but never found.
Slowly, it rises. It is like a dream. I am rising too, standing on my feet as if I have been pulled up by an invisible string.
‘What are you?’ I whisper.
It floats, heading towards the door.
I dash to open it, terrified that the orb will burst against the wood. I am just in time. The light glides past my face as it leaves the room, its warmth caressing my skin and eliciting a sigh.
How gently it wafts down the corridor. Helpless, entranced, I follow.
I follow it all the way to Miss Pinecroft’s chamber.
I grope inside my apron for the key, but before my fingers touch the metal there is a click, a whirl, and the door swings back on its hinges.
Rosemary. Lemony and sharp, filling my lungs.
The light drifts to the wardrobe, where it hovers and quivers.
Deep inside my mind, a voice tells me to check upon my mistress, but it seems to speak in a foreign language. She feels far from me now, part of a distant land. Nothing matters. Nothing but the light.
Before I realise what I am doing, I am standing before the wardrobe, opening the doors. Miss Pinecroft’s dresses hang ghostly in their pouches. The scent of rosemary is so dense that my head begins to ache. Rosemary can be medicinal, but I know instinctively that is not the use here. Nor is it to stop the moths. Rosemary for remembrance, rosemary to ward off nightmares. Rosemary to bind.
The light intensifies. My gaze travels down to its furthest reach, where faint rays of amber lave against the wooden base. There is the usual clutter of dust, forgotten shawls and odd shoes. Unremarkable, and yet I am scanning it eagerly, waiting for something to appear.
I drop to my knees. And then I see it.
The pallor of a skull.
I reach out. It is chalky, sharp at the edges. As I lift it to the light, it glistens and I realise it is not a fragment of bone at all but glazed china. Small blue flowers form a pattern that has faded with time. Other larger pieces lie tangled in a shawl. I spread it out on my lap. Needles of rosemary have dried to husks around the chips. Some are rimmed with a rust-coloured substance that I recognise at once as blood. Together, they make up a shattered teapot.
There is a gurgle from the bed.
Then darkness.
The light is extinguished, the singing melts into air.
Everything turns empty and hollow, cold as the soil of the grave.
Liquid bubbles in my mistress’s chest. Frantically, I crawl towards her, the china falling from my lap and crunching beneath my knees. I do not feel it cut. I am only desperate not to be alone.
Her hand reaches down from the bed and latches on my shoulder, tight.
‘Kitty.’
Reality rushes back. I remember where I am, who I am. ‘No, madam …’
‘Mama?’ Her chest sounds like water slapping against rocks.
Kneeling beside the bed, I search for her face in the gloom. I cannot see its lineaments, but I smell her sour breath.
‘Remain calm, Miss Pinecroft. It is I, Hester. Can I fetch you something? I have an infusion made from horseradish, mustard and orange rind—’
Even as I babble on, I realise that it is useless. The labouring of her breath, the chest filling with fluid – I know what it means.
Her hand squeezes all feeling from my shoulder.
‘Papa.’
There is a sound like pebbles rattling, then water draining away.
Miss Pinecroft’s hand falls limp and she has gone, slipped between the cracks.
*
A shadow rises up the opposite wall. ‘Who’s there?’
I tremble, the dead woman’s hand still against my shoulder. There are bumps, the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor. My mind seems to have lost all ability to function. My mistress is dead: that is all I can absorb. I have failed her and she is gone, gone forever.
‘Who is that?’ The voice repeats. There are sparks of light. I half expect to see the orb again, but this is no fairy. The woman is loud, afraid.
Then there is an orange flare and I see dark eyes, huge in terror. ‘Miss Why?’
She moves her tinderbox to light a candle beside Miss Pinecroft’s bed. It is Lowena.
From the look of it, she has been sitting in the easy chair on the other side of the bed all night. I stare at her, stupefied, unable to comprehend how she has been there the entire time. Did she not see the orb? Hear me open the wardrobe?
