The Silent Companions

by Laura Purcell

  Lizzy’s face closed: ‘Yes, mistress.’

  I had done it again. I had treated her like a friend and then thrust her back down to the role of servant. I always do this, and I know she resents it. But what else could I say?

  We are dependent on the King. Josiah has fine blood – his mother was a dowager countess before she married his untitled father – but only the King’s bounty can establish the Bainbridge name. Only the King can give my husband the knighthood he so craves. I cannot, cannot have one of my household spreading vile treason. Only last year I heard of a man who had his ears cut off for criticising the royal family. Would Lizzy want me to sit back and let that happen to her?

  THE BRIDGE, 1865

  There were two.

  Elsie stared from one to the other, searching for a clue in their inscrutable wooden faces. One smiling her knowing, little-girl smile; the second, the interloper, a boy dressed for work in the fields. He faced to the right, leaning against a shepherd’s crook. Black hair straggled out from beneath his cap, framing a sombre, tawny face.

  ‘Who are you?’ she wondered aloud, as if he could answer.

  There was something distasteful about the boy. He seemed untrustworthy, wayward.

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  Perhaps Helen had found him in the garret? But no – the garret was jammed shut. Wasn’t it? Her mind wobbled. After the strange business with the nursery, she could not be quite sure about anything.

  She blinked rapidly, hoping one flick of the eyelids would show the gypsy boy gone and only the little girl with the flowers standing beside her window. But it was no use: he stayed put.

  Unsettled, she turned her back and walked towards the stairs. She would not mention this new companion to anyone yet – not until she was sure. She’d already made a fool of herself in front of Mrs Holt.

  Perhaps it was grief making her see things? Grief worked strangely on the mind – people always said so. But after all she had endured, it did not seem likely that Rupert’s death would be the weight to unbalance her.

  Her skirts puffed as she mounted the stairs; she ignored them, ignored the patina of sawdust they swept up. She would not think of the past, only the task in hand: she would go to the library and write for a man to fix the garret.

  The library was on the second floor, the first room off the corridor branching away from her suite to the back of the house. Elsie had not troubled herself to enter it before. To her mind, a library was the domain of men, saturated in tobacco and deep thought.

  There was no quibble with this door; it opened smoothly, gliding over worn carpet without a catch. She put one foot over the threshold and shivered. It was like stepping through the doorway of a tomb. And just like a tomb the library was dark and stale, tainted with the smell of leaf mulch.

  Striding across the carpet to a trio of windows, she pushed back the floor-length curtains, coughing as dust fell from the valances. Pearly light crept in. The trees outside looked more ragged than before; patches of their flaming foliage had been extinguished and dropped down to the gravel. The flowerbeds were full of thistles. Winter was coming on fast.

  She turned back to face the door. Still ajar – that was a good sign. She was not going mad. As for her shivers, the cause of them was clear: an empty fireplace yawned to her right, breathing out gusts of cold air as the wind swept down the chimney.

  Now the curtains were open, she saw the room was not as she had expected. Library was a pretentious name for what was merely a shallow chamber, curved at one end, with perhaps five or six bookcases set along the wall. A polished, heavily built desk stood in an alcove, facing the fire, with a green-shaded lamp hanging over the writing space.

  She approached it and sat down. The chair felt heavenly, easing the nag in her back and limbs.

  She looked at the desk. The inkwell lay open, the feathers of a quill poking from the top. Rupert. He would have sat here, the pen ready for his left hand. His legs had touched this squeaking, slippery leather chair, yet nothing of his warmth remained.

  She missed him terribly. Missed him and hated him. How could he abandon her? He was meant to be her saviour, her reward, the rich man who swept into the factory and fell in love below his station. She could not face the days ahead without him. She could not raise a child and cope with all the memories that stirred. She needed him.

  Tears blurred her eyes as she groped for one drawer after another, yanking them open. The runners groaned and the metal handles rattled. She had to keep busy, she had to write to someone about the hole in the garret floor. There was serious work to do before a baby could live in The Bridge.

