The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Come here. To the door.’

  She does not even look towards it. Her hands fly up to cover her ears. ‘I mustn’t listen to you!’ she wails.

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, louder. ‘Miss Why.’

  A pause.

  ‘Miss Why?’ she repeats. Her hands remain clapped to her ears. ‘You were angry at me.’

  ‘Pray forgive me, miss. I was not truly angry. I was . . . frightened.’

  ‘I am frightened,’ she bleats.

  ‘I know.’

  Slowly, she unfolds. Taking a quick survey of the room, she scuttles across the floor on her hands and knees until she is sitting right before me. Her blue eye peers back through the keyhole.

  ‘You must not upset yourself,’ I continue soothingly. ‘All that noise downstairs . . . It was nothing to be scared of. Miss Pinecroft came over unwell, that is all. It was a shock and something broke.’

  ‘Was it fairies? Did the fairies hurt her?’

  ‘No. I was there the entire time. I saw nothing.’

  How I wish that were true. It is still printed on my mind: the faulty plate and the painted figure thrashing in the water. But Rosewyn has no need to hear of that.

  ‘I want her,’ she moans.

  ‘Soon. I will take you to visit your guardian as soon as I can . . .’ Helplessly, I work the door handle. What is to be done? I may be a thief, but I am not one by trade. I cannot pick a lock.

  We are interrupted by the sound of a latch and hinges squealing. Wind gusts from the entrance hall below. I jump as Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom door slams shut.

  I hear boots. Gerren’s voice muttering something, and then Mrs Quinn, much louder.

  ‘Lord bless you, Mr Trengrouse! You’ll have caught your death of cold. Come inside, quickly!’

  Has Mr Trengrouse really trudged all the way back through the snow with Gerren?

  ‘How is Miss Pinecroft?’ he pants. ‘Does she live?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but the fit has weakened her. She don’t seem to know us.’

  ‘Poor lady. I fear I shall not be of much use – you have Miss Why, after all – but I would pray over her, if you will let me.’

  ‘We’d take it kindly, sir. Come, give me your things. I’ll dry them before the kitchen fire. Goodness, they’re frozen stiff. Let me fetch you some tea. ’Tis so good of you to come, sir.’

  I climb to my feet. ‘I will be back, Miss Rosewyn.’

  Her whimper rises once more as I walk away.

  Back in the toile-de-Jouy chamber, my mistress lies motionless, the blink of her white lashes the only sign she is still alive. Her breath is grainy. Full of sand.

  Mr Trengrouse taps gently on the door and enters, bringing the scent of frost with him.

  This is the first time I have seen him without a smile. It has not been an easy journey for him, that much is clear. Snow forms a tidemark at his knees; his boots are coated in a thick white crust.

  ‘Miss Why.’ He bows. ‘I am so terribly sorry that this has happened. I came as soon as I could.’

  I clench my hands around the band of my apron, feeling like the imposter I truly am. I hate for him to see that I have failed yet another mistress. Up until now he believed I could cure anything: the angel who leapt from the coach to save his brother-in-law.

  ‘Who is watching the children?’ I ask.

  ‘My housekeeper, same as when I come on a Sunday.’ We stand shoulder to shoulder, looking down on Miss Pinecroft as if she were already in her coffin. ‘She thought I had lost my wits to come out in this weather.’

  ‘You are all goodness, sir. I doubt anyone else would rush to our assistance.’

  Miss Pinecroft stares up at us. God forgive me, she reminds me of the pilchard in Mrs Bawden’s Stargazey pie.

  ‘Dr Bligh would be here too, but for his age. He cannot ride through the snow.’

  Although my mistress is often silent and still, there are people who care for her well-being. It makes me feel as though I am being slowly crushed. I was the one meant to protect her. Didn’t I vow to make amends for my past? Yet here she is, stretched out and gaping like a landed fish.

  My own incompetence sickens me.

  ‘Please, Mr Trengrouse.’ I grab at his sleeve. ‘I must talk to you. I need your help . . .’

  His face registers alarm. ‘Of course. I shall help you in any way I can.’

  After a brief hesitation, I dart to the door and close it. This is not proper. I should not be behind a shut door in a bedroom, with a man, but I cannot risk being overheard.

