The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  She stares straight at me. For the first time, I see a real woman behind those cold blue eyes.

  ‘Tell me!’ I drop to my knees beside the armrest and clutch at her shawl. Surely, there is a part of her, a small part still awake that can answer me? ‘The music, the dripping – do you hear it too? What about the lights?’

  Shakily, she places a hand on top of my head.

  ‘What do you see in the china, Miss Pinecroft? Is it blood? I saw a cup of blood . . .’

  ‘Him.’

  I fall back as if she has hit me. Her hand still hovers, mid-air.

  ‘A . . . a fairy?’ I stutter.

  ‘Him,’ she rasps again.

  And then I hear the song.

  It drips into the ear, siren-sweet. This sound could lead me through fire; it could lead me to the ends of the earth. I feel it in my very marrow.

  ‘What is . . .’ I gasp.

  But Miss Pinecroft has departed as quickly as she arrived. Her blue eyes fog over, she turns towards the china display and I have lost her once more.

  She cannot hear the music.

  I must know. Everything within me yearns for an answer. Juddering to my feet, I begin to follow the sound.

  The stucco hall rings like a crystal glass. Poseidon stands in his alcove and his expression is triumphant. Entranced, I mount the stairs, not pausing even to lift my skirts.

  Can it truly be a thing of horror that radiates this sound? I remember what Creeda said of the fairies – how they sweep people away to their land flowing with honey and milk – and I think: why resist? Do people really fear being transported from this cold world to one of sunshine and song?

  At the top of the staircase, I turn towards the west wing. The melody runs right through me, a thread pulling tight. At the end of the hallway, Rosewyn’s door stands open.

  I do not want to break the charm. With infinite care, I place one foot in front of the other. My steps make no sound. Only the sea pulses in the background, accompanying the song.

  Elves of the night, enchant my sight

  Your forms to see in moon and sunlight.

  This is not Lady Rose’s voice, but there is a taste of it, a shadow. As if she might be using the lips of another.

  With this spell and with this sign

  I pray thee forward my design.

  My pulse spikes. This is not right. The sweetness is turning, like milk in the sun.

  Yet still it draws me onwards.

  I cross the threshold to Rosewyn’s room, treading in salt. The fire burns high.

  She sits at her table, as I saw her before, crooning over a small item in the palm of her hand. There is a flash of pink and gold.

  For a moment, it seems I am dreaming. But then she glances up and I am awake, ripped from the spell as if I have been doused in freezing water.

  Rosewyn is holding my lady’s snuffbox.

  ‘Put that down! Put it down this instant!’ I scream, actually scream at her, torn by anger and terror. She blinks at me, her lower lip wobbles. There is no song now, only the crack of flames.

  Blinded by fury, I stomp over and snatch the box from her grasp. Rosewyn cries out.

  ‘Please God, please God.’ I search for marks. There is nothing. It remains pristine, warmed by Rosewyn’s touch.

  I close my eyes and try to breathe.

  How has this happened? What can it mean? That it was Rosewyn who picked the lock on my trunk, went through my things?

  I thought her soft-brained and innocent. But she has shredded the Holy Bible to pieces, singing of elves and spells while she does it. The last nurse feared her. Is the salt in the doorway to keep something out . . . or to keep her in?

  I open my eyes to see her flushed, her cheeks slick with tears.

  She too is afraid.

  I clear my throat, attempt to soften my voice. ‘Miss Rosewyn . . . Wherever did you get this?’

  Miserably, she points to the door.

  ‘In the east wing? In my room?’

  ‘No, just there.’ Her throat bubbles. ‘Past the line of salt.’

  I follow her finger and see Creeda, framed by the open doorway. She has crept up on us like a cat.

  Hurriedly, I drop the snuffbox into my apron, but it is too late. She has seen it.

  The unmatched eyes flick from me to Rosewyn and back again.

  ‘They do leave her gifts, sometimes. They’re always trying to tempt her out from where it’s safe.’

