The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  Louise reached for her spectacles. ‘What have you there in your hand?’

  ‘A gift.’ He smiled and laid the box down on the dressing table. ‘It occurred to me that my last was perhaps not fitted to our current circumstances. We are hardly likely to receive guests for tea! I hope you will like this better.’

  She opened the casket and withdrew one of the vases.

  Ernest had thought the vases were identical to the toile-de-Jouy in which he had decorated the rooms, but now he saw the paint was a darker blue, the colour the sea turned when you were beyond the shallows and venturing out of your depth.

  ‘How exquisite.’ He was disappointed to hear the detachment in her voice. Her smile did not reach her eyes. ‘I can pick the wildflowers that grow on the cliff and display them.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  Louise looked at the base of the vase and saw the Nancarrow factory stamp. ‘Another from Creeda’s family?’

  ‘Yes. I asked Mr Nancarrow to send a pair that your maid had decorated herself.’

  She let out a slow sigh. Despite the cap she wore, he could see the worry bunching in her forehead.

  ‘You . . . do not care for them?’

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ she cried. ‘It is only . . . Forgive me, Papa, it is not the present that is at fault. It is . . . Creeda.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I do not mean,’ she explained haltingly, setting the vase down, ‘to question your judgement. Creeda is a very diligent worker. I can see how on first application, she might appear . . . However, I am sorry to tell you that I have observed the girl closely and reached the conclusion that she is not suitable to work inside our home.’

  So many thoughts were blazing through his mind: the caves, the smoke, the phthisis . . . He needed time to consider his words. But there Louise was, blinking up at him, expectant.

  ‘Would you care to explain your reasoning, my dear?’

  Louise wet her lips. ‘I did not wish to tell you. It seems unkind, akin to gossip, and yet . . . Well, I shall give you some examples. First, she collects animal bones from the clifftop and boils them clean. Not for soup. She just boils them, in our kitchen . . . And then, she is always trying to give me handfuls of ash. She says it will protect me from . . . something or other.’

  ‘That is certainly peculiar, but—’

  ‘You have not heard the worst of it. Last night, I happened to mention her heterochromia. I cannot even recall what I said, it was a careless remark about her eyes. But she told me that she was not born that way. That, if you can credit it, her aunt found her on the factory steps one day and her eye had turned from brown to blue.’

  He tried to chuckle. ‘Impossible, of course, but Creeda is not to know that. Perhaps it is merely an anecdote her family have passed on.’

  ‘I would agree with you, except for what she said next. Papa, she . . .’ Louise dropped into a whisper. ‘She thinks she uses her blue eye to see into fairyland. I am afraid that she is quite mad.’

  Bizarrely, he felt a spurt of irritation with his daughter. It passed; he held up his hands in surrender and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I know it, Louise. Her mind is not sound. That is why she is under my care.’

  ‘Papa!’ Just one word, but it made him wince. The reproach – no, worse than that. The disappointment in it. ‘She is a patient of yours? You did not tell me!’

  ‘I told you she came from the factory to be your maid, which is true. I exchanged correspondence with the Nancarrow family. They heard of my imminent arrival from their workers at the nearby clay setts. You see, Creeda’s behaviour had been causing difficulty at the porcelain manufactory. Her family wished for her to be watched by a professional. Away from wagging tongues.’

  Louise swivelled round on the stool. ‘But Papa, you are no mad doctor.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘That is exactly the point. Should you like Creeda to have her head shaved and rubbed with vinegar? To see her chained and doused with ice water?’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘Truly, she . . . she is a young girl, to suffer from delusions,’ she stammered. ‘What can she be – fifteen, sixteen?’

  ‘Kitty’s age.’

  Louise was silenced.