‘What are you doing to Miss Pinecroft?’ she demands.
Gently, I remove the wilted hand from my shoulder. ‘She is dead.’
My words do not seem to strike her at first. It is only when she moves to the bed and sees the old lady that she gasps. She places two fingers against her mistress’s throat, as if she expects to feel a pulse. When she does not, she cries.
They are noisy, unchecked tears.
‘I did not …’ I begin, realising how this must look. ‘I thought that I heard something and when I came to check …’
But she is not listening. She is weeping fit to break her heart.
‘I … fell … asleep!’ Each word is gulped between sobs.
Surely, no one could sleep through all that? The singing, Miss Pinecroft’s last whistling breaths – why, even the noise of my moving about the room ought to have alerted her.
Whatever Lowena might sleep through, it seems her tears have woken everyone else. I hear doors opening, footsteps. My eyes cast wildly around at the shawl and bits of broken teapot strewn across the floor, and the lifeless body in the bed. There is no way I will emerge from this scene in a good light.
But before I can flee, candles are bobbing towards us. Mrs Quinn in a lopsided nightcap, Merryn with her hair in rags, even Gerren half-asleep.
‘I heard …’ I start again, gesturing helplessly at the corpse.
Mrs Quinn covers her mouth with her hand.
‘I am afraid she has passed away.’
Lowena pitches towards Merryn. ‘It’s my fault!’ she wails. ‘I fell asleep and the candle went out. I let her die!’ The pair embrace, crying.
‘I do not believe anything could have been done,’ I say, more to defend myself than Lowena. ‘The attack was too severe …’
Gerren leans against the doorjamb, ashen.
‘I should never have left the poor girl sitting with her.’ Mrs Quinn shakes her head. ‘I should’ve done it myself. But we’re all topsy-turvy with you in the nursery and …’ She makes an impatient gesture, as if it is my fault and not Creeda’s. ‘What brought you to this room?’
‘I heard …’
‘Ah,’ she sighs. ‘That’s the trouble. Lowena can’t hear.’
I blink at her. Each time I think this night cannot become any more surreal, it surprises me. Just how much laudanum did I drink?
‘What do you mean, she cannot hear?’
‘She’s deaf, of course.’ Mrs Quinn replies.
‘But … that cannot be. She has spoken to me, she …’
‘She wasn’t always deaf. Now she reads lips. But in the dark, with the candle gone out …’
That accounts for the accent I t
raced – no foreign influence after all, but the effect of not being able to hear her own voice. Clearly, the misfortune has done nothing to impede Lowena’s other abilities – and yet the first unforgivable thought that comes to my head is that of course, something had to be wrong with her. There had to be some imperfection to stop the fairies from abducting her.
‘What an ill-advised notion to leave a girl who cannot hear in charge of a sick woman!’ I protest. ‘How would she wake, if she could not hear Miss Pinecroft gasping for breath?’
Mrs Quinn bristles. ‘I’ve had enough of your opinions for one day, Miss Why. Always creeping about, never staying where you’re meant to be …’ But as she looks at the pitiful figure in the bed, and poor Lowena, her temper drifts away. She shakes her head. ‘I just don’t understand how that candle would burn out. Look, there’s still plenty of wick to it.’
‘Candles are always going out. They—’
Gerren’s smoky voice cuts me off. ‘They snuffed un.’
We both look over at him, perplexed.
‘Gerren,’ Mrs Quinn says slowly. ‘Where is Creeda?’
His mouth falls open. Snatching Mrs Quinn’s candleholder, he plunges out the door.
Without thinking, I follow. He is surprisingly rapid, given his age. He takes the stairs two at a time.
‘Gerren, wait! What is it?’ I cry, trailing after him.
He simply shakes his head.
We reach the bottom of the staircase and turn left. I may not know his purpose, but I know where he is headed: the china room.
Waves boom in the cove beneath the house, loud as cannon shot. Nearer, faintly, I hear the drips again.
