The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  I wished my words back instantly. A curtain seemed to fall over Lady Rose’s face, erasing all the joy her tale had brought.

  ‘You have hit upon the problem, Stevens. Of course you have seen it before. Everyone has.’ She dropped her head into her hands. ‘How could I have been such a dolt?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Artie let me choose. I was delighted to finally have a choice! But they will not let me pick again, now.’ Her eyes began to swim. ‘I always loved that story, Stevens. And the blue is so charming! But it is cheap. Cheaply produced, made by transfer, she says, as if I could possibly know . . .’

  Emotion strangled her voice. Holding the plate in one hand, I patted her back sympathetically.

  ‘A tasteless, shabby attempt at gentility, my mother-in-law calls it. China anyone might own. She said she would rather be seen dead than serve her guests on such plates, and I have to tell you, Stevens, I was very nearly ready to oblige her.’ She did not see my smile. ‘I daresay you think me prodigiously shocking.’

  ‘My lady, it seems to me that your nerves have been sorely tried,’ I said gently. ‘It is an . . . upheaval, marriage. And then you have been tiring yourself with preparations for the assembly. Your piano practice . . .’

  She sighed, closed her eyes. ‘I am tired, Stevens. I am very tired.’

  Once again, I thought of the night she had bathed and the hints of pregnancy about her person. Tearfulness and lethargy supported my theory.

  There was a tap at the door.

  ‘Rose?’ Sir Arthur, concerned.

  ‘Leave me in peace, Artie!’ Her voice splintered as she called out. ‘I cannot bear it, not now.’

  There was a moment of silence, then we heard his footsteps retreating.

  Lady Rose opened her eyes. ‘I have failed him. He did try to take my part, but . . . That old harridan is right. I do not want to make him appear vulgar in front of his guests at the assembly. He has risked so much for my sake. I could not stand it if others began to think of me as his cheap bride . . .’

  ‘Some milk thickened with rice,’ I suggested, rising to my feet and placing the plate carefully upon her dressing table. ‘And some chamomile tea. That will soothe you, my lady.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay it will. Thank you, Stevens.’ She nodded, as if she were trying to shake sense into her head. ‘I am being terribly mawkish. I am sure I shall feel more secure in my marriage once I have given Sir Arthur an heir. Mrs Windrop is bound to move away when we have a family of our own. Children are the cornerstone of all solid unions, are they not?’

  I curtseyed and left the room to fetch her victuals. I did not like to tell her that in my mother’s profession, children were snatched away with more regularity than husbands, and there was no law or sacred vow that could make them stay.

  Chapter 7

  On the day of the assembly, hothouse flowers arrived in great swathes of colour. The housemaids spent hours polishing the crystal; Mrs Glover was here, there and everywhere. Anticipation crackled in the air like the static before a storm.

  Usual duties fell by the wayside. Everyone scrubbed, fetched or cleaned until their backs ached. But all the while, we kept our spirits. There was a sense of being part of something bigger than ourselves, a thrill in knowing that our master’s success depended upon us. And no matter how hard we laboured, there was something to cheer us along: music beneath the clatter. Lady Rose playing Handel on the Broadwood over and over again. Her performance was without flaw.

  Standing before the cheval mirror that night was a lady born: her skin powdered ivory and kissed with rouge at the apples of her cheeks. Elderberries had darkened her eyebrows and lashes. Against the pale gold sarsenet of her overdress, her hair appeared richer than ever, a glorious nut-brown. Coating my hands in pomade, I made the final twists to the curls at her forehead before applying sprigs of fresh flowers.

  ‘Oh, Stevens,’ she gasped, clenching and unclenching her hands at her sides. ‘Do you think I will do?’

  I thought her much finer than the company below deserved.

  Gently, I pushed a curl from her brow. ‘I think the colour becomes you very well, my lady. I hope you are pleased with my work.’

  ‘Pleased?’ She showed her teeth, pearl-white against lips stained with rosehip. ‘You have been a treasure. Whatever would I do without you?’