  ‘Whatever is the matter, Miss Why?’

  ‘It is this house!’ I burst out. ‘Oh, Mr Trengrouse . . .’ The sight of his dismay causes me to stop and gather my breath. ‘Forgive me, sir. I have not slept. I am so afraid for my mistress and poor Miss Rosewyn. You have compassion for Miss Rosewyn, don’t you? You said yourself . . .’

  Gently, he takes my shoulder and guides me to the easy chair. ‘Yes. I am very fond of Miss Rosewyn. But what’s all this? Has she distressed you in some way?’

  I sit down heavily. ‘No. Creeda has. Creeda is keeping her prisoner! Even now she is crying behind a locked door. Surely, such measures cannot be warranted?’

  Mr Trengrouse frowns. His gaze flicks between me and the figure in the bed, torn.

  ‘Please try to calm down, Miss Why. Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? Perhaps at times Miss Rosewyn is too boisterous and can be a danger to herself.’

  ‘It is not that,’ I insist. ‘It is cruelty. Can we not appeal . . .’ My head swims. No doubt the guardians who signed Rosewyn over have long since perished, and she is not a minor, but there must be someone responsible for her welfare? ‘I am sure no charity would wish to see Miss Rosewyn in such hands. Can’t you tell me where she was adopted from?’

  ‘That all took place long before I was born, Miss Why.’

  ‘But there must be records. Was she on the parish? As the curate you must at least have a list of the places nearby that care for orphans.’

  He bites his lip, will not meet my eyes. ‘That is the crux of the problem. There are no such institutions around here, Miss Why.’

  I do not understand. He is shifting his feet in embarrassment and keeps glancing at Miss Pinecroft, as if to ask for her permission.

  ‘She came from somewhere. Would Dr Bligh know?’

  Mr Trengrouse releases a slow sigh. ‘Dr Bligh . . . Dr Bligh was here at the time, yes.’

  ‘Then I will go and ask him.’

  He puts out a hand as I attempt to rise from my seat. ‘In this weather, with your mistress so unwell?’

  ‘It is a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Please, Miss Why.’ His voice gets louder. ‘It is . . . delicate.’

  I stare at him. ‘Please, sir, tell me what you know. You owe me a debt. Or at least your brother-in-law does.’

  He hangs his head, thinks. ‘I shall tell you,’ he decides. ‘In confidence. Only please promise me you will remain calm and stop all this talk about running outside.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  He exhales. His brown eyes flick back towards the bed before he comes round to the side of my chair and kneels beside me. ‘I do not wish to speak slander,’ he whispers. ‘Remember that gossip is rarely true. But Miss Pinecroft does not seem long for this world and . . .’

  I nod impatiently.

  Still he struggles. ‘You see, Dr Bligh was acquainted with Miss Pinecroft, briefly, when she was a young woman. They met to arrange the burial of her father – the plaque is still in our church. Even then her health was not strong. She didn’t venture out much, except with a small dog. He says that she had a squint.’

  So her obstinacy over her glasses is of long standing.

  ‘Then, as now, she was a woman of few words,’ he continues. ‘I believe her father died wit
h some sort of shadow over his name. After the funeral she shut herself away.’

  ‘So how would she have learnt of Rosewyn’s plight to adopt her in the first place?’

  ‘Ah . . . That is where it becomes rather unclear. There was no warning of the child’s arrival. Only Mr and Mrs Tyack worked at Morvoren House back then. I don’t suppose anyone local would have learnt of Miss Rosewyn’s existence, had Dr Bligh not become concerned and decided to call. He was sent away pretty sharp, but he gathered that the dog had died, Miss Pinecroft had suffered a fit and there was a baby in the house.’ He pauses. ‘It pains me to say this, Miss Why. I don’t wish to shock you. But I understand – that is to say, that Dr Bligh never heard of a wet-nurse being summoned.’

  I catch sight of the blue chair beneath my skirts. China blue, like Miss Pinecroft’s eyes, like Rosewyn’s . . . Understanding rushes upon me. I have often reflected that I do not know who my mistress was or what she did in her youth. There must have been a fall, an indiscretion.

  Rosewyn is her daughter.

  I regret promising to stay calm. This is my saving grace. I may have failed Miss Pinecroft, but I can still help her daughter.

