No, I thought. Not like this. Not in front of her brothers. But Josiah did it anyway. He swirled the drink in his glass and said, very quietly, ‘Henrietta Maria will not be in the masque.’
She dropped back to the flats of her feet. I could not look at her face. I stared into the chasms between the logs on the fire, wishing they would swallow me.
‘Not even a little part?’ Charles’s voice – too loud, too jovial. ‘I’m sure we could slot her in somewhere. Not a speaking part, mind!’
James and Henry guffawed.
‘She is too young,’ said Josiah. ‘She is still too young for these things. She will feast with us and then she will go to bed.’
The boys had been away for too long: they did not recognise the warning in their father’s voice. Drunk on their own humour, they called out ideas.
‘Make her a cupid.’
‘Love is blind, so why not silent?’
‘Have her act in the antimasque.’
‘What, as a devil? Do they have tiny devils?’
‘Oh yes, they’re the fiercest. Mr Jones always makes them erupt from a cloud of smoke.’
‘Doesn’t he do that with the Queen’s dwarves?’
‘Aye, but there’s always a shortage of good dwarves. Dress up a girl and paint on a beard, that’s what I say.’
‘Heigh-ho! We’ll stick her in the menagerie! Her Majesty likes to collect queer and curious people.’
‘I warrant you, there’s none more curious than my sister.’
‘Enough!’ The drink slopped out of Josiah’s glass as he sat forwards in the chair. ‘Enough, all of you.’ His growl cut through the chatter, through my skin. ‘What is this knavish talk? I thought you had grown into men.’
The boys hung their heads, chastened.
‘We were only—’
‘It does not matter, Henry. The King and Queen will be here soon, do you understand? I won’t have my sons behaving like fools.’
‘No, Father.’
‘I have said that Henrietta Maria will not stay for the entertainment, and that is an end of it.’
I might have borne it if she had stamped her foot, if she had cried, or shoved me as she tried to do that time in the garden. But she did nothing. She dropped onto her knees by the side of the fire and folded her hands into her lap. She did not sob. She did not move. She stared into the fire, as I had done, fixated on something within its depths.
They all went to bed, but neither Lizzy nor I could move Hetta. We could not make her look at us. She might have transformed into one of the wooden boards, for all the expression on her blank face.
‘Your diamonds?’ Lizzy suggested.
I placed them about Hetta’s slender throat, to no avail. They simply flickered against her skin, red and orange in turn.
We had to leave her there, watching the logs dwindle into ashy piles. My daughter, alone in the dark with the dying flames.
I cannot sleep. My ears are alive with tunes that will not fade, playing over and over, on and on. When I close my eyes I see champagne satin, scarlet taffeta and gold-tipped lacing. My body feels as though it is dancing still. I know that my heart is. Josiah was right: it was a triumph.
They arrived a little after noon, with their heralds and gentlemen-at-arms forging the way. A magnificent sight: a glimmering ribbon of horses, armour and riches, winding beside the river and over the hills. No Fayford Puritans interfered with the cavalcade, but neither did they come out to cheer. I had planned for that. I hired common folk from Torbury St Jude to wave banners and give the loyal address. They did it creditably.
Barges on the river blasted a fanfare as the royal couple crossed the bridge. Jackdaws scattered before the pound of hooves. The fountain flowed with wine, ruby red, spilling out of the stone dog’s mouth to patter in the basin.
I found the King shorter than I expected and slender too; almost dainty. Dressed all in black, he had a sharp beard and sleepy eyes. He looked older than his years. Around his neck gleamed the only relief of colour in his sober apparel: a silver lace collar, delicate and fine as a spider’s web.
And she! I thought I should faint to see the Queen’s elfin figure skip down from her horse. She was dazzling and bright and utterly infectious; laughing, singing, talking all day long. Her hair gleamed like jet, her dark eyes danced. Lizzy calls her a papist conjurer and perhaps she is, for a moment in her company bewitches the senses.
We feasted at trestle tables in the Great Hall. Quail eggs, salmon, cock’s-combs, sweet potatoes, dates, artichokes laid out on gold plates; everything perfectly seasoned with Hetta’s herbs. I did not realise until then how hard she had worked.
She has been very solemn, very correct in her behaviour since the night Josiah forbade her from the masque. All through the feast she sat watching with a curious expression as the courtiers ate and gossiped. I expected her to giggle, to try and touch the ladies’ bouncing curls, but she did not. She simply cocked her head like her pet sparrow and observed. I wish I could decipher the tangle of her thoughts. I wish that I, like our Creator, could read the mind of the girl I have made. How is it I can hear Josiah, but not her?
She did not appear to enjoy the feast – with her small and misshapen tongue, food is seldom a great source of enjoyment to her. Yet when Lizzy came to take her off to bed, a most rare expression took possession of her features. She left with a smile screwed to her face – but such a smile! It was a blast of cold air, not her usual ray of sunshine.
It did not trouble me much then, to think of her upstairs. Like a heartless woman, I was enjoying myself too much to notice. But now the image makes me tearful: the silent girl sitting with her pet sparrow while shrieks of laughter and notes of music drift up to her from below. Poor child. It should not have been her, marooned like a leper: it should have been me.