  Ernest noticed his hands were shaking. He tried to take a breath, but his throat was painfully tight. ‘Louise, I want you to imagine for a moment that you are a woman, not advanced with the experience of a great many years, responsible for the well-being of a small child. A child, shall we say, of about five. This poor little creature has endured a travail, the likes of which would fell grown men. Naturally, the child seeks to find meaning for her suffering; she wishes to know what has caused it and yet . . . How do you explain such depravity? The meaningless cruelty of the world, when she is obliged to go on living in it? How are you to tell her when you scarcely know yourself . . .’ He stopped, aware he had grown excessively animated. Louise was staring. He gulped another breath. ‘Now, if you were this woman, would you relate the cold, immovable facts as you understand them to the child? Or would you not rather couch them in terms she is more likely to comprehend? A fairy tale with wicked imps, for example. Something altogether more . . . palatable.’

  ‘I do not understand you, Papa.’

  His darling girl. He wanted to shield her from this. ‘My dear, I am speaking of Creeda’s aunt. I am afraid she was put in this very position when Creeda was abducted in her youth. The child went missing for an entire year.’

  ‘Good God,’ she said with quiet feeling. ‘Abducted by whom?’

  The twisted blackguards who paid for such things. Many had come to his door with their chancres of venereal disease, exclaiming that even lying with a child had not cured them. It had taken all his restraint not to run them through with his lancet. They might pollute those poor children, but he was damned if they were going to sully the innocence of his own daughter.

  ‘That remains unclear. But one of the brutes had an attack of conscience and fetched her back home.’

  When Creeda spoke of her rescuer, she described snowy white skin and a red mouth like a wound. Rather like a consumptive. Or a whore, powdered and rouged.

  He felt a reluctant admiration for this brave prostitute. In all likelihood, her madam would have beaten her to death for saving the child.

  Louise had turned very pale. ‘Merciful heavens.’

  ‘Creeda did not know her mother. She looked to her aunt to explain her experience and I am afraid that . . . It was ill advised, but understandable in the circumstances. The aunt told Creeda that she had been taken away by the fairies.’

  ‘And the poor girl still believes it,’ Louise breathed.

  ‘Yes. That is the reason for her somewhat – indecorous – behaviour. The Nancarrows pay me well to watch her, but that is of no consequence if she causes you distress.’ He twisted his fingers together. The mourning ring glinted. Hair trapped beneath glass. ‘Do you want me to send her away, my dear?’

  ‘No.’ Louise rose sadly to her feet. ‘Good gracious, no. She is an unfortunate soul. We must help her, Papa.’

  His kind girl. He only hoped his ability was equal to her compassion.

  Chapter 23

  Pompey took a liking to the stables, where he could spend his days agitating the chickens penned just beyond his reach. Louise went to collect him as evening began to descend on Morvoren House.

  To her fancy, the sea sounded kinder in the twilight. No longer impatient, chopping this way and that, but respiring softly, as a child in slumber. There was comfort in it. She longed to be off her lonely clifftop, walking barefoot on the stretch where stones gave way to sand.

  How pleasant it would be to simply wander, with no companion save for her faithful dog, and breathe in the fresh sea air. Let her troubled thoughts wash away with the tide.

  Pushing open the door to the stables, she found Gerren climbing the ladder to t
he hayloft. He held one lamp in his hand; another hung on a nail beside the cows.

  ‘Where is my rascal, then?’ she called.

  At the sound of her voice, Pompey came scampering across the hay-strewn floor, his tail wagging.

  ‘Been fixin’ to drink milk from Betsey, missus,’ Gerren drawled. ‘Had to fetch un a dusting.’

  Louise knelt down and let Pompey clamber onto her. ‘Oh dear. I trust you were not too harsh on him?’

  But she knew Gerren was soft-hearted towards the animals; he had a calm manner that drew them to him. Besides, he was a skinny whip of a thing. Eleven years old, or twelve at most. He lacked the strength to cause any real damage.

  ‘What do it matter, missus? Beast don’t mind a word I say, dustin’ or no.’

  She laughed for the first time that day. Was it odd that she envied Gerren and his night here amongst the animals, breathing in their tang and the sweet warmth of hay? Despite the modern comforts of her room and the decorations Mama would have adored, it still did not feel like home.