  Sheaves of paper fluttered out of the drawers. She would have to go through every one and find out how far Rupert’s plans had progressed. The horrid nursery would be completely refurbished – that much she knew. She might even move it; she hated to think of her own baby in the room where Rupert’s siblings had died. They had space enough for a day nursery and a night nursery, not to mention—

  Her hands fell still.

  Something winked at her from the depth of a drawer. She bent closer. There, again – tiny sparkles scattered across the green lining. She reached in and closed her fingers around a velvet pouch. It felt heavy. She drew it out and dropped it with a thud on the desk.

  The pouch looked old but not shabby; adorned, rather than eaten by time. It was designed to tie shut with drawstrings, but a rolled-up scroll of paper held the mouth open. Elsie did not hesitate: she upended the pouch and spilled its contents onto the desk.

  The dazzle made her pull back in her chair. A rainbow-coloured stream rippled into a coil. She put out a finger to touch it; felt the solidity of jewels through her gloves. ‘It cannot be,’ she gasped, picking it up. But it was: a necklace dripping with diamonds.

  The gems caught the light from a hundred different angles, blazing like white fire. Brilliants iced the chain all the way to the centre, where marquise-cut stones formed a twinkling bow. From it hung three enormous pear drops, each looking more expensive than the house itself.

  Mesmerised, she laid the necklace back down on the desk and stared at it. The chain looked ancient, but the diamonds were flawless. She could not see a single cloud; only that hot, white flare that melted to colour at the edges.

  But the scroll. What was on the scroll? She plucked up the paper and smoothed it out.

  My dearest wife,

  Like a conjurer, I wave my wand and – behold! Look what arrived from the bank vault in Torbury St Jude!

  I can imagine the look on your face as you open this parcel. You did not realise you were marrying into a family with heirlooms, did you? The Bainbridge diamonds have been handed down for generations. Legend has it they were pulled from the river on the squire’s fishing line! My father locked them away when my mother died and I have not seen them since. How well they will look around your beautiful neck! I only wish I had fetched them in time for the wedding.

  I find there is more work to do at The Bridge than we anticipated. Besides redecoration and gardening costs – which are substantial – I now fear we will need to hire a rat-catcher. Over the past few nights I have been kept awake by a terrible sound coming from the garret. The housekeeper does not have the key, and although I tried to force the lock, I only succeeded in hurting myself. After I write to you, I must send for a locksmith and find out what is in there. If the cat does not take the vermin down, I must employ another man.

  Rest assured I will not permit you to set a foot inside the house until it is quite worthy of you and our dear little stranger. I miss you both and await your next letter with much impatience.

  Yours forever,

  Rupert

  Her hands would not stop shaking. The paper jerked wildly. All at once it ripped, and she began to cry.

  THE BRIDGE, 1635

  I want nothing more than the promise of spring. It was sore weather all through Lent and then the church flooded at Easter. Josiah writes that the court have suspended their
festivities until Whitsun. Verily, I cannot blame them. These have been more like drear November evenings than spring days. Heaven knows what I will do if things have not improved by August. If the King cannot hunt in the woods and the Queen cannot enjoy the pleasure grounds, it will be a disaster.

  This afternoon I was able to get out into the formal gardens for the first time in weeks. The sun shone, but there was no piping skylark, no sticky buds upon the trees. My Hetta worked in her physic garden where she raises herbs. She looked charming in her straw hat, intent on her work, her little scissors cutting off the dead heads – snip, snip – and releasing their earthy scents. I watched her with pleasure. In the shade she looked like a lily; her pale skin and the gossamer veins beside her eyes. Such a fragile, delicate girl: my sister Mary wrought in porcelain.

  I tried not to let the smell of the herbs stir my memory, but I could not control it. I closed my eyes and journeyed back to that night, that tisane brewed under a full moon. Back to my own murky face reflected in the bottom of a cup. The guilt lingers, like the scent of fallen apples rotting in an orchard. It may have been wrong of me to interfere in the natural order of things, but I cannot regret it – I cannot regret her.

  Harris tended the knot garden on his knees, trimming the shrubbery with precision and raking the coloured gravel. The high winds had scattered it out of pattern, so I made him redesign the twists. I asked for new shapes in the hedges, or at least the parterre – angels and fleur-de-lis for a daughter of France – but he doubts he will be able to train them before August.