  ‘I didn’t cross the salt,’ Rosewyn whines. Creeda glances down at the white line scattered like spindrift, and raises a sceptical eyebrow but Rosewyn points at me. ‘She did it.’

  Creeda bends. A joint cracks. Ignoring it, she begins to sweep the salt back in place with her hands. ‘You should know better, Hester Why.’

  I shift uncomfortably. Even after all I have seen and heard, doubt is leaking back in. This is my snuffbox, my secrets are at stake. If human agency is involved, I need to know.

  ‘Who leaves Miss Rosewyn gifts, Creeda?’

  She does not look up. ‘The little people, of course.’

  ‘Well, this was not theirs to give. It is mine. A . . . very dear person gave it to me.’

  Creeda snorts. ‘They won’t mind about that. All they do is take.’

  A log pops on the fire. Glancing over to the mantelpiece, I see the little jug of milk or cream still in place, its contents freshened.

  ‘Oh, that,’ she says, as if she has followed my gaze. ‘That’s to distract them, should they get inside. Same as the doll.’

  Rosewyn seems to notice she is not holding the toy and snatches it up from the floor, eyeing Creeda timidly.

  ‘What about the doll?’

  ‘A likeness of the child. It confuses them. They don’t know which one to take.’

  Having finished her task, Creeda unfolds and steps cautiously over the line of salt into the room. She does not dust the granules from her hands. They cling to her palms.

  A dull throb beats at the base of my skull. I wish I had seen a phantom, or even a wretched fairy. At least then I would know what to believe.

  ‘Are you saying that pixies have opened my locking-box, taken an item out and left it here for Miss Rosewyn to . . . what? To tempt her away?’

  Wearily, Creeda sits in her rocking chair. ‘Pixies and fairies are different, Hester Why. The sooner you learn that, the better. Now if the little people have some reason to be going through your things and tormenting you, that’s none of my business. But I know they seek the child. Always have. They think she belongs to them.’

  The old trick: blaming an affliction upon the supernatural. A child without the use of its legs, a harelip, a woman with the mind of a girl like Rosewyn.

  ‘Miss Rosewyn is not a fairy,’ I assert. ‘She is not touched by them. It is a malformation of the brain, or else some imbalance of humours . . . The surgeons have not quite confirmed the science but—’

  ‘Hold your tongue, girl, I’m not saying she is a fairy, only that the fairies claim her.’ Creeda starts to rock. The castors of the chair bump against the floor. ‘She came into being in the world that they rule. She was conceived underground.’

  ‘How could you possibly know such a thing? Miss Rosewyn is an orphan Miss Pinecroft adopted—’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what I do and don’t know about this child!’ Her growl does not disrupt the rhythm of her chair. ‘Didn’t I cross her cradle with iron, rub salt onto her gums? It’s been the work of my life to guard her. Nobody knows this child better than I do.’

  ‘She is not a child!’ I cry. ‘Look at her! She is a woman grown.’ Rosewyn does not act in support of my claim; she clutches the doll, watching us in miserable silence. ‘What do you think you are about: keeping her in one room, her clothes in disarray, forcing dolls upon her? She may not have
the full use of her faculties, but this is degrading. It is cruel.’

  Creeda purses her lips, seemingly amused.

  I must leave this room. These crazed women will be the undoing of me.

  When I reach the door, Creeda’s voice scratches, ‘Lock it away with iron and oatmeal, Miss Why. Point the toes of your shoes outwards when you place them beside your bed. I told you, they’re after a woman of childbearing age. Whatever happened to your bible-ball?’

  Purposefully, I plant one foot in the salt. ‘It was a person who unlocked my trunk last week. A meddling baggage of a person.’

  She utters a low laugh. ‘Believe that, then. Believe it if it gives you comfort. You will come crying for my help soon enough.’

  Flicking the hem of my skirts in a shower of salt crystals, I storm from the room.

  Chapter 31

  Miss Pinecroft refuses to retire to bed – very well, I shall stay here with her. Keep her safe.

