The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  Hesitantly, he held the book towards the flames. Pulled it back.

  He remembered that day in Falmouth. Yearned to be again the man who searched its stalls and purchased this book. A man focused on the future, envisioning a new horizon where consumption was no more.

  Much as he tried, he could not swallow the idea that it was truly over. How could it be that he had wanted it so much, worked so hard, and still not found the cure?

  He had believed greatness was within him. Still believed. It was his destiny to go where others would not. If only he could turn the key, unlock the answers . . .

  What was it Creeda had said? A new way of seeing.

  Ernest raised his eyes, searching.

  He could see nothing through the smoke.

  Chapter 35

  Morning light stroked Louise’s closed eyelids. Sound crept back into her awareness: waves frisking, the squall of gulls. She had always risen from bed and dressed of her own accord, rather than waiting for a servant to wake her, but today she was weary.

  Pompey shifted his weight where he lay at her feet. His first stirrings of impatience, reminding her it would soon be time for his food. Papa would be up from the caves, expecting his own breakfast, and she would have to accompany him back to that terrible scene . . . But Harry would be there.

  His smile.

  She found the energy to open her eyes.

  The blue dimity curtains were still closed around her bed, tinting the space with sapphire hues. Louise could take no joy in the effect. She felt as though she were drowning.

  She pushed herself up against the pillows and heard a rustling crunch. Pompey raised his head.

  ‘What . . . ?’

  She reached behind her. Nothing. Her hand groped beneath the pillow, found something scratchy and rough.

  When she drew the object out, she saw it was part of an ash tree. A few twigs and their long, slender leaves. Pompey padded over and sniffed at them as she stared in tired bemusement.

  How had they got there? It could be no accident. They were neatly cut. Who would put . . . She sighed. Creeda, of course.

  Did she not have enough to concern her without the maid’s foolish tricks? No doubt it was well meant. She remembered now, speaking to Creeda on the day she arrived. How Creeda told her to put ash leaves under her pillow to dream of her future husband.

  ‘But I dreamt of nothing,’ she whispered to Pompey, handing him the twigs to chew. ‘Nothing at all.’

  It did not signify. She had never really expected, never wanted . . . She must be very tired still. There was moisture in her eyes, and a dead weight in her stomach.

  Angry with herself, she pushed her plait over her shoulder. It was time to stop moping. With more force than was necessary, she threw open the curtain to the bed.

  Screamed.

  Her father stood there.

  Or something like her father. A cruel, brutal imitation of him.

  He wore no stock, no waistcoat. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows. Dirt and dried blood mottled his arms. There was no pretence at fastening back his hair now; the ribbon had vanished.

  ‘They were taken!’ he cried.

  Pompey growled.

  ‘Taken,’ he muttered again, putting his fingers to his lips. The nails were bitten and tipped with dirt. ‘It makes sense. They were getting better. They were getting better.’

  Tentatively, Louise climbed out of bed and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was burning up. ‘Papa, you are unwell. You must rest. Go to bed. I will see to the men.’

  ‘Men!’ he scoffed. Hectic colour suffused his cheeks. Beside them, the rest of his face was as white as marble. ‘Are they? I made them well . . .’

  Making him sit on the bed, Louise put on her spectacles, threw a cloak over her shift and pulled on yesterday’s stockings. Her hair was quickly bound up and concealed beneath a cap – it would have to do. Jamming her feet into some slippers, she put her head around the door and bellowed for Creeda.

  Papa was still mumbling. ‘A switch. That must be it. They waited, waited until I cured them, and then traded the men. I succeeded, but . . .’

  Louise went to him and clasped his hands. There were tremors in them. She had heard rambling like this before. Not the exact words, but the tenor. Any minute now, she thought, he will cough.

  She could not endure it. Could not even let the understanding enter her mind – she held it at a distance, hovering on the brink of a precipice.