The flame of Gerren’s candle flattens and winks out.
I can feel the wind that has extinguished it. Spitefully cold, just as it was when Miss Pinecroft opened the window. It must be open again. Although the door to the china room remains closed, it is fidgeting, twitching in its frame.
‘Creeda!’
Gerren runs the last few steps and slams his shoulder into the door. Locked. He hits it again, kicks it. He is too old and exhausted to make it budge.
‘Let me.’ Pushing Gerren aside, I throw my full weight against the wood.
Something splinters and I am falling forward, my arms turning windmills.
Pain rips through the soles of my feet.
I cannot get my bearings. Such a confusion of sound: the ocean, the wind and a crunch like eggshells against the side of a bowl. Somehow, beneath it all, I hear the strangled anguish in Gerren’s throat.
I stumble to a halt just inches before the mantelpiece and its display of china.
No. Not a display. There are no vases, figurines and teapots: the china has … hatched. It is the only word I can think of.
Everything lies in fragments. Moonlight spills through the open curtains. As I suspected, the window stands wide, admitting the salt breath of the waves.
‘Creeda.’
I turn to face the wingback chair and what I see takes my breath away.
Silver rays wash over one side of her, the side with the blue eye. It barely appears human. She has been scourged, raked with tiny thin lines like the teeth of a comb.
But she is still alive.
Gerren kneels, clasps her.
‘Half in, half out,’ he whispers. ‘They nearly took ee.’
It cannot be. I have spent every day in this house decrying her words as nonsense … But I can almost sense them: a procession of unseen people on the air, teasing the curtains to a frenzy, scattering the wreckage of the china.
‘I have salve,’ I ramble. ‘Lavender, comfrey … We must get her upstairs.’
Creeda’s brown eye moves sluggishly to focus on me. Its stare is more dreadful than that of the other, bloodshot and scratched. Although her lips remain still, I hear her voice.
Rosewyn.
My heart seems to stop.
How long have I left her alone?
Shattered china covers my path to the door; I ran over it, barefoot, as I fell into the room. Picking my way back hurts even more. I track bloody prints down the corridor, into the white expanse of the stucco hall.
Even Mrs Bawden, the cook, is awake now. I see her descending the staircase with Mrs Quinn, dithering about what they are to do. How to fetch the lawyer in weather like this? Is it too unkind to ask the girls to wash the body? They say Rosewyn will not inherit directly. It will all be held in trust by the Tyacks.
I push past them. One of them calls after me, but I cannot stop now. A terrible suspicion is forming in my mind: that it was true. Every deed I have taken for madness, cruelty, vile superstition – perhaps all of it was true.
The sheet is thrown back on Rosewyn’s bed. The mattress yawns, empty. She is not there, not in the room. Guilt doubles me over. It is my fault. Like a fool I left her and followed the light. If she is hurt …
My mind completes a frantic tour of the house, seeking a logical answer for where she may be. Would she go to my room to seek the snuffbox? Sneak down to the kitchen for sweetmeats? Perhaps she is visiting the animals in the stable? They are the straws a drowning woman clutches at. I grab them, all the same.
Dragging a pair of her stockings over my bleeding feet, I search the wardrobe for a dress. They are all far too short for me, and wide in the shoulders, but I pull one over my nightgown so that I may venture outside if necessary. I must find her before she comes to harm. Before Mrs Quinn realises I have lost her.
The servants’ wing lies deserted. Merryn and Lowena are shut up together, weeping audibly. The room I once slept in houses nothing but the damp. Spinning on my heel, I take the stairs again, feet throbbing with every step. I can see the red prints where I have walked before. The sight of them makes me shudder.
In the west wing there is commotion: Mrs Quinn and Mrs Bawden have found the grim tableau of the china room. Ignoring their cries, I turn towards the kitchen.