  I turned away to hide my grin; I feared it would make me look ridiculous.

  ‘I do not recall being so frightened in all my life. Not even on my wedding day. You would not credit the butterflies in my stomach, Stevens.’

  I did, for they were fluttering in my own.

  Carriages crowded the square and jammed half of George Street that night. I lost count of the number of linkboys I saw dashing past the window. Sounds of chatter and clinking glasses swelled from the piano nobile.

  I could have asked the footmen for a report of my lady’s performance. Concealed in the servants’ hall, I might have heard the odd note and caught the faintest echo of her voice. But that was not good enough for me. The image of her sitting at the piano was as clear as a painting in my mind: the golden dress reflected in the polished wood, her full lips open in song, holding the company spellbound.

  I could not rest until I had seen it with my own eyes.

  On the pretence of visiting the privy, I left our quarters and crept upstairs.

  All the company were gathered in the drawing room. Their conversation made a relentless buzz. Cutlery clattered – the last of the supper disappearing. No one could hear my footsteps, or the creak as the double doors parted in the smallest crack.

  I peered through with one eye, searching for Lady Rose.

  Her cheeks were set like alabaster and I was not sure it was entirely the work of my bismuth powder. Tension gathered at the corners of her eyes, as if she had the headache.

  Mrs Windrop eluded my spying eye, but Sir Arthur’s tall person was visible. Red grazed his nose and cheeks – the result of too much Madeira. It was unusual to see him carefree and felicitous. As he laughed with his neighbour, he looked years younger. He had every right to be happy with his wealth, his knighthood and his fine wife; it seemed that he was truly allowing himself to enjoy it for the first time.

  Which made what followed all the worse.

  Still smiling, Sir Arthur stood and thanked the company for coming. ‘Shall we not have more music? I have a great desire for a song. Lady Rose, can we persuade you?’

  She managed to appear reluctant, casting her gaze down and smiling sweetly, as if she had not rehearsed weeks for this very moment. ‘I am fortunate to have such an exquisite instrument. Perhaps the young ladies might appreciate the chance to play it.’

  The spinsters mimicked her downward glance, as a lady is taught to, but with less conviction. I saw one redhead flexing her fingers in anticipation.

  ‘Ever kind, ever thoughtful,’ Sir Arthur replied warmly. ‘But they look for you to light the way, my love.’

  Until she rose to her feet, I thought it the usual act of modesty. Yet the way she held herself, the square set to her shoulders, told another story.

  Pain.

  How did Sir Arthur not observe it?

  No one else knew her, no one else cared enough to watch her every gesture. They were so used to seeing ladies dissemble that they missed the faltering steps she took towards the pianoforte. They failed to notice how violently the music sheets rustled when she arranged them.

  I saw her gulp, poise her fingers over the keys.

  Then I saw the blood.

  Just a spot, the size of a guinea, where the sarsenet met the piano stool. Other eyes might mistake it for a drop of red wine. But I recalled her words about butterflies in the dressing room, took in the sweat beading her brow, and my stomach plunged in horror.

  She began to play.

  Non lo dirò col la
bbro, the aria she had practised a thousand times. Not a lengthy song. Perhaps she would make it through. Her fingers worked automatically, faultless.

  But the spot spread.

  I do not believe she knew what was happening. This was simply another inconvenience she must work through to appear perfect before her mother-in-law and those who said she was not good enough for Sir Arthur.

  My brave mistress. She bowed slightly on her stool, causing me to drive my fingernails into the edge of the door. If I had not done that, I would have run straight to her.

  Perhaps I should have.

  For as her voice rose, fragile, wavering, another patch of red appeared on the white muslin, loud as a scream. Someone must see it now, I thought. They must stop her.

  But she went on singing.

  She must have felt the warmth in her lap. I could practically feel it in mine, and the pain. One key clanged, discordant. Heads raised.