  However, the landscape was a different prospect. She loved the untamed beauty of Cornwall. How it rose, fell and curved. Its vital breath. Even the granite and moorland were not wholly bleak; here and there were flashes of vivid colour. Mines pocked the county like a honeycomb, yet they did not spoil it.

  Towns were all very well, but she knew she would struggle to return to one now. How artificial it would feel. She belonged out here, where the only order was that of nature itself.

  ‘Tell me, Gerren,’ she said, as she fondled Pompey’s silky ears. ‘Were you bred in this area?’

  ‘Aye, missus.’

  ‘And is there a stretch of beach where one might walk, unmolested, without the tide cutting them off?’

  The lamplight flickered on his face. ‘Away from the caves?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said emphatically. ‘As far away from the caves as possible.’

  Never before had she committed an act of such daring. To walk alone, by night, with only Gerren’s lamp to guide her! But she did not experience the thrill of misbehaviour; there was no shortness to her breath and her pulse came steady. There was a calmness to this beach on the north side of the cliff. As silver moonlight played upon the water, it was impossible for Louise to feel anything except serenity.

  Even Pompey appeared pacified, trailing behind her. He did not caper after the waves. Once or twice he cocked his head at their two shadows, thrown against the cliff face by the lamp, but that was all. Smells absorbed him: millions of tiny nuances to which Louise was insensible and always would be.

  She held her lantern higher. Clumps of seaweed lay upon the beach. A few puddles remained where the tide had been and gone and their still water reflected a sprinkling of stars. Who could imagine Creeda, or anyone, facing horrors in a place like this? It was beautiful, eternal. She regretted their cave on the other side of the cliff. An ugly scar on the landscape, marring the peace with sickness and death.

  Pebbles tinkled down behind her. She heard Pompey’s paws scrabbling over shale. What was the little scoundrel about now?

  She swung the lantern around. The dog was facing the cliff. He looked as if someone was offering to throw him a ball: backing up before darting forward, impatient. Had he seen a bird nesting in the rocks? No matter how high she raised the lamp, she saw only the rough stone. But Pompey’s gaze remained fixed.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He planted his feet square. A growl rumbled in his throat, and suddenly he barked.

  The sound that answered him took her breath away. It was like branches breaking, but there were no trees here, only the valerian growing in the rocks.

  The rocks.

  One thudded down, dark as a lump of coal. It landed with a spray of pebbles beside the dog. Everything was sliding, melting. A landslide.

  ‘Pompey!’

  He whimpered.

  ‘Pompey, run!’

  Another creak.

  She could not move, could not tear her eyes away. She would have to watch. She would have to watch another one die.

  Black spots crowded into her vision. There was a great whump, and she felt a gust of wind sweep over her, taking her glasses with it.

  It was impossible to see clearly now. As she squinted, one of the shadows seemed to expand and lengthen into something tall and thin. Pebbles stung her arms. The last thing she saw before a cloud of sand engulfed her was the dark shape, falling over Pompey.

  Pain rang at her elbow. Coughing, she wiped a hand over her gritty face. Sand was in her hair, on her lips, up her nose. The lantern had gone out. She let it drop.

  Before her lay a small mound of rubble, indistinguishable in the gloom.

  Pompey.

  Tears tracked their way through the sand on her face. How had it even happened? Surely, landslides only occurred in heavy rain? The night was clear, if cool, the moon sailing free of clouds. It should not be possible.

  It should never be possible for one person to lose so much.

  Her spectacles lay half buried at her feet, their shape jutting through a thin layer of sand. She scooped them up. The frame was a little bent. A hairline scratch marked the left lens, but when she settled the wires back over her ears, she could see perfectly well. She was not sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

  Louise took a deep breath, readying herself for what she must do. Then she heard the cough.

  Her heart leapt. ‘Pompey?’ But it was not the shallow cough of a dog. This was deeper – a sound she knew well. The consumptive choke. It came again, harsher this time. Foolishly, she thought of Kitty. All the long-forgotten childhood stories of ghosts and spirits came back to her. ‘Is . . . is someone there?’

