The House of Whispers

by Laura Purcell

  Something splinters and I am falling forward, my arms turning windmills.

  Pain rips through the soles of my feet.

  I cannot get my bearings. Such a confusion of sound: the ocean, the wind and a crunch like eggshells against the side of a bowl. Somehow, beneath it all, I hear the strangled anguish in Gerren’s throat.

  I stumble to a halt just inches before the mantelpiece and its display of china.

  No. Not a display. There are no vases, figurines and teapots: the china has . . . hatched. It is the only word I can think of.

  Everything lies in fragments. Moonlight spills through the open curtains. As I suspected, the window stands wide, admitting the salt breath of the waves.

  ‘Creeda.’

  I turn to face the wingback chair and what I see takes my breath away.

  Silver rays wash over one side of her, the side with the blue eye. It barely appears human. She has been scourged, raked with tiny thin lines like the teeth of a comb.

  But she is still alive.

  Gerren kneels, clasps her.

  ‘Half in, half out,’ he whispers. ‘They nearly took ee.’

  It cannot be. I have spent every day in this house decrying her words as nonsense . . . But I can almost sense them: a procession of unseen people on the air, teasing the curtains to a frenzy, scattering the wreckage of the china.

  ‘I have salve,’ I ramble. ‘Lavender, comfrey . . . We must get her upstairs.’

  Creeda’s brown eye moves sluggishly to focus on me. Its stare is more dreadful than that of the other, bloodshot and scratched. Although her lips remain still, I hear her voice.

  Rosewyn.

  My heart seems to stop.

  How long have I left her alone?

  Shattered china covers my path to the door; I ran over it, barefoot, as I fell into the room. Picking my way back hurts even more. I track bloody prints down the corridor, into the white expanse of the stucco hall.

  Even Mrs Bawden, the cook, is awake now. I see her descending the staircase with Mrs Quinn, dithering about what they are to do. How to fetch the lawyer in weather like this? Is it too unkind to ask the girls to wash the body? They say Rosewyn will not inherit directly. It will all be held in trust by the Tyacks.

  I push past them. One of them calls after me, but I cannot stop now. A terrible suspicion is forming in my mind: that it was true. Every deed I have taken for madness, cruelty, vile superstition – perhaps all of it was true.

  The sheet is thrown back on Rosewyn’s bed. The mattress yawns, empty. She is not there, not in the room. Guilt doubles me over. It is my fault. Like a fool I left her and followed the light. If she is hurt . . .

  My mind completes a frantic tour of the house, seeking a logical answer for where she may be. Would she go to my room to seek the snuffbox? Sneak down to the kitchen for sweetmeats? Perhaps she is visiting the animals in the stable? They are the straws a drowning woman clutches at. I grab them, all the same.

  Dragging a pair of her stockings over my bleeding feet, I search the wardrobe for a dress. They are all far too short for me, and wide in the shoulders, but I pull one over my nightgown so that I may venture outside if necessary. I must find her before she comes to harm. Before Mrs Quinn realises I have lost her.

  The servants’ wing lies deserted. Merryn and Lowena are shut up together, weeping audibly. The room I once slept in houses nothing but the damp. Spinning on my heel, I take the stairs again, feet throbbing with every step. I can see the red prints where I have walked before. The sight of them makes me shudder.

  In the west wing there is commotion: Mrs Quinn and Mrs Bawden have found the grim tableau of the china room. Ignoring their cries, I turn towards the kitchen.

  Scents hang in the air: burnt fat, cinnamon. By day this space is cheerful and warm, the only part of Morvoren House that is. It feels as if its heart has stopped beating, leaving everything desolate. Rosewyn is not here.

  Did I truly expect her to be?

  Another life on my hands. She was innocent, kind. She trusted me.

  Swallowing tears, I jam on a pair of Gerren’s discarded boots and open the back door. Feathers of snow swirl. Despite them, the temperature has risen, ever so slightly. The icicles hanging from the ash tree drip. I start to walk.

  A light burns in the stable block, guiding my way. My heart leaps. Gerren was sleeping in the house, he did not ignite this.