  Only one candle winks. By its valiant light, I see my breath turn to smoke. The temperature is lower than ever. My gaze cannot help but dwell upon the fireplace and the heaps of ash that might relieve my discomfort. And then I realise: it is always full of ash.

  Where does the ash come from, if she never lights a fire?

  Perhaps I shall discover tonight.

  I have brought my trunk and a blanket down to the china room with me. No one shall invade my privacy again if I can help it. Even the laudanum bottle has been interfered with, the tidemark lower than when I left it this morning. I cannot imagine Merryn dosing herself, but Lowena? Who can say? She is dark, mysterious. I do not really know her. Or perhaps it was Creeda, drawing on the opium’s power to manifest her fairies.

  Miss Pinecroft pays no mind to my rustlings with the trunk, but when I wedge it firmly beneath my chair and spread the blanket over me, she begins to flutter. Her eyes are small, darting fish, torn between me and the china.

  Candlelight renders the collection strange. Shadows spread, darkness trickles down the plates.

  ‘Go to bed,’ Miss Pinecroft orders.

  I shake my head. ‘I am your maid. I will remain with you.’

  Maybe it is the poor light, but I think her chin trembles. As if she yearns for this secretly: company, through the long, cold watches of the night.

  ‘Dangerous,’ she croaks.

  ‘If you do not consider sleeping downstairs a danger to your health, I do not see how it can be to my own. I am many years younger.’

  Miss Pinecroft inspects the curtains, drawn tight against the closed windows, and the racks of plates and the shelf of urns. What she searches for, I cannot say. She glances up at the ceiling. The briefest of actions, but it tells me she has swallowed Creeda’s poison: she too believes Rosewyn is in danger.

  Perhaps she is. Rosewyn, Miss Pinecroft and I: we are all of us in Creeda’s power now.

  Gradually, my eyelids droop, my limbs grow heavy. Exhaustion wraps its arms around my neck and everything solid drifts away.

  At the edge of my consciousness, I can hear the clock tick. My pulse slows to its rhythm.

  I haven’t been able to rest peacefully like this for a long while. No visions of Lady Rose rise to torment me. I can scarcely recall her face. The sweats and pains that plague my body when I do not drink seem a distant memory.

  Was it not terribly chill earlier? The ice has lost its claws. In fact, I can feel sunlight feathering my cheek, playing over my shut eyelids. It is achingly pleasant.

  Until, of a sudden, it is not.

  Something has shifted and the current has turned. There is a sensation of intense strangeness, like that inside Miss Pinecroft’s bedchamber; the same prickling, the same conviction I am being watched. I hear a quick, hissing breath.

  Snip.

  My eyes fly open. They cannot make immediate sense of what they see. Our candle has guttered but another looms close to my head. Something glints. An old face hovers above, shadows sinking into the wrinkles.

  ‘Creeda!’

  My breath extinguishes the flame.

  She is standing with a pair of scissors in her hand. Dropping the smoking candle, she snatches something up off the floor; it is too dark to see what.

  ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’

  Miss Pinecroft observes us; the whites of her eyes shine. She says nothing. She has watched Creeda bend over me with a sharp metal object, and she has not said a word in my defence.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I rage. ‘You opened my trunk, made me think that poor Merryn—’

  ‘It’s for your own good!’ Creeda mutters and turns on her heel.

  She escapes from the room, her dress billowing like black wings in the darkness. A bat, I think. A witch, a mad woman.

  My heart will not stop pounding.

  Miss Pinecroft sighs and shifts in her chair. Her focus returns to the china: pale shapes, bone-white in the gloom. The china that Creeda’s family made.

  ‘What was she doing with the scissors?’ I demand. ‘What did she take?’

  Nothing.

  ‘For the love of God, Miss Pinecroft, I want to help you! Please speak to me!’

  Only my own voice echoes back. Miss Pinecroft is spellbound.

  The skin about my temples tightens. Spellbound. There is something in that. Creeda’s pagan ways, her people manufacturing the china.

  Can a woman control a house, a family, through something as brittle as porcelain?