  Pompey yipped.

  The rush of hope shook her more fiercely than the landslide had done. Crying out, she leapt forward to the pile of debris.

  Most of it was sand. She moved what stones she could and dug. First, she saw the shirt – one that she had sewn herself, drenched in mud. The man was lucky – he had caught the very edge of the cascade where the scree was thin.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she spluttered through the sand in her mouth.

  ‘Nah. I’m a hard nut to crack.’ Despite these brave words, the voice that spoke them was strained and hoarse. Louise dug faster.

  ‘Here.’ She tapped the man cautiously, unsure which part of his body she was touching. ‘This way is up. I am digging from here.’

  He began to writhe. She heard him trying to dig too, and the clink of Pompey’s collar. At last she caught glimpses of the space within: a smaller, darker cave.

  There was a scuffling sound, and Pompey’s head burst from the hole she had made. His ears pricked up; he looked delighted with himself.

  ‘Pompey!’ She lifted him out, receiving a barrage of licks to her face. She ran her fingers through his matted fur, searching for a wound, but there was nothing. Not a scratch upon him.

  The reason for that soon became clear. As she put the dog down and recommenced her excavations, she saw the man inside the little hollow was crouched on his hands and knees. He had thrown himself bodily over Pompey as the cliff crumbled, taking the force of it himself.

  ‘Harry? Is that you?’

  He turned slightly, wincing as he did so. ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Her nails were cracked and the muscles in her arms were screaming, but she managed to move the last few rocks and haul the man up.

  The sight of him terrified her. He had broken his nose and was half blinded with blood. His glistening, almost translucent skin had bruised purple and yellow like the flowers on the clifftop.

  ‘Here, lean on me. Can you climb out of this hole? It is just a short way.’

  He was not heavy, for a man. She felt the bones beneath his skin as she pushed him before her.

/>   A sorry sight the three of them made on the moonlit beach, spluttering, trellised in salt and sand. Their clothing was ruined. Pompey ricocheted between his mistress and his rescuer, keen to lick off every trace of their adventure.

  The oily black waves rushed in calmly, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Come, let us wash your nose in the salt water. Careful, it will sting.’

  He obeyed without question, letting her guide him to his knees in the surf and cup water over the wound. He did not flinch as she expected.

  ‘What were you doing all this way from the cave? Does my father know you are walking about?’

  ‘You’re very welcome, I’m sure,’ he replied sourly.

  She cursed herself. ‘Do forgive me. Of course I am beyond grateful that you saved my dog. Words cannot express . . . But truly, I worry that you are hurt.’

  His face twisted. ‘Hurt? I’m dying. You know that.’

  The wonder was that he could talk at all after taking such a knock to his weakened frame. Sharp collarbones rose up from the neck of his ruined shirt, reminding her painfully of the collection of hare bones Creeda had found.

  ‘Have you so little faith in our treatments?’

  Harry wiped the blood from under his nose. He looked more unwell by moonlight, without the flush and sparkle. ‘They might give me a bit longer. But a cure for consumption? You’ll sooner find a hen with teeth. I’ll keep living each day as if it’s my last – if it’s all the same to you.’

  Her shoulders were trembling. The shock, perhaps, and the chill of the sea.

  ‘The span of your days will be shorter if you do not rest,’ she explained, rising and dragging her sodden skirts with her. ‘Why are you on this beach? Were you . . .’ Another shiver took her. ‘You were not following me?’

  Harry laughed and was instantly racked with a coughing fit. He doubled over, spitting something into the water before straightening up.

  ‘No doubt the lads do follow you, miss. But I’m afraid I an’t one of your conquests. It’s the caves.’ He pointed to a narrow cleft in the rock face, some two hundred yards behind her. ‘They run all the way through, if you know which way to go. I come here often.’ In an undertone, he muttered, ‘God knows there’s no sleep.’