All I wanted was a daughter to keep, a female companion to fill the void left by my sister Mary. I wanted her so hungrily that I did not care how I begot her. It was I who scorched my fingertips with witchcraft; I who mixed the draught and took God’s power into my own hands. Why should Hetta be punished for my greed?
She missed the acrobats in the Lantern Gallery, the tumblers dancing on wires above the Great Hall in their shimmering costumes. She did not see the fireworks leap into the sky and explode over the gardens. She could not join in the squeals and surprise as our silent companions made the guests jump, again and again. But perhaps it is as well that she missed the masque.
I did not realise until the performance began how the house had transformed itself into a pagan glen full of nymphs and satyrs. My chariot of shells glided onto the stage in the Great Hall and I performed my dance with the diamonds blazing from my neck. Mermaids pranced in diaphanous dresses, singing their siren song. Petals fell from the gallery. The air was thick with burning orange water. What would Lizzy have thought, had she seen it, never mind the Puritans of Fayford!
Perhaps it is wicked, perhaps it is wrong, this court of endless luxury. But oh, it is intoxicating! And now I have witnessed it, I do not know how I will ever do without it.
My eyes are heavy after all this writing. Each time I begin to drift, I see the antimasque: the evil magicians and their minions cavorting from a fiery cave. Awful creatures: strange, stunted men with overgrown heads. Cackles drifting through the orange smoke. If I fall asleep with these images, I will have hideous dreams.
I was shocked by the Queen’s freaks; I own it. I had not seen things like that before, things unnatural and somehow obscene. I would say they should not exist, they should not be, but then I remember Hetta and I am ashamed. For people say the same devil that disfigures them stunted my daughter’s tongue.
Who can compare Hetta with one of those cursed creatures? They are not beautiful; they are strange and unbalanced. Especially the one who never unmasked but haunted the dances with his leering red face, capering, like a many-legged insect, and frightening my guests. I see him when I close my eyes; moving quickly, winding around dancers, his sh
ort body swallowed by wafts of smoke.
Outside banks of cloud are building up, grey spectres against the black. I think we will have rain at last. Thunder prowls around the trees and in the distance, off towards Fayford, I see a fork of lightning sizzle through the sky. If it rains too hard, perhaps the court will not be able to leave. Perhaps we will be allowed to keep them.
The thunder cracks outside. My fevered imagination hears a cry, rising up from the night. Yet there is nothing, not even a fox outside my window.
Lightning floods the room with white light. I see my face in the glass, fleeting, afraid. ‘Hetta is nothing like the freaks,’ I whisper to it, before I blow out my candle. ‘She is nothing like them.’
THE BRIDGE, 1865
Sarah sat at the piano, clunking out festive tunes awkwardly with one hand. The window behind her stood open, letting in frigid air. Her fingers trembled on the keys.
‘Close the window, Sarah. You look chilled.’
Her gaze rose above the top of the piano. ‘I like the air. I like to feel as if I am . . . outside.’ A few discordant notes clanged. She looked back down to the keys.
So Sarah felt it also: this strange pressure; the stuffy, cloying warmth that infused the house. The smell, too. Ever since the bonfire, Elsie could not shift the smell of burning from her nostrils. It reminded her of the wooden baby, sliced in two, no anger or hurt in its eyes – just that awful, chilling blankness.
She sighed and returned to wrapping Jolyon’s present. At least her dear boy would arrive soon with news of London, the rational world. What would he make of her improvements to The Bridge? New paper was up in the nursery: a corn-coloured background with birds and branches in the oriental fashion. The drawing room had new panelling, set with gilt roundels. Best of all she’d arranged for the gardeners to set up great fir trees in pots around the grounds and string them with lanterns. As a boy, Jolyon had stared round-eyed at the shop windows at Christmas, mesmerised by candles and mechanical toys. Now she finally had the money to spare for frivolities. She was going to give him the Christmas he deserved.
She was adjusting a ribbon when a high note chimed from the piano, echoing up to the moulded ceiling. It lingered on its own, pathetic and fragile, before dying out.
‘Mrs Bainbridge,’ Sarah whispered. ‘Mrs Bainbridge, look.’
She froze. Her sweating hands made her gloves clammy on the wrapping paper. Inch by inch, she raised her eyes, steeling herself for something awful.
It was a sparrow. Only a little sparrow, perched on the lid of the piano. He tilted his head from side to side, regarding them. Tiny black eyes darted above his beak.
‘He’s beautiful.’ She kept her voice low, trying not to startle the bird. ‘Better not let Jasper see him.’
Sarah smiled. ‘Have you any crumbs left? We could lay them along the piano for him to gather up.’
Elsie looked to the side table. The plate there was speckled with grains of cake, perhaps a dozen or so. ‘I do. But I don’t want to get up and frighten him.’
The sparrow hopped forwards. Pulling back his wings, he puffed out his chest and parted his delicate beak, ready to sing.
At that instant, three blows fell on the front door. Quick as a dart, the sparrow flew through the open window. A single brown feather drifted down on the piano.
‘Who could that be?’ Elsie went to the window and tried to peer around the brick mass of the east wing. She could only glimpse the drive – no carriages.
‘I think . . .’ Sarah began tentatively, ‘I think it might be