The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  I expect Creeda to be offended, to shout back. But not a muscle moves in her face. She merely looks sad, a priest before unrepentant sinners.

  ‘Don’t you listen, Hester Why? They want offspring. A woman young enough to bear them.’

  ‘They cannot be very powerful fairies,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Barren. Stopped by backwards clothes and a line of salt.’

  Rosewyn presses a finger to her lips and makes a desperate hushing sound. ‘Shh! You mustn’t speak of them that way!’

  ‘They are not real, miss. I may speak of them in any manner that I choose.’

  She shakes her head, solemn. ‘They listen.’ Her arms tighten about the doll. ‘They listen and then they punish.’

  Chapter 28

  Eighty-six.

  The lock clicks, but I do not remove my hand from the key. Cannot.

  There is no doubting it this time. Candles burn in the sconces on the wall, flooding the corridor with light. Nothing could be clearer. The dial on Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom door has turned all the way to eighty-six.

  For a moment, I stare. Then I begin to laugh.

  The entire house is mad. From the maids in the kitchen to the simpleton trapped in the nursery, it is all completely and utterly mad.

  I walk alone in sanity – and I am the one foxed on a mixture of laudanum and gin!

  The wind howls and ravens about the house, crashing the branches of the ash trees together. The waves roar back. They are wild creatures, these elements. They will tear one another apart.

  Removing the key, I place it in my apron and stumble towards the east wing. Nausea treads upon my heels. It has grown steadily worse since my conversation with Creeda – if indeed, you can refer to that as a conversation. It was more like the ravings of a mad woman.

  They punish, Rosewyn said earlier. Certainly, I am being chastised. But my foes are not fairies, jabbing with their tiny hands. The wretch that has brought misfortune upon me is none other than myself.

  I open a door to find I have accidentally walked into the room Lowena shares with the cook Mrs Bawden. The housemaid sits on the edge of the mattress, tying her black hair in rags ready for bed, and my abrupt appearance makes her start. Apologising, I lurch back into the hallway to seek my own room. Am I really so inebriated? I must be. Yet my temples burn and my mouth is dry. That is usually a sign I have not drunk enough.

  Another door gives way and this time I lumber into the correct chamber. The silvery moonlight is alive with shapes. My own shadow stretches, monstrous over the bed. Already the moisture is welling up and turning to vapour, I feel it cling to my arms, breathe against my cheek.

  Falling to my knees beside the bed, I reach for the key to my trunk – but my trunk is already open.

  The room spins.

  Feverishly, I grope through the contents, past the bloodied travelling dress and the newspapers.

  The snuffbox has gone.

  A strangled gasp escapes me. I search again and again, my hands moving faster each time. I am about to tip the whole thing upside-down when it hits me: the travelling dress and Sir Arthur’s advertisement were at the top of the open trunk. I did not leave them there.

  Someone knows about me. They have read the advertisement mentioning the snuffbox and taken it for evidence.

  I grab for the chamber pot and vomit. Little food has passed my lips. The liquid that comes from me is bile.

  Why, oh why, did I keep the blasted clipping?

  ‘Poor thing! What ails thee?’

  I whip around as if stung. Merryn stands in the doorway, holding a candle.

  Merryn.

  Those bright eyes, those busy hands. I knew sharing a room with this girl should be my undoing.

  Wiping my chin, I put the pot down and struggle to my feet. The world slants away; Merryn’s candle dips and sways before my eyes.

  ‘You!’ I fling the word at her. ‘How dare you?’

  Her jaw falls slack. She gapes at me like an idiot.

  ‘You have opened my trunk! Is it not enough that I must share my bed with a lowly scullery maid? Am I to have no privacy? These are my things. Mine. Keep your grubby hands off them.’

  Merryn’s shoulders start to quake. ‘I never . . .’ she whispers, ‘I never would.’

  ‘Then who? Who else would be in my room, going through my personal property, but a scullery maid? Tell me, what is your wage, Merryn? Pitiful, I expect. You thought to supplement it with the snuffbox, didn’t you?’

  She looks frightened. ‘I an’t a thief.’