  Rosewyn has childish ways; I can imagine her doting upon the animals and bidding them goodnight. Please, please, I pray, let her be there.

  Gasping for breath, I reach the door. Push. It is unlocked.

  Hooves stir against straw as I enter. The pony tosses up its head. A hanging lamp illuminates the space between the stalls and a broom, fallen from where it leant against the wall. There is no sign of her.

  ‘Rosewyn?’ I whisper.

  Footsteps sound in the shadowy corner. They are not hers – they are too heavy, too firm.

  Fear seethes in my stomach. I hold my breath as a tall male figure emerges slowly into the light.

  Chapter 43

  It is like the sea: the rushing and roaring in my ears, the undulating lines obscuring my vision. I open my mouth, but the words have run dry.

  ‘Please don’t be afraid, Miss Why. It is me.’

  As my eyes adjust to the lighting, I see a dusty greatcoat and red hair tangled with straw. Breath returns to my lungs.

  ‘Mr Trengrouse? What are you doing here?’

  He surveys my eccentric clothing as if he might ask the same question. A strange pair we make, shivering in the lamplight with chickens scratching around our feet.

  ‘Did Mrs Quinn not tell you? The snow was too thick for me to ride home. Since there are no spare beds in the house, I was sleeping in the hayloft, but then I heard—’ He stops and chuckles, struck by the absurdity of the situation.

  I think I might cry. Suddenly the last few hours are a burden too great to bear. Shall I tell him of Miss Pinecroft’s death? He should probably be in the house, helping. But now I have found him, I do not want to let him go.

  ‘You can ride a horse?’ I demand.

  All his amusement fades. ‘Well . . . yes, Miss Why.’

  ‘You could saddle it up right now?’

  His grey mare snorts from her stall, as if in protest.

  ‘I do not understand . . .’ he begins, brushing off his coat.

  ‘Mr Trengrouse, Rosewyn is missing. I have searched all over the house. She must be somewhere outside, in the snow.’

  ‘Great God.’

  In a moment he has retrieved the bridle from its peg. The mare tosses her head as he darts into the stall and slides the bit between her teeth. I too feel as if I have something cold and metallic in my mouth.

  ‘What direction has she taken?’ Mr Trengrouse asks urgently.

  ‘I do not know . . .’

  ‘There should still be footprints. Only Mr Tyack and I have been about outside Morvoren House today. The snow will hold her tracks.’

  ‘The snow is beginning to melt,’ I fret.

  He heaves the cloth and saddle onto the mare’s back, starts to tighten the girth. ‘She will not have got far. Heat some blankets, start to make tea. I will have her back before you have finished—’

  ‘But I am coming with you!’

  My cry is so sharp that the mare flattens her ears.

  ‘Coming with me?’ Mr Trengrouse drops the saddle flap. ‘Absolutely not. You will catch cold, Miss Why, it is not the weather for a lady—’

  ‘Rosewyn is out there!’ I cut him off again. ‘If she can survive, so will I.’

  He shakes his head.

  He may be a man and my superior, but he is younger than me. I will not let him dictate. If he thinks I am going back inside Morvoren House to tell Mrs Quinn that I have lost my charge, he is mistaken
. I cannot fail another mistress. This is my last chance.

  ‘You saw me on the Mail coach, sir. You know I am no milk-and-water miss.’ He opens his mouth, but I do not give him the chance to speak. ‘Suppose Miss Rosewyn is hurt? If she needs medical attention and you cannot move her? What shall you do then?’

  He flounders. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to return here and—’

  ‘Wasting precious time! And even if, God willing, no harm has befallen her, what makes you think she will agree to come with you? She knows me, she trusts me.’

  His shoulders slump and I know that I have won.

  Dawn is a crimson slash on the horizon. Morvoren House appears innocent and beautiful. Snow on the rooftop, ice laced around the pebbles. A mansion cradled like a jewel between the bare branches of the ash trees.

  You would never dream of what goes on behind those walls.

