Bone China
Page 29
He flounders. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to return here and—’
‘Wasting precious time! And even if, God willing, no harm has befallen her, what makes you think she will agree to come with you? She knows me, she trusts me.’
His shoulders slump and I know that I have won.
*
Dawn is a crimson slash on the horizon. Morvoren House appears innocent and beautiful. Snow on the rooftop, ice laced around the pebbles. A mansion cradled like a jewel between the bare branches of the ash trees.
You would never dream of what goes on behind those walls.
The mare is warm and sweet-smelling. Her back is wider than I expected; it feels curiously alarming to jog along, astride, clutching Mr Trengrouse around the waist for all I am worth.
We have just gained the top of the slope when he reins back. ‘Look. There, at the rear of the house.’
I peek over his shoulder. Putting the reins in one hand, he points at the window to the china room.
Someone has closed the sash. Beneath it, the snow is pocked, dotted, like a trail of freckles over the bridge of a nose. The marks straggle around the side of the house and away, off into the distance.
But that would mean … Did Rosewyn climb out of that window?
Mr Trengrouse nudges the mare on and follows the tracks.
I rest my cheek against his back and try to make sense of what I have seen. In my panic, I’d assumed Rosewyn had been taken. Spirited away, without a trace. But that was not how Creeda described it. Pixy-led, she said. Just as that orb led me to Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom.
The mare inhales and snorts. I feel it run the length of her body.
If Rosewyn was in the china room … She must have seen what happened to Creeda. Panicked, and fled through the only available exit. The poor thing will be terrified.
Diamonds of moisture bead the mare’s mane as it flutters in the wind. Though I will never admit it to Mr Trengrouse, I am thoroughly chilled. This winter has lasted an eternity. It feels like a spell that started with the poisoned cup in Hanover Square and will never, never break. I try to imagine the spring: the flowers, the birds, the whole world coming up for air. I cannot. It seems like an impossible dream.
The mare’s hooves fall silent in the snow. Without my noticing, the sun has edged further across the horizon, setting the sea aglitter. It does not look so far away, now. If I reach out my hand, I think I could touch it.
‘Great God.’
The words run up Mr Trengrouse’s spine. My own grows rigid.
The mare comes to a halt.
A figure stands on the cliff edge, looking out to sea. Her unbound hair and the white skirts of her nightgown yearn towards the waves. One step forward would send her into the abyss, but she is perfectly balanced, halfway between life and death.
Rosewyn.
‘She will fall!’ Mr Trengrouse cries as he throws down the reins.
I am ahead of him, already slithering off the mare and stumbling through the snow. My throat aches to call her name, but I know I must not startle her.
The ground is slick and icy near the edge. Slowly, I make my way towards Rosewyn, marvelling at how she managed to do this in bare feet. The tips of her toes have turned blue.
‘Rosewyn,’ I whisper softly.
When she turns, her face is serene. As if she expected me, all this while. ‘I found her,’ she says.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
She points down.
Cautiously, I peer. Her doll is spreadeagled on an outcrop of rock, its china face reduced to powder. I feel giddy and sick.
This must be where the caves are. For now, the beach is swallowed by the tide, as if it had never been. Should Rosewyn fall, she will plunge straight into the ocean – providing she does not hit the rock first.
‘Never mind. Come away from there. We will get you another doll,’ I promise.
Rosewyn shakes her head. There is a terrible rattle as pebbles fall down the cliff. ‘Creeda told me never to go this far. But she can’t stop me now. I’m going home.’
‘I will take you home. Get on the pony and—’
‘No.’ She gestures to the chasm below. ‘My other home.’
Her words chill my very bones. ‘Fairy land?’
‘You get there through the water.’
My eyes are fixed on her outstretched hand. If I could grab it, quickly, I might pull her back. I take a breath, muster my courage. And then I notice her fingernails.
They are broken. Bloodied and torn.
Rosewyn closes her eyes. ‘She’ll never lock me up again.’
Truly, I would not blame her. Forty years of captivity. Four decades of being kept as a child. Anyone might snap, smash their captor’s beloved china and flee.
But Creeda is still alive. Holding the estate in trust.
She will claim she was attacked by fairies. And if I contradict her with my own suspicion … Rosewyn will be branded worse than simple: she will be dangerous. I would be dooming her to another life of imprisonment elsewhere.
Gently, I pull her a step back from the edge. ‘What would it take, Rosewyn? To stop Creeda from locking you away?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. She doesn’t … It’s the fairies! We have to please the fairies. They’ve got men. Now they need a girl. A girl to make their babies.’
Lady Rose’s stained dress flashes across my mind.
I push her back another step. ‘But that does not mean it must be you, Rosewyn.’
Her lower lip wobbles. ‘Can’t you hear them calling me?’
I listen, but I do not hear fairies. I hear something else.
Non lo dirò col labbro. Lady Rose’s aria, her pure voice.
My eyes drift from Rosewyn to the waves.
A humbling sight. That vast power and expanse, able to give life, able to take it. I have seen the ocean grey, ink black, once green as a mossy tree. This morning it sparkles blue. Spray leaps, playful and teasing, where once it was hostile.