  ‘You are a sneak! What did you think of the advertisement? Is it a fair description? Are you in a way to be thankfully requited?’

  ‘Please, miss, I don’t—’

  ‘You must tell me what he gives you. Of course he did not write specifics – or did he? I do not recall, the words will be fresher in your mind, having read the advertisement so recently—’

  ‘Miss!’ she shouts. ‘Thee be mistaken! I cannot read.’ A dreadful pause follows. Merryn’s chest rises and falls. All I can hear is the sound of her laboured breath. I am suddenly and terribly sober.

  Of course she cannot read. No doubt Lowena cannot either. And it would take a good deal of heft to break the lock upon my trunk. Merryn’s arms are thin.

  ‘I . . .’ I begin, at an utter loss. I cannot take the words back. The moist air still drips with their venom. ‘Merryn, forgive me, I do not know what . . .’

  A tear slides down her cheek.

  I am a brute, an absolute brute.

  This girl has shown me nothing but kindness.

  ‘I am so sorry.’

  Her bright face snaps shut. She blows out the candle and drops upon the bed.

  In vain, my jumbled mind tries to piece the conversation back together. How much did I reveal? Whatever the actual words used, I have admitted to keeping a secret locked away.

  Fumbling in the darkness, I pack the contents back into their rightful order, push the lid down tight. Silver gleams back at me. The lock is not broken, as I had supposed. There is no damage at all.

  I have never left it unfastened. Never would – my life depends on its integrity. There is cunning at work here. Someone has picked the mechanism – perhaps the same person stealing in and out of Miss Pinecroft’s room, turning the dial.

  But who?

  Try as I might, I cannot repress the image of fairies, their slender little arms groping through keyholes.

  Merryn has turned her back to me; her body stiffens as I climb carefully into bed. It is excruciating: her hurt seems to prickle through the sheets.

  Outside, the sea huffs and frets.

  I know I will not sleep tonight. When I close my eyes, there is a number etched on the back of the lids. Eighty-six.

  Chapter 29

  Never did a weary slave bless heaven so fervently for the Sabbath day. They have all left the house: the lunatic Creeda, Rosewyn and her doll, Merryn with her dejected countenance. For a few hours, I will be free of their reproachful looks.

  Only Miss Pinecroft remains, opposite me in her wingchair. Though she went to bed in her own chamber again last night, she does not appear to have slept. Her white eyelashes are stark against the bloodshot orbs beneath.

  My own health remains poor. Breathing has become an exertion. Now, more than ever, I wish that Miss Pinecroft would allow me to light a fire.

  I picture the fire in the kitchen, blazing merrily, its light shining on Merryn’s face, and my stomach lurches with guilt. She has not spoken to me since Tuesday evening. Even in this house, amongst the friendliest staff I ever met, I have found a way to sour the atmosphere. Yet for all their kindness, one of them is against me. They have taken the precious snuffbox. They can literally hold my dearest memories and my life in the palm of their hand.

  Mrs Quinn showed a good deal of curiosity abo
ut my luggage when I arrived, but surely, if she had seen the contents, she would have dismissed me immediately? The advertisement, the dress drenched in blood: these are not sights to keep concealed.

  Mrs Bawden, Gerren and black-haired Lowena present themselves to my mind’s eye by turn, but deep down I know there is only one suspect. Only one person in this house could have committed the vile act.

  The curate knocks on the front door. When I open it, I am surprised to see the sky is metallic and sleet is falling; ice crystals bounce from the rim of Mr Trengrouse’s hat.

  ‘Come inside, sir,’ I urge him, stepping aside.

  ‘It is starting,’ Mr Trengrouse tells me. He brushes spots of white from the shoulders of his greatcoat. ‘The real snow has finally arrived. In a few hours, the paths will be impassable. I must not stay for long, Miss Why.’

  I take Mr Trengrouse’s coat, hat and gloves. They are colder even than my hands. ‘At least stay for tea, sir. Drink something warm before heading back.’

  There it is again – the smile that lights up the room. ‘Thank you. You are all goodness.’