  I can see it all so clearly now. How the birth must have brought on Miss Pinecroft’s first debilitating fit, leaving Rosewyn in Creeda’s clutches. Rather than taking on the role of housekeeper herself, Creeda employed others – people she could intimidate and control – so that no one would interfere with her monopoly over the child. She has cultivated the heir so that when Rosewyn inherits, she will do whatever Creeda wants.

  Unless I put a stop to it.

  ‘If this is true,’ I say slowly, mindful not to sound indelicate. ‘If I understand you, sir, then protecting Rosewyn is vital. She is a gentlewoman’s daughter and should be treated as such.’

  ‘But we have no proof,’ he reminds me softly. ‘And even if we did, the revelation would ruin the good name of mother and daughter alike. I don’t even know if Mrs Quinn would stay on here if she thought there was anything . . . disreputable about the family. Please promise you will not breathe a word of it.’

  ‘It is our secret, sir. But I can assure you that Creeda’s actions are more reprehensible than any hushed-up scandal.’

  I turn it over in my mind. Mrs Quinn is the only person in this house with the authority to remove a member of staff now that my mistress is incapacitated, yet I cannot imagine her dismissing anyone, least of all Creeda. How can I make her see the injustice taking place right under her nose? Convince her that it was almost certainly Creeda’s strangeness, not Rosewyn’s, that made the last nurse quit?

  It is a dangerous game to play. The newspaper stashed away in my trunk flutters before my eyes. If, as I strongly suspect, it was Creeda who broke the lock and read it, she may counter my accusation with one of her own.

  I swallow.

  Mr Trengrouse offers me his hand. ‘Come, Miss Why. We’ll find a solution. But for now we must think of poor Miss Pinecroft. Let us pray together.’

  He helps me to my feet and escorts me over to the bedside. Miss Pinecroft is just as I left her, but my perception of her has changed. My fancy irons out her skin, travels up to tint the white hair that spreads over her pillow like a thick cobweb. Trapped inside this body is a young woman who had a pet dog, a lover, even a child. She may be cold like a porcelain figure, but there is warmth within.

  Has she heard us, whispering about her? Can she hear me now?

  I stroke her hair away from her ear, lean down and press my lips to it.

  ‘I will help your girl,’ I whisper. ‘Do not fret. This time, I promise you, I will not fail.’

  Chapter 41

  Hour laps over hour, and Miss Pinecroft’s condition does not change. I am the one who grows worse.

  I have brought my trunk back upstairs. I thought that my hip flask and the clean taste of gin would help me, but it doesn’t. Alcohol merely confuses the passage of time. I could not say how long I have sat here in the chair beside her bed, my back aching and my eyes filled with those endless patterns of blue.

  Even when I look away, there is no comfort. The newspaper I bought last week is spread over my lap, open at the vital page.

  ‘A rash and melancholy act.’ That is what they call it. No doubt they wished to spare Sir Arthur’s feelings. But if it was a fit of lunacy, as the coroner’s court declared, would Lady Rose have gone to that exact spot on Westminster Bridge? Would she have weighed all her pockets down with stones?

  It was the baby, I try to tell myself. The loss of another baby that unbalanced her, and that was mainly Burns’s doing, not my own. But the voice of conscience will not be silenced. It says I might as well have stood behind her and pushed her into the water with my own two hands.

  She was a kind mistress. Why had that not been enough for me? I could have spent my life in her service. Watched her flourish, and her children after her. I did not need ownership to adore her, I could have done that from afar. And in her own way, she would have loved me.

  But I always wanted more.

  You ought to give things to the one you love. Not take, as I have done. The snuffbox and the dress are the least of my spoils. I took her child, her servant and confidante, her trust. She had no family to comfort her. Only Mrs Windrop’s barbed glares and the awkward ministrations of Sir Arthur.

  I weep in silence.

  There are so many I have failed to save. Old Mrs Wild. Robert – God, dear little Robert Farley! Miss Gillings survived, but that was no thanks to me. I killed Lady Rose and I am responsible for the fit that has felled Miss Pinecroft.

  Am I truly cursed? Why do I damage all I touch?