  ‘Purchase full-grown shrubs then,’ I said. ‘And cut them.’

  He seemed to think this was amusing. Nonetheless, he has promised to do his best in that quarter. As to my planting requirements, he is perfectly hopeless.

  ‘Roses and lilies won’t grow together,’ he said, picking the dirt from beneath his crooked fingernails. ‘They don’t suit.’

  ‘I know that. We do not need them growing together, but they must both be in the garden. A rose for the King of England, a lily for the Princess of France.’

  ‘A lily I might manage. The bulbs like to be deep and cool and shady. Though give me much more of this wet weather and they’ll speckle up.’

  ‘What about our rosebushes?’ I demanded. ‘Do they not thrive this year?’

  He spread his arms with an infuriating sigh, as if it were not his job to make these things work. ‘Full sun, mistress. They need full sun and drained soil to flower. Find me some of that and I’ll sort your roses.’

  I was afraid of losing my temper, so I fisted my hands upon my hips and looked over to Hetta. She had stopped working and stood on the soil, staring out over the green hills as if waiting for something. Small white flowers wound their way over her shoes; unruly twigs seemed to reach out and embrace her.

  ‘Hetta,’ I called. ‘Step back, sweeting, you will tear your gown.’

  She obeyed but did not look at me. By her side I heard the little scissors going snip, snip. Cutting nothing. Cutting air.

  ‘As for thistles,’ said Harris, ‘I can’t let you do it. They’re a weed, mistress. Take over the whole garden, give them half a chance.’

  ‘The thistle is the symbol of Scotland. The Stuart kings’ symbol.’

  ‘It’s a weed,’ he repeated. ‘Invasive. Devouring. It creeps.’ I took a sudden chill. The weather was not so very clement, after all. ‘If you must plant them somewhere, do it in little Miss’s patch. Happen it’ll wreak less harm there.’

  I had to confess that he was right – about the damage, I mean. It may well be that he cannot control the spread of a weed but I know my Hetta can. I have not seen a single plant she cannot grow or tame, from the rock sampier and gooseberries thriving in the kitchen garden to the coltsfoot and feverfew she raises for our aches and pains. I taught her to plant, but she has surpassed me. She has far surpassed me at just eight years old.

  Sometimes I think it is the tisane flowing through her veins, which causes her flowers to bloom. She has inherited more than just her looks from Mary, for it was my older sister who visited the wise-women in secret and instructed me in their ways.

  ‘Hetta. Hetta, my sweet.’ I picked up my skirts and threaded my way through the unpruned branches to her side. She did not turn her eyes towards me until I placed my hand on her shoulder. ‘I have a favour to beg.’ Ignoring the dirt, I squatted down to her level. ‘Would you grow some thistle for me in your patch?’

  She blinked. Her head tilted to the side as if she did not understand.

  I hesitated. Josiah has not permitted me to speak of the royal visit before Hetta, but he underestimates her. As I often say, she is only mute, not some poor natural. She hears others talk. She must have a hint of what is going on.

  ‘The reason I ask is that the King and Queen are coming to stay. The thistle is one of the King’s symbols, do you understand?’

  She nodded. The pink, misshapen stump of her tongue moved and a sound came from her throat; not like speech, more a bleat.

  I felt hollow inside. Gazing upon that tongue is like looking upon a gown I have stained or a letter I have blotted. Once again I heard Josiah’s words: her aberration. Mary would never have made such a mistake.

  Prodded by guilt, I said, ‘Indeed, sweeting, it may be that you can help me prepare in more than one way. The dinner I serve the King must be very fine. I will need rosemary, sage and thyme for seasoning. Basil, and perhaps some parsley too. Onions, quinces, parsnip,’ I counted them on my fingers. ‘Do you think you could manage to grow all this?’

  A smile dawned on her face and my heart lifted. With Hetta’s smile, you do not need words: it captivates you with upturned lips and soft dimples. How can people whisper that it is a demon that holds her mute? How can they even think it?