  I turn my head to inspect the plates, now small moons hanging against the wall. My hair brushes against my neck. I push it back. Pause.

  Now I know what Creeda took.

  She has cut off a lock of my hair.

  Part 6

  A Broken Man

  Chapter 32

  ‘A little to the left. Turn the honeypot. No, the other way. There!’ Ernest stepped back to admire the display of china Creeda had assembled. Mellow spring sunlight reached through the window to caress each piece. ‘Capital!’

  ‘The mode is to put them on a sideboard, sir,’ Creeda said.

  That was what his wife had craved too: a sideboard full of fine china. No doubt her taste was superior. But to his mind, such presentation took away from the colours. When natural light could catch it, the white background was luminous and pearl-like. The blues sang: mazarine, Prussian, one the shade of Bristol glass. By God, he wished she could see it.

  Did she see it, somehow?

  ‘There is no sense in limiting myself to a sideboard when I own such large, empty rooms.’

  ‘Empty rooms in the mermaid house,’ Creeda muttered, turning to the window.

  It did not do to let these asides go unchecked. Lunatics, given an inch, would soon convert it into a mile. ‘I beg your pardon, Creeda?’

  Creeda did not trouble herself to face him. Her gaze remained fixed out at sea. ‘Sorry, sir. No offence. I was just saying, the man that built this house. He called it after the mermaids.’

  ‘Morvoren? Is that what it means in the local cant? I was not aware.’ He rubbed at his forehead, feeling the strain there. This practical chore was meant to be a respite for both of them: distracting Creeda from her mania and him from his overtaxing work in the caves.

  So far, it had not been a success.

  ‘They didn’t take too kindly to him using their name, did they?’

  ‘Come again?’

  Creeda stroked the curtain. ‘The mermaids, sir. Didn’t you hear? Both the man’s ships and all their cargo went down at sea. He was near ruined when you bought his house.’

  ‘Of course I was aware, Creeda,’ he replied wearily. ‘It was a stroke of luck on my part. A mere Bristol physician would not have been able to afford an establishment of this quality, had the owner not been forced to make a hasty sale. Naturally, I pity the man, but this has always been the way of it for
merchants. Not a day went past in town when the coffee houses were not ringing with news of some disaster or the other. But you seem to be implying that the wreck was some kind of . . .’ He stopped for a moment as his brain finally caught up with him. ‘Wait. How did you hear of this story?’

  Creeda was not the kind of girl to blush. She merely lowered her chin. ‘People tell me things.’

  ‘People from your father’s clay mines,’ he finished sternly. ‘How many times must I repeat that you are not to set foot on that property?’

  ‘I don’t go to the mines!’ she flared. ‘I never would. But the people who earn their living there, they talk to me at market. And they’re not like the decorators at the factory. They know things.’

  ‘You are not to associate with them. Mr Nancarrow stipulated that his employees were not to catch wind of . . .’

  He ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps his methods had been too gentle. Though he could not condone the savage practices of the Bedlam doctors, their theory was correct: the mad must be dominated. Forced to submit to the overpowering logic of their physician’s mind. Only in all good conscience, he could not say that he had been the model of logic recently.

  But he was overstimulated. Working too hard. Everything would return to its right course, once he hit upon the cure.

  ‘Do you hear me, Creeda? No more talking with the miners. I insist.’

  Finally, she turned. He could see from the set of her mouth that she was not won over yet. ‘There has been some good come of it, sir,’ she pleaded. ‘One gave me weed.’

  ‘Weeds?’ He repeated, perplexed. ‘As in herbs?’

  ‘No, sir. The discoloured clay no one wants. Weed’s what they call it. I’ve been playing about, throwing it – after my duties are done, of course. Seeing what I can do. You said I should busy my thoughts with practical things.’

  ‘Yes! That is precisely so!’ In his relief he seized upon it a little too eagerly. ‘This is the only transformation that should concern you: mere clay and water into something exquisite. That is real magic, Creeda. Human endeavour. Have you continued to paint?’