  If only that were true.

  He is more conscientious in his religious duties this week. He keeps reading to Miss Pinecroft as I blunder in with the tea tray, scarcely able to hold its weight, and prays while I prepare three cups. It is a pleasure to hear the lilt of his voice, educated, with only the slightest trace of the local accent.

  Miss Pinecroft takes her tea from me with her bandaged hands. ‘Take care,’ I whisper. ‘Please do not hurt yourself again.’

  ‘Are those scratches from the broken cup last week, Miss Pinecroft?’ Mr Trengrouse asks as I go to fetch his tea. ‘Unfortunately, ailments do linger, the older we get. We are fortunate to have Miss Why looking after you. No doubt she will have you back to full health in no time.’

  I pass Mr Trengrouse his cup. ‘But are you unwell also, Miss Why? You look pale.’

  I turn my face away. ‘I am . . . not myself.’

  ‘Should you not go and lie down?’

  Even if I did, I would not sleep.

  Sitting beside him, I cradle the warm cup in my hands. ‘I have my duties, sir.’

  He watches me intently with those gold-flecked eyes. ‘Whatever will my sister say if I allow you of all people to neglect your health?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ I seize the change of subject eagerly. ‘Do tell me how they all get along at Exeter.’

  ‘Better,’ he announces happily. ‘Much better. As you know, the progress is bound to be slow, but the physicians are pleased. It is only unfortunate that this snow will keep Polly away for another week at the least.’ He sips his drink. ‘Pity me, Miss Why, with my household of children. I shall be run ragged. Three boys and two girls, all under the age of ten.’

  I picture Mr Trengrouse before a hearth with a gaggle of red-headed children about his knees, and wonder what it must be like, to share a love like that. A comfortable, steady affection that does not consume all it touches.

  ‘I was . . . very fond of a child once.’ If I close my eyes I can still feel him, leaning against my leg, sense the small, hot hand that reached for mine. ‘Robert.’

  ‘One of my nephews is also named Robert.’ He blows on his tea to cool it. ‘I suspect your charge has grown into a fine young man by now. Alas, our Robbie looks set to be the worst kind of blackguard. Stealing apples from the orchards, always pushing his sisters.’ He grins. ‘He is but four years old. I have hopes of reformation.’

  I cannot return his pleasantry. The child has bobbed to the surface of my mind. Not cherubic as he was in life: instead his cheeks are stiff, the eyes sunken. Was it my fault? Can I be such bad luck that I simply drained the life from him?

  I take a breath, gather myself. ‘I confess, it sometimes feels as if we have a child here at Morvoren House. Do you know Miss Rosewyn?’

  Something flickers in his face. He seems momentarily unsure of what to say. ‘Yes. Indeed I do. She is a . . . pure spirit.’

  Miss Pinecroft twitches.

  ‘Can you tell me her age?’

  His charm re-emerges. ‘Really, Miss Why, a gentleman would not enquire.’

  ‘Of course not. I merely wondered if there was anything I could do to assist her. As a nurse. I presume she has always been . . . well, I do not mean to say deficient, for she is very bright, but . . . I received the impression there was some . . . affliction. You cannot tell me its nature?’

  Mr Trengrouse regards me thoughtfully. At last he says, ‘It is true she is a little unusual. You haven’t encountered any problems with her, have you?’

  ‘Problems? No. I believe she requires only kindness and understanding.’

  ‘I knew it,’ he smiles. ‘I knew the moment I saw you at Exeter that you had a good heart.’

  I nearly splutter a mouthful of tea.

  He takes it for embarrassment, rather than the guilt that it is. ‘Forgive me for speaking so warmly. But you see, others have been less sympathetic towards the poor lady.’

  I wipe my mouth. ‘Who?’

  Mr Trengrouse darts a glance at Miss Pinecroft. She is not drinking her beverage, but neither is she watching us. I wonder how the world must appear to her without her spectacles. Blurred.

  As if she were underwater.

  My throat grows tight.