  ‘The sudden decline . . .’ he went on, addressing no one. ‘And Louise. Louise said the mark vanished from Harry’s hand.’

  ‘Louise is right here, Papa.’ She knew he did not hear her.

  Both Creeda and Gerren appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Dr Pinecroft is unwell.’ She was amazed how serene and authoritative she sounded. ‘I need you to put him to bed and make him something to eat. Beef tea, if you can.’

  Papa shook his shaggy head. ‘No! No food.’

  ‘You must try, dear Papa.’

  He broke into a wheezing cough.

  Louise closed her eyes. Harry had asked if she was afraid of catching consumption; she realised that the answer had always been no. This was what she had feared; this was the worst that could possibly happen.

  And it had.

  ‘I will care for him,’ she said, her voice firm despite the tears that started to flow. ‘I will make him well. Gerren, fetch me . . . But the men!’ She gasped. ‘They are down there in the caves, suffering . . .’

  ‘They switched them while I slept . . .’ Papa choked.

  It was like being torn in half. What would Papa want her to do? Although it revolted her every feeling, she knew. He would say that the men were his work, his good name. He would desire them and his reputation to be saved above all else.

  ‘I must go to them,’ she breathed. ‘If only for a little while. Watch over him, Gerren. Promise me you will run down to fetch me if there is the slightest change in his condition.’

  Gerren hesitated. ‘To the fairy cave?’

  ‘Promise me.’

  He nodded. ‘Aye. For ee, missus. Anything.’

  She took one last look at Papa, sitting deadly still beneath Pompey’s nosing and fussing. Then she ran from the door and down the stairs as fast as her feet would carry her.

  The beach wore a different aspect that morning. Louise felt she was seeing it for the first time. The grey rocks, hazed with moss and the droppings of birds, were ancient, unyielding as death. How arrogant it was for a mortal to strive against nature’s order. How utterly hopeless. The sick would die; the tide would come in.

  Her slippers squelched on wet sand. That terrible cough reverberated off stone, warning her away. But even if she returned to the house, it would be there, awaiting her.

  She stepped into the cave’s shadow. It reminded her of a tomb. She had taken only four steps inside when Harry appeared out of the darkness and seized her shoulders. ‘Louise!’

  This time, she did not correct him.

  He looked half wild. The bruises on his face had paled and the swelling around his nose was reduced, but that only served to display his panic more clearly. The dilated pupils, the strained brow: everything was suddenly and achingly human.

  ‘The doctor, he just—’

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘He just upped and left!’ Harry exclaimed. ‘Left them to die.’

  ‘He did no such thing. I am here, I will do whatever needs to be done.’

  He released her shoulders, seeming to notice that she was not properly dressed. It was not a leer that crossed his face, but something softer, something made of confusion and longing.

  She wrapped the cloak more tightly about her. ‘Who ails?’

  ‘Tim’s blisters have gone green. The stink . . . And Chao. You can’t . . .’ He placed one ha
nd on the back of his head. ‘Louise, I heard the rattle in his chest. I think he’s done for.’

  ‘There must be some way.’

  ‘I cleaned them up as best I could and gave them that – what is it? The white stuff.’

  ‘Calomel?’

  ‘Just a bit of it in brandy.’

  She saw the misery of the last few hours etched into him, but it was comforting to know she was no longer alone in her torment.

  ‘You have been helping them,’ she realised. ‘Looking after the others.’

  ‘I told you, I’m a fence. Not a monster. But I don’t know the things you do. They need a nurse.’

  Grabbing her hand, he led her across the slippery rocks towards the hut that had belonged to Michael. Michael was not in it now. All four men lay stretched out on the stone.

  ‘Couldn’t keep running between huts,’ Harry explained. ‘And the smell – I thought they might be better where the air could blow it away?’

  She squeezed his hand, sensing his need for reassurance. ‘You did right.’

  But who could say whether that was true?