Scents hang in the air: burnt fat, cinnamon. By day this space is cheerful and warm, the only part of Morvoren House that is. It feels as if its heart has stopped beating, leaving everything desolate. Rosewyn is not here.
Did I truly expect her to be?
Another life on my hands. She was innocent, kind. She trusted me.
Swallowing tears, I jam on a pair of Gerren’s discarded boots and open the back door. Feathers of snow swirl. Despite them, the temperature has risen, ever so slightly. The icicles hanging from the ash tree drip. I start to walk.
A light burns in the stable block, guiding my way. My heart leaps. Gerren was sleeping in the house, he did not ignite this.
Rosewyn has childish ways; I can imagine her doting upon the animals and bidding them goodnight. Please, please, I pray, let her be there.
Gasping for breath, I reach the door. Push. It is unlocked.
Hooves stir against straw as I enter. The pony tosses up its head. A hanging lamp illuminates the space between the stalls and a broom, fallen from where it leant against the wall. There is no sign of her.
‘Rosewyn?’ I whisper.
Footsteps sound in the shadowy corner. They are not hers – they are too heavy, too firm.
Fear seethes in my stomach. I hold my breath as a tall male figure emerges slowly into the light.
Chapter 43
It is like the sea: the rushing and roaring in my ears, the undulating lines obscuring my vision. I open my mouth, but the words have run dry.
‘Please don’t be afraid, Miss Why. It is me.’
As my eyes adjust to the lighting, I see a dusty greatcoat and red hair tangled with straw. Breath returns to my lungs.
‘Mr Trengrouse? What are you doing here?’
He surveys my eccentric clothing as if he might ask the same question. A strange pair we make, shivering in the lamplight with chickens scratching around our feet.
‘Did Mrs Quinn not tell you? The snow was too thick for me to ride home. Since there are no spare beds in the house, I was sleeping in the hayloft, but then I heard—’
He stops and chuckles, struck by the absurdity of the situation.
I think I might cry. Suddenly the last few hours are a burden too great to bear. Shall I tell him of Miss Pinecroft’s death? He should probably be in the house, helping. But now I have found him, I do not want to let him go.
‘You can ride a horse?’ I demand.
All his amusement fades. ‘Well … yes, Miss Why.’
‘You could saddle it up right now?’
His grey mare snorts from her stall, as if in protest.
‘I do not understand …’ he begins, brushing off his coat.
‘Mr Trengrouse, Rosewyn is missing. I have searched all over the house. She must be somewhere outside, in the snow.’
‘Great God.’
In a moment he has retrieved the bridle from its peg. The mare tosses her head as he darts into the stall and slides the bit between her teeth. I too feel as if I have something cold and metallic in my mouth.
‘What direction has she taken?’ Mr Trengrouse asks urgently.
‘I do not know …’
‘There should still be footprints. Only Mr Tyack and I have been about outside Morvoren House today. The snow will hold her tracks.’
‘The snow is beginning to melt,’ I fret.
He heaves the cloth and saddle onto the mare’s back, starts to tighten the girth. ‘She will not have got far. Heat some blankets, start to make tea. I will have her back before you have finished—’
‘But I am coming with you!’
My cry is so sharp that the mare flattens her ears.
‘Coming with me?’ Mr Trengrouse drops the saddle flap. ‘Absolutely not. You will catch cold, Miss Why, it is not the weather for a lady—’
‘Rosewyn is out there!’ I cut him off again. ‘If she can survive, so will I.’
He shakes his head.
He may be a man and my superior, but he is younger than me. I will not let him dictate. If he thinks I am going back inside Morvoren House to tell Mrs Quinn that I have lost my charge, he is mistaken. I cannot fail another mistress. This is my last chance.
‘You saw me on the Mail coach, sir. You know I am no milk-and-water miss.’ He opens his mouth, but I do not give him the chance to speak. ‘Suppose Miss Rosewyn is hurt? If she needs medical attention and you cannot move her? What shall you do then?’
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