  ‘Good.’ I touched her cheek. The smell of her, so sweet and floral, and the feel of her skin, silky as petals. ‘Good girl. You write down what you need and Mr Harris will fetch it.’

  At least now she will be involved in the glory of the day, no matter what Josiah commands.

  His words haunt me: her aberration. As I stand in my stillroom, trying to grind out my remorse with pestle and mortar, I see it again: that tongue. Josiah’s expression.

  I think that he knows.

  He has never feared my power before. He will take herbs and brews for luck without question. But when he looks at Hetta, it is as though he sees not a flower – only the mucky soil beneath. As if he sees my hands, thick and claggy with dirt.

  THE BRIDGE, 1865

  The day was bright and crisp as an apple as their carriage tumbled back from town, packed tight with packages. Chips of periwinkle sky showed through the bare tree branches.

  ‘They are so beautiful. May I see them once more?’ Sarah reached out with her bandaged hand. A hint of blood bloomed to the surface. Although she had cut herself on the companion a week ago and the wound was only small, it showed no signs of healing.

  Elsie passed over the package. ‘Take care, or we’ll need to go back and have them cleaned all over again.’

  ‘I will not get my bandage near the gems. See, I only need that hand to unwrap them.’ Sarah smoothed out the material and sighed like a girl in love. ‘I never knew we had diamonds in the family.’

  After a clean and polish at the jeweller’s in Torbury St Jude, the diamond necklace shone brighter than ever. The pear drops flashed cinnamon, then white, then blue, as light streaked through the carriage window.

  Elsie turned her face away. Whenever she looked at the necklace she thought of Rupert’s letter, his dear voice coming to her from beyond the grave. Rest assured I will not permit you to set a foot inside the house until it is quite worthy of you. If only he had known.

  ‘Rupert wrote that they were locked in a bank vault until he arrived at The Bridge.’

  ‘I do not wonder at it.’ Sarah wet her lips. ‘When I think of my ancestors wearing this necklace . . . Perhaps even Anne Bainbridge, whose diary I’m reading! These d
iamonds might have touched her skin, moved with her. It is almost too wonderful to comprehend.’

  The ancestors again. Every time Sarah mentioned them, Elsie felt another stitch of guilt. The girl had lost her family and now here was her cousin’s widow, snatching her inheritance away. If Elsie had found the diamonds by accident, perhaps she would have let Sarah take them. But Rupert’s letter made it clear what he wanted. She could never give away his last gift to her.

  ‘But Mrs Bainbridge, you will not be able to wear diamonds until your year of mourning is over! What a shame. I should so like to see them every day.’

  ‘I am only grateful that you can see them. After that episode with Mrs Holt, I was beginning to fear I had run mad.’

  ‘You are not going mad.’ Sarah rewrapped the package. ‘Did any of the shopkeepers treat you like a madwoman today?’

  ‘Thankfully, no.’ Elsie had to admit that the trip had brightened her spirits. Amidst the bustle of Torbury St Jude, the market stalls, knife-grinders and cabs hurrying to and from the station, it was difficult to think of sombre matters. She had visited a carpenter, a builder and a draper to discuss her plans for the house. Then, with Sarah’s period of half-mourning fast approaching, they went to order new gowns for her in lavender and grey. Elsie would remain in black – but that did not stop her from commissioning some new dresses to fit her growing belly.

  ‘I have spent my life with an elderly person,’ Sarah went on. ‘Believe me, I know the signs of a mind beginning to wander.’

  ‘Do they include placing reckless orders for home improvements and spending a fortune on new dresses?’

  ‘No, indeed! If you are going mad,’ said Sarah, checking her injured hand, ‘then so am I.’

  Unable to stop herself, Elsie reached out and seized Sarah’s wrist. ‘You did see them? You saw the dolls and the animals in the nursery?’

  ‘Yes. They were beautiful! There is no possible way that . . .’ Trouble puckered her brow. ‘I cannot understand. It all seems like some monstrous joke. But Mrs Holt is not the sort of woman to amuse herself in that way. Maybe there was a misunderstanding? She led you to some other room?’