  Bending beside Seth, she remembered his words about the Seven Years’ War and wondered if there had ever been a battlefield equal to this. Tim had lost complete control of his bowels. None of them seemed to recognise her. Fever shook their limbs, while their eyes were vague and glassy.

  For the first time, she felt thoroughly powerless. There were too many of them and she did not know where to begin. She could bathe their brows, she could give them water – but that was all. Harry might not be a physician, but his instinct was right. Death had made his mark.

  From nowhere, Seth’s gnarly hand shot up and seized her cloak. He pulled her close, so close that she could taste his bitter breath. She must have screamed, for the sound ricocheted through the cave.

  ‘Louise.’ She did not realise he had known her name. ‘Louise, don’t let me die.’

  The rocks, the patients – everything seemed to blur, as if someone had removed her spectacles. These were not Seth’s words – they were Kitty’s. The same look, the same words, the same inexorable cough. She was going to faint.

  ‘Let her go!’

  Hands grabbed beneath her armpits, just in time.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. She could not hear her own voice, so she said it again, louder. ‘I am so terribly sorry.’

  It was like a magic lantern projection: one moment she was swooning against Harry, the next someone had changed the slide and she was bent over on a cane chair, her forehead pressed to her knees. Her spectacles sat crooked on her nose.

  ‘Drink this.’

  She uncurled, ever so slightly. She remembered holding a cup such as this for Michael, that day early on in the experiment. The way his blood had dripped into the milk and turned it red. A poisoned chalice.

  ‘No!’ A wave of dizziness went through her.

  ‘Easy! It’s only water. I cleaned it out.’

  Reluctantly, she allowed him to coax the rim between her lips and tip the cup. The water tasted stale, but it did make her feel better.

  She lifted her head.

  ‘Not so quick,’ Harry scolded. ‘An’t you ever dropped before?’

  Louise blinked as the world before her undulated and finally settled. They were inside a hut. This one, though, was not piled with filth. Perhaps it was Harry’s own.

  ‘No, actually, I have not. I am not prone to fainting fits.’

  She turned to him, expecting to see contempt in his face, but there was none. He looked as if he might pass out himself.

  ‘It’s enough to set anyone off,’ was all he said.

  Barely knowing what she did, she reached out and took his hand. It felt warm, alive, responding to the pressure she applied.

  ‘The way Seth spoke . . . It reminded me of my sister. My sister went the hardest of them all. They say consumption is a kind and gradual death, romantic somehow. It was not so for Kitty.’ She should not be saying these things to someone with the disease, but she did not seem able to stop. ‘My little brother left softly enough. With Mama there were gasps. Her hands, clawing at the bedsheets as she fought for breath. But Kitty . . .’

  Kneeling down beside her chair, Harry took her in his arms.

  There was an instant when she stiffened, the respectable Miss Pinecroft still. But then she heard the men outside, their lungs working like bellows, and pressed her face deep into the linen of his shirt.

  ‘What am I going to do, Harry? What on earth am I going to do?’

  Beneath all the terrible odours of the cave, she caught the essence of him, something musky and masculine and real.

  ‘Nothing to be done. We can’t save them.’

  Four lives lost. The last dregs of Papa’s reputation would go with them. What then? Humiliation would kill him if the consumption did not. She was only twenty years old, but when she thought of her future it was like staring into a deeper darkness. This hated, diabolical disease. Why could it not just take her, along with everyone else?

  Harry’s shoulder hitched against her cheek. ‘I thought I could tough it out, tried to make myself ready. But when I see what it’s doing to them . . .’ His voice cracked. ‘Maybe I’m white-livered after all.’

  She tightened her grip on him, her fingers burrowing into his back. ‘You might not . . . Perhaps . . .’

  ‘Don’t,’ he whispered. ‘It’s useless. We both know it.’