  ‘I say this in confidence,’ Mr Trengrouse whispers. ‘Mrs Quinn would prefer not to have it spoken of, but you are an inmate of this house after all. It’s only just that you know.’ He wets his lips. ‘Your mistress has not always required a nurse. For many years her needs were ably met by Mrs Tyack—’

  ‘I have never heard of this person.’

  He blinks his brown eyes. ‘Mr and Mrs Tyack. You do not call them that? Perhaps amongst the household staff they go by their Christian names.’

  We both avert our gaze, discomforted at the reminder of our difference in station.

  ‘Of course you mean Creeda,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Yes. Well . . . Creeda, as you say, only recently became unable to cope with all her responsibilities. A nurse was sought. Locally.’

  My mouth tastes as if I have bitten into something sour. Even now, I cannot push down my umbrage. It hurts me to think I was not the first choice.

  ‘I should have thought,’ I say stiffly, ‘that Mrs Quinn would have informed me if my position had been previously occupied.’

  ‘Please do not be offended!’ he cries, looking panicked. ‘I do not say this to make mischief. It’s a compliment to you. Other applicants for this role were horribly prejudiced. Your predecessor, for example, would not stay on account of Miss Rosewyn.’

  I shoot him a quizzical look.

  ‘It is true. She was an affected, hysterical miss. I do not mean to be unkind, but there it is. She said that poor Rosewyn frightened her! Can you imagine that? When all she had ever shown the nurse was her usual sweet affection?’

  The strange history of my employment begins to make sense. Did I not wonder why Mrs Quinn should advertise so far afield? That she should be willing to pay the expense of my journey here by Mail coach? I remember how awkwardly she behaved when I first heard about Rosewyn. How she had omitted any mention of her from the correspondence.

  If it were Creeda who had caused the issue, I would understand. Any young woman might take exception to her. But perhaps the last nurse was not brave enough to name the real culprit and made an excuse. She had the choice to leave. I do not.

  Creeda will hold the snuffbox over me like an axe, ready to drop.

  Tea slops into the saucer as my fingers quake.

  ‘But you,’ Mr Trengrouse is waxing on. ‘You, Miss Why, are infinitely superior in both skill and moral fibre. It’s obvious to me that you have no other goal in life but to care for your fellow man.’

  Shakily, I raise the teacup to my lips.<
br />
  Stop.

  I want to drop it, to cast it away from me, but I cannot. My hands will not move.

  ‘Miss Why?’ His smile melts. ‘Are you unwell? What a brute I am to have kept you talking, I did say that you looked pale . . .’

  I turn to him in mute appeal. Yet the confusion on his brow, the sheer lack of horror, make me tremble all the more.

  He cannot see what I do. It must be a trick of the laudanum, the effect of too much gin, but it looks so gruesomely real, staining the china, reeking of iron and rust.

  I am holding a cup full of blood.

  Chapter 30

  Turpentine, sage, vervain, comfrey and plantain: my father’s ‘arquebusade water’ for cleansing gunshot wounds. Miss Pinecroft has suffered her injuries in a different kind of battle from the soldiers Father treated. No cannon or musket fire; the weapons are more subtle. I douse her cut hands, smooth on some balsam and wind them in lint. Can these really be the same scratches? They seem to reopen each night.

  My mistress knows. Whatever it is, inside this house or on those cliffs, she has seen it.

  ‘Did someone hurt you?’ I whisper.

  Her thin shoulders tremble.

  The china room may as well be buried underground. Even when I step behind the curtains, my view is that of a white barricade. There is no beauty in the purity; it is so white that it burns.

  I shake as one with the ague. Shapes swirl and merge before my tired eyes; when I look at the porcelain figures, their cheerful faces are replaced with skulls. Another glance shows me my error, but I cannot be sure that the death-heads were never there. I cannot be sure of anything at all.

  Walking to the plate rack, I pick up the one with the faulty Willow pattern. The two figures on the bridge seem further apart today. Untethered, drifting away from one another. When I put it back, my fingertips are coated in dust.

  ‘I need to clean the china,’ I whisper, turning urgently to Miss Pinecroft. ‘Is all this happening because of the china?’