  The mare is warm and sweet-smelling. Her back is wider than I expected; it feels curiously alarming to jog along, astride, clutching Mr Trengrouse around the waist for all I am worth.

  We have just gained the top of the slope when he reins back. ‘Look. There, at the rear of the house.’

  I peek over his shoulder. Putting the reins in one hand, he points at the window to the china room.

  Someone has closed the sash. Beneath it, the snow is pocked, dotted, like a trail of freckles over the bridge of a nose. The marks straggle around the side of the house and away, off into the distance.

  Did Rosewyn climb out of that window?

  Mr Trengrouse nudges the mare on and follows the tracks.

  I rest my cheek against his back and try to make sense of what I have seen. In my panic, I’d assumed Rosewyn had been taken. Spirited away, without a trace. But that was not how Creeda described it. Pixy-led, she said. Just as that orb led me to Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom.

  The mare inhales and snorts. I feel it run the length of her body.

  If Rosewyn was in the china room . . . She must have seen what happened to Creeda. Panicked, and fled through the only available exit. The poor thing will be terrified.

  Diamonds of moisture bead the mare’s mane as it flutters in the wind. Though I will never admit it to Mr Trengrouse, I am thoroughly chilled. This winter has lasted an eternity. It feels like a spell that started with the poisoned cup in Hanover Square and will never, never break. I try to imagine the spring: the flowers, the birds, the whole world coming up for air. I cannot. It seems like an impossible dream.

  The mare’s hooves fall silent in the snow. Without my noticing, the sun has edged further across the horizon, setting the sea aglitter. It does not look so far away now. If I reach out my hand, I think I could touch it.

  ‘Great God.’

  The words run up Mr Trengrouse’s spine. My own grows rigid.

  The mare comes to a halt.

  A figure stands on the cliff edge, looking out to sea. Her unbound hair and the white skirts of her nightgown yearn towards the waves. One step forward would send her into the abyss, but she is perfectly balanced, halfway between life and death.

  Rosewyn.

  ‘She will fall!’ Mr Trengrouse cries as he throws down the reins.

  I am ahead of him, already slithering off the mare and stumbling through the snow. My throat aches to call her name, but I know I must not startle her.

  The ground is slick and icy near the edge. Slowly, I make my way towards Rosewyn, marvelling at how she managed to do this in bare feet. The tips of her toes have turned blue.

  ‘Rosewyn,’ I whisper softly.

  When she turns, her face is serene. As if she expected me, all this while. ‘I found her,’ she says.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  She points down.

  Cautiously, I peer. Her doll is spreadeagled on an outcrop of rock, its china face reduced to powder.

  This must be where the caves are. For now, the beach is swallowed by the tide, as if it had never been. Should Rosewyn fall, she will plunge straight into the ocean – providing she does not hit the rock first.

  ‘Never mind. Come away from there. We will get you another doll,’ I promise.

  Rosewyn shakes her head. There is a terrible rattle as pebbles fall down the cliff. ‘Creeda told me never to go this far. But she can’t stop me now. I’m going home.’

  ‘I will take you home. Get on the pony and—’

  ‘No.’ She gestures to the chasm below. ‘My other home.’

  Her words chill my very bones. ‘Fairy land?’

  ‘You get there through the water.’

  My eyes are fixed on her outstretched hand. If I could grab it, quickly, I might pull her back. I take a breath, muster my courage. And then I notice her fingernails.

  They are broken. Bloodied and torn.

  Rosewyn closes her eyes. ‘She’ll never lock me up again.’

  Forty years of captivity. Four decades of being kept as a child. Anyone might snap, smash their captor’s beloved china and flee.

  But Creeda is still alive. Holding the estate in trust.

  She will claim she was attacked by fairies. And if I contradict her with my own suspicion . . . Rosewyn will be branded worse than simple: she will be dangerous. I would be dooming her to another life of imprisonment elsewhere.

  Gently, I pull her a step back from the edge. ‘What would it take, Rosewyn? To stop Creeda from locking you away?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. She doesn’t . . . It’s the fairies! We have to please the fairies. They’ve got men. Now they need a girl. A girl to make their babies.’