  Louise released him and sat back. He looked so young kneeling beside her. What a waste it was. Such meaningless, breathtaking waste! All these lives destroyed and nothing gained, no cure discovered, no cause furthered.

  ‘The thing is . . .’ He struggled. She saw his eyes filling with tears. Blue, today. A clear, flawless blue. ‘Now it comes to it . . . I don’t think I ever really lived.’

  She leant forwards and pressed her lips to his.

  It was a second before he responded. But then his mouth was moving, warm and soft, belonging a hundred miles away from this awful place.

  Her heart began to throb, insistent. It was beating still. She was here, for now. Harry was here.

  They clung to one another for dear life.

  Chapter 36

  A persistent drip awoke Louise from her sleep. Beneath her head was a hard, cold slab that sent twinges of discomfort down her neck.

  She was in the cave.

  She started up with a cry, groping for her spectacles. What time was it? Impossible to tell from the weak light in the hut. She might have been out for hours. She could not believe herself. Had she really slept while the men suffered outside?

  That was not all that she had done.

  She turned to look at Harry. He slumbered on, his back to her. She had a sudden memory of his skin moving against hers, and shivered.

  A moment of madness. Desperation. Yet she felt more ashamed of deserting the men and Papa, even for a short time, than of taking comfort in his arms.

  She thought that she would feel altered, afterwards, but there was no difference. No difference in the least. She brushed down her skirts and climbed to her feet with a wince. All the value that was put upon virtue and there was so little to the act. Now she knew.

  Faintly, from beyond the walls of the cave, came the slap of water against rock. It sounded playful, but that was a deceit. The cliff face suffered; that was why it looked so stern. Wave after wave, blow after blow, relentless, interminable. The sea gradually ate away at the cliff’s defences, the same way misfortune was chipping away at her own.

  One of the men spluttered.

  They needed help. She reached out to Harry, shook his shoulder to wake him.

  Something was wrong.

  She snatched back her fingers. Their sensations, their feel for temperature must be at fault. They must.

  Holding her breath, she touched hi
m again. He did not feel like flesh. His shoulder was icy and solid.

  She pulled at him and he rolled over, a dead weight. Glazed blue eyes stared beyond her. The lips, which she had so lately kissed, were no longer red, but grey and lifeless.

  It could not be. It could not possibly be.

  ‘Harry,’ she said.

  She did not expect a reply. Yet still she kept shaking him, saying his name.

  ‘Harry!’

  He was the one patient able to function. The healthiest. He had shown no signs of decline.

  ‘My God,’ she gasped, realising. ‘I killed you.’

  Jerkily, she pulled on her cloak and stumbled towards the door. Her body felt numb, would not listen to her commands. What had she been thinking? In a moment of selfish weakness she had seen him as a man, not an invalid; she had overtaxed him and now . . .

  The other men’s coughs hit her. She swayed slightly, watching them writhe and twist. All alive. How could they be alive when Harry . . .

  She had not heard him die. She had been right there, and she had not even woken up. He must have passed without a sound. Not like Mama, not like Kitty . . .

  ‘Oh God.’ Her knees went slack again, as if someone had cut the tendons behind them, and this time there was no Harry to hold her up. She grabbed at the wall of the cave, scratching her hands. ‘Papa.’

  Until that moment she had thought only of her own loss. But these men were dying. Harry was already dead. Her father’s experiment was utterly doomed and she would have to convey the message. He would hear the death sentence of his career from her own lips.

  Somehow she persuaded her legs to walk. She had lost her slippers. Scattered pebbles on the beach pressed into the soles of her feet, but that seemed too trivial a thing to concern her. Fresh air blew cold against her face and she realised it was damp with tears.

  She had never been one to despair before, but as she reached Morvoren House, she was aware of being broken at last. For a moment she paused outside the door, trying to catch her breath.

  It swung open.

  Papa stood there in his nightshirt. He had pulled breeches over it without properly fastening the buttons. His legs were stockingless, his feet bare.