  Snow paws against the window, pleading to be let in. Gradually, the sound calms me. Reminds me of something . . . Not a person seeking entry.

  Rosewyn, trapped in her room, trying to get out.

  Unsteadily, I gain my feet. They are cold and numb. Miss Pinecroft sleeps, one vein pulsing through the onion-skin of her neck. I may leave her for a moment.

  In the corridor it is brighter. A few of the candles are lit, but night has not yet fallen. Outside, the iron-grey sky bleeds into the pewter waters below. It is unclear where one ends and the other begins.

  I suppose it must be late in the afternoon. Somewhere, one of the maids is brushing a hearth. Beneath the scrape of her brush I hear another sound.

  Hairs stir on the back of my neck. It is not the angelic singing from before – this is human, raw. A tune I know well by now: the sound of a female crying.

  I follow it to the staircase. Rosewyn sits halfway up the steps, bent over on herself. They have finally released the poor thing. Her hair covers her face in a tangled curtain, her gown – still inside out – is crumpled and showing her calves. It is a childish posture, but there is nothing immature about the sobs heaving from her chest. They sound like those of a full-grown woman. She is a full-grown woman, I remind myself.

  Carefully, I sit down beside her on the cold marble step and place a hand on her shoulder. She tucks herself in tighter, a hedgehog curling in on itself.

  ‘Take comfort, Miss Rosewyn. I know you are worried for your . . . guardian, we all are. She has been very ill but I will do everything I can. Perhaps now you would like to come upstairs with me and visit her?’

  One red-rimmed eye peeks through a gap in her hair. ‘Do you have her?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Did you take her, because I had your snuffbox?’ She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘I do not know what you mean, Miss Rosewyn.’ I look around, noticing her isolation. ‘Where is Creeda?’

  A fresh wail breaks from her lips. ‘Don’t tell her! She’ll be so angry. I am meant to keep it with me, always.’

  ‘Are you talking about your doll?’

  ‘I had her,’ she sniffs. ‘I was tired, I needed to sleep. She wa
s right under my arm. But when I woke up . . .’

  ‘She must be somewhere in your bed. Shall we go and see?’

  ‘I looked!’ she retorts, indignant. ‘I looked everywhere.’

  Her voice echoes back at us.

  Creeda emerges from the corridor leading to the china room. She looks older than she did, that beak of a nose dominating her face. If she is surprised to find us sitting here, she does not show it.

  ‘You don’t have your doll, Rosewyn.’

  Rosewyn flinches. ‘I lost her!’ she gabbles. ‘I lost her, but it wasn’t my fault.’

  Creeda drops her head, as if she has the weight of the world on her back. ‘Then it’s as I feared.’

  Surprised, perhaps, by the quiet tone, Rosewyn peeps up beneath her fringe. ‘You are not angry with me?’

  ‘Angry, child? No. This is what we had the doll for. We gulled them. They’ve taken her and not you.’ She releases a long sigh. ‘But they’ll realise. They’ll come back.’

  I feel Rosewyn’s shoulder shiver against mine.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I hiss. ‘It is a lost doll. It will probably turn up in a press or beneath a bed.’

  Creeda grips the iron banister and begins to mount the stairs. Her smile is bitter, carved into her cheeks. ‘Come, Miss Why. You’ve seen them, haven’t you?’

  My skin crawls at her proximity. ‘I saw you cutting off a lock of my hair at night.’

  She nods, unashamed. ‘A protection charm.’

  I place an arm around Rosewyn’s shoulders. Can delusions be infectious, I wonder? They carry no effluvia but they seem to spread gradually, wine in water, changing the colour of a person’s mind.

  ‘I believe Miss Rosewyn does need protection, but it is not from goblins and ghouls.’

  Creeda turns both eyes on me. It is the blue one that expresses her indignation. ‘Don’t you dare interfere with—’

  She is forced to stop when Mrs Quinn waddles through the baize door. Despite the earlier chaos, our housekeeper looks her usual cheerful self. Her only concession to Miss Pinecroft’s illness is that she has taken the ribbon out of her cap. ‘What’s this, then?’ she asks. Then she sees Rosewyn’s tears and my sombre face, and her mouth opens. ‘Oh no, Miss Why. Don’t tell me the mistress . . .’