  Lady Rose’s stained dress flashes across my mind.

  I push her back another step. ‘But that does not mean it must be you, Rosewyn.’

  Her lower lip wobbles. ‘Can’t you hear them calling me?’

  I listen, but I do not hear fairies. I hear something else.

  Non lo dirò col labbro. Lady Rose’s aria, her pure voice.

  My eyes drift from Rosewyn to the waves.

  A humbling sight. That vast power and expanse, able to give life, able to take it. I have seen the ocean grey, ink black, once green as a mossy tree. This morning it sparkles blue. Spray leaps, playful and teasing, where once it was hostile.

  ‘Your friends would be sorry to lose you, Rosewyn. You may not care for Creeda, but what about Mrs Quinn? Merryn?’

  She hesitates. ‘They can’t stop the fairies.’

  Mr Trengrouse is wading uncertainly towards us through the snow.

  I turn back to Rosewyn and seem to see clearly for the first time.

  The two of us, side by side. I am wearing her dress. It is not turned inside-out.

  ‘What if someone went in your place?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Answer me. If the fairies got their woman, would Creeda stop?’

  She sighs. ‘It would all stop.’

  I guide her further away from the edge. The waves beckon with their clean white foam. Surely it could not hurt, to fall into their embrace. One might slumber, peaceful, in the untroubled deep.

  Snow crunches behind us. There is a cry of ‘Miss Rosewyn!’ and then Mr Trengrouse engulfs her, clasps her arms to her sides.

  Rosewyn wails. ‘Please don’t lock me up again!’ She writhes, but he is strong.

  ‘I have hold of her, Miss Why! We will . . .’

  He keeps speaking, but I can no longer make out his face. The world is turning to water around me; ice beginning to thaw.

  At last, at last. I can let go.

  ‘Miss Why?’

  I will drown out the past, I will make amends. Rosewyn will live free at Morvoren House and I . . . I will no longer hear my lady. No voices of the dead; only bubbles.

  ‘Miss Why, come away from the edge!’

  The sun is rising.

  I look over
my shoulder and smile. Strands of my hair fly upon the breeze to wave farewell.

  Rosewyn stares in wonder, safe within her saviour’s embrace.

  ‘They need me,’ I say.

  And then I take the step.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my agent, Juliet Mushens, and my editor at Penguin Random House, Victoria Savanh, for helping make this version of my novel a reality.

  I honestly would not have made it through the last year without my husband Kevin picking me up when I fell down. He earns the most important thanks of all for his unending supply of patience and all-round goodness.

  I would also like to acknowledge the people, both living and dead, whose work has contributed towards the content of my story. The understanding of consumption, or phthisis, from the Georgian era until the discovery of the tubercle bacillus in 1882 was both confused and confusing. My ‘radical’ Dr Pinecroft wrestles with some of the theories debated during the Victorian era, and so after his time, but most of his reasoning is based on the work of Thomas Beddoes published in Bristol during 1799, the treatment undergone by George Ill’s daughter Amelia between 1809 and 1810, Primitive Physick by John Wesley (1747) and Pharmacopoeia Extemporanea by Thomas Fuller (1710). It may interest readers to know that Dr Pinecroft’s ‘bold notion’ of a cave colony also had a real-life inspiration. In 1839, the American doctor John Crogan opened a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients in Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, believing the steady climate would benefit them. His experiment ended in failure in 1843.

  While bone china was being produced as early as the 1740s, the formula used by my fictional Nancarrow factory was actually discovered by Josiah Spode and introduced to the world in 1796. I do not mention the exact location of Morvoren House in Cornwall, since it is a place entirely of my invention. However, I drew inspiration from a visit to Carlyon Bay and Charlestown, the harbour of which was built specifically to ship china clay. Further west, one of the first china-clay setts was opened on Tregonning Hill – not many miles from Rinsey Head. Since writing this book, I have discovered the existence of the iconic house built on this clifftop location. Although it was constructed in the early twentieth century, it fits my image of Morvoren House wonderfully!