‘Your friends would be sorry to lose you, Rosewyn. You may not care for Creeda, but what about Mrs Quinn? Merryn?’
She hesitates. ‘They can’t stop the fairies.’
Mr Trengrouse is wading uncertainly towards us through the snow.
I turn back to Rosewyn and seem to see clearly for the first time.
The two of us, side by side. I am wearing her dress. It is not turned inside-out.
‘What if someone went in your place?’
‘Who?’
‘Answer me. If the fairies got their woman, would Creeda stop?’
She sighs, as if I am naming an impossible dream. ‘It would all stop.’
I guide her further away from the edge. The waves beckon with their clean white foam. Surely it could not hurt, to fall into their embrace. One might slumber, peaceful, in the untroubled deep.
Snow crunches behind us. There is a cry of ‘Miss Rosewyn!’ and then Mr Trengrouse engulfs her, clasps her arms to her sides.
Rosewyn wails. ‘Please don’t lock me up again!’ She writhes, but he is strong.
‘I have hold of her, Miss Why! We will …’
He keeps speaking, but I can no longer make out his face. The world is turning to water around me; ice beginning to thaw.
At last, at last. I can let go.
‘Miss Why?’
I will drown out the past, I will make amends. Rosewyn will live free at Morvoren House and I … I will no longer hear my lady. No voices of the dead; only bubbles.
‘Miss Why, come away from the edge!’
The sun is rising.
I look over my shoulder and smile. Strands of my hair fly upon the breeze to wave farewell.
Rosewyn stares in wonder, safe within her saviour’s embrace.
‘They need me,’ I say.
And then I take the step.
Acknowledgements
Every so often, a seemingly innocent story idea turns into an absolute monster to write. Bone China has been one
of these books. Fortunately for me, I have received the support and professional advice of a wonderful publishing team, all of whom deserve a tribute here.
First, my agent and dear friend Juliet Mushens. She is truly a legend and I cannot thank her enough. My brilliant editors, Alison Hennessey and Marigold Atkey, as well as their assistant Lilidh Kendrick, for their kindness and unstinting support. The shining gems of the Marketing and Publicity department, Philippa Cotton and Amy Donegan, who continue to dazzle me with their talent and enthusiasm. Also a heartfelt thanks to everyone else at Raven Books and Bloomsbury – it is a privilege to work with you.
I honestly would not have made it through the last year without my husband Kevin picking me up when I fell down. He earns the most important thanks of all for his unending supply of patience and all-round goodness.
I would also like to acknowledge the people, both living and dead, whose work has contributed towards the content of my story. The understanding of consumption, or phthisis, from the Georgian era until the discovery of the tubercle bacillus in 1882 was both confused and confusing. My ‘radical’ Dr Pinecroft wrestles with some of the theories debated during the Victorian era, and so after his time, but most of his reasoning is based on the work of Thomas Beddoes published in Bristol during 1799, the treatment undergone by George III’s daughter Amelia between 1809 and 1810, Primitive Physick by John Wesley (1747) and Pharmacopoeia Extemporanea by Thomas Fuller (1710). It may interest readers to know that Dr Pinecroft’s ‘bold notion’ of a cave colony also had a real-life inspiration. In 1839, the American doctor John Crogan opened a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients in Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, believing the steady climate would benefit them. His experiment ended in failure in 1843.
While bone china was being produced as early as the 1740s, the formula used by my fictional Nancarrow factory was actually discovered by Josiah Spode and introduced to the world in 1796. I do not mention the exact location of Morvoren House in Cornwall, since it is a place entirely of my invention. However, I drew inspiration from a visit to Carlyon Bay and Charlestown, the harbour of which was built specifically to ship china clay. Further west, one of the first china-clay setts was opened on Tregonning Hill – not many miles from Rinsey Head. Since writing this book, I have discovered the existence of the iconic house built on this clifftop location. Although it was constructed in the early twentieth century, it fits my image of Morvoren House wonderfully!
For Esther’s household first-aid and cosmetic treatments, I am particularly indebted to two books: Lavender Water and Snail-Syrup: Miss Ambler’s Household Book of Georgian Cures and Remedies (2013) and The Duties of a Lady’s Maid (1825).
The story of the Willow pattern was an English invention, written after the print had already enjoyed considerable success. It first appears in published form in the Family Friend magazine in 1849 – some decades after Esther’s story is set, but I could not resist bringing it forward in time to share.
Note on the Author
Laura Purcell is a former bookseller and lives in Colchester with her husband and pet guinea pigs. Her first novel for Bloomsbury, The Silent Companions, was a Radio 2 and Zoe Ball ITV Book Club pick and was the winner of the WHSmith Thumping Good Read Award, while Laura’s gothic chiller The Corset was acclaimed as a masterpiece by readers and reviewers alike.
laurapurcell.com
@spookypurcell
First published in Great Britain 2019
This electronic edition published in 2019 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Laura Purcell, 2019
Laura Purcell has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-5266-0253-4; TPB: 978-1-5266-0252-7; EBOOK: 978-1-5266-0251-0
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