  A low whisper began to circulate. I was vaguely aware of Sir Arthur rising to his feet. But my gaze remained upon my lady, the way she regarded the key as if it had bitten her. Her eyes seemed to cross.

  She slipped sideways from the stool and went crashing to the floor.

  A lady screamed.

  Such was the commotion that no one remarked me barrelling into the drawing room, where I had no place to be. I reached Lady Rose’s side at the same time as Sir Arthur. But while he wrung his hands and called her name, I was on my knees, checking her head for injury.

  Brown locks tumbled from their pins. The flowers lay squashed beneath, where the base of her skull met the floor. Mercifully, I found nothing more than a small bump upon her scalp; the only blood was leeching down her dress.

  One of the young ladies caught sight of it and cried out like a ninny-not, ‘Blood! She’s dead, she’s dead!’

  Hysteria erupted.

  Everyone was up, moving in blind panic and of no earthly use to Lady Rose. I was surrounded by a mass of knee breeches and swishing skirts.

  ‘Your coat, sir,’ I hissed up at Sir Arthur.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give me your coat, to cover her.’

  Blinking, he stripped the garment off and thrust it at me. ‘What’s happening to her, Stevens?’ he asked desperately. ‘Have you salts, can you bring her back to herself?’

  Rather than draping the coat about her shoulders as I usually would, I arranged it carefully to cover the growing red stain. I could not bear for others to gawp upon it.

  ‘I believe, sir, it would be kinder to restore her once she is in the comfort of her own room. Will you help me to move her?’

  ‘Me?’

  I could not keep my temper then, but spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I should prefer it if the other servants did not see her in this condition. It is your child that she is losing. Sir.’

  How little the rich understand. He lay with her twice a week – I knew, for I changed the sheets and sometimes found him asleep next to her when I arrived with the morning chocolate – but he had not noticed the changes to her figure. I do not believe he even comprehended where the blood was coming from until I spoke those words.

  For an instant he swayed, and I thought he might faint too. ‘Of course. I shall take her head and shoulders, Stevens, if you can manage with the feet.’

  Ladies are always heavier than you expect. In a dead faint, her limbs flopped out of control. Sir Arthur clamped one hand beneath each armpit and cradled her head against his stomach; I took hold around her ankles, trying desperately to make sure the coat stayed wrapped around her waist. The guests parted for us instantly.

  I caught sight of Mrs Windrop by the door of the drawing room. I do not know which emotion I expected her countenance to convey, but I was not prepared for her flaring nostrils. As if Lady Rose had done this on purpose, spoilt the party like a child who cannot be trusted with nice things.

  ‘A physician, madam.’ I threw the sentence at her with full force. It seemed to rock her back on her heels. ‘She requires a physician. Perhaps you might send for someone.’

  I do not know if she was the one responsible for the man who did finally arrive, an hour later. By the time Sir Arthur and I had carried our precious load into the corridors, all the servants were moving. The ladies’ screams must have shivered down the walls and alerted them.

  A footman carefully took Sir Arthur’s burden from him, but the master followed us closely up the stairs to the rooms I had tidied just hours before. Our presence disturbed the clouds of orange blossom, added a tang of blood.

  Pushing the waiting nightgown aside, I laid her feet on the bed and removed her shoes. One of the housemaids built a fire on my direction. The footmen left once they saw I was preparing to strip our mistress and wash her legs.

  Sir Arthur remained.

  ‘Will she wake?’ he demanded.

  ‘I do not like to rouse her, sir. She will panic to see the blood. We had better wait until she is clean and comfortable, and the company have left . . . It will only distress her to know the party was not a success.’

  He exhaled. ‘The company. I had forgotten . . . My mother will have to see to that.’

  ‘This will be unpleasant, sir,’ I admitted. ‘It may be better for you to step outside.’

  Sir Arthur shook his head. ‘I will not leave her.’

  So I began the weary task of removing the outfit I had constructed with such care. Lady Rose was heavy and lumpen, a sack of vegetables in my hands. Her skin was clammy to the touch. The maid in me was already considering how to wash out the bloodstains. Nothing would avail. Like the evening, the gown was ruined.

  Such fine hopes she had nurtured for this assembly. And although only a monster could view her without pity, I doubted gossip would record the incident in a kindly light. Of all the places, of all the times for this to happen. How would she raise her head in society again?

  I would have to sustain her. I should be her true friend, where others fell away.

  ‘My poor Rose,’ Sir Arthur moaned. ‘Only look at her, Stevens.’

  I did. The vibrant colours of earlier had been erased. In the nightdress she appeared small, vulnerable. I found myself handling her with the same reverence as I would a corpse.

  ‘I cannot bear to see her so,’ he sobbed and raised a hand over his eyes.

  I held my tongue, did not tell him the truth.

  Could not tell him that to my eyes, this was when she was truly beautiful: at the moment of fragility, when she required only me.

  Chapter 8

  In the days that followed Lady Rose’s miscarriage, I retained sole possession of her. She could not endure anyone else – not to change her bed or mend her fire, not even to fetch up her food tray. Sir Arthur she did permit, but he was not the same man who had watched me wash her. Faced with her tears he was stiff, awkward.

  ‘I have failed him, Stevens,’ she would sob into my arms after he had left. ‘He knows that I have failed him.’

  I scarcely knew how to deny it. Blameless though Lady Rose was, there could be no doubt that the fiasco had damaged Sir Arthur’s standing. Like a porcelain figure, a wife was prized for smoothness and lustre, degraded by the slightest flaw. Lady Rose had been . . . chipped. We could not recapture that air of promise and glamour she once exuded.

  Enquiries were made after her health, but not so many as I expected. Visitors stayed away.

  Deep within me vibrated the old fear: that I had somehow caused this disaster. My tainted presence falling over my mistress like a cloud. But even my mother, who was apt to blame me for much, did not seem to think Lady Rose’s plight out of the usual way. Miscarriages were common in her line of work; her letters were full of practical instructions to restore my mistress to health. She wrote out a receipt for me: a broth made with knuckles of mutton, spring water and hartshorn.

  No amount of nostrums, howeve
r, could repair the emotional fissures. Only I saw them. When I insisted on taking Lady Rose for air in the carriage, she looked utterly terrified.

  ‘People will see me,’ she gasped. ‘They will whisper.’

  She was right. The beau monde were out in flocks upon those breezy summer days, gossiping behind their fans. Instead of sunlight, we saw the glint of a thousand quizzing glasses turned in our direction.

  My mistress leant her head upon my shoulder in the carriage, as if the weight of her mind and its thoughts was more than she could support.

  There must be somewhere I could take her. A single place in this great City where she could find peace.

  I recalled how she loved the story of the Willow pattern about the lovers fleeing across a bridge. And just that morning, I had been reading her poetry from Mr Wordsworth.

  ‘I have an idea.’ I rapped upon the roof. ‘Driver, take us to Westminster Bridge.’

  When Mr Wordsworth composed his famous lines, he found the City in repose. It was not so upon that day. Traffic clopped steadily over the stone arches. Sails fluttered from a mass of boats and ships upon the river. Arm-in-arm, we struggled alongside other pedestrians to find a vantage spot unpolluted by dung.

  As we stopped and looked out, the world seemed to open up like a casket. Towers and domes were silhouetted against the brightness of the sky. Fields stretched far into the distance. The abbey shone with a kind of hazy radiance I had only seen in paintings.

  It gave me hope. This time, I thought, I will stay in my position. I will coax my mistress back to health and nothing else will go wrong. Lady Rose will love me. She will love me forever.

  Lowering her head from the glare of the sun, she considered the water seething silently beneath. ‘Did you never think of jumping in, Stevens?’

  I almost laughed. ‘Into the Thames?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I shook my head at her, sure this was her idea of a jest. The rim of her bonnet obscured her expression. ‘That would be a very foolish thing for me to do, my lady, considering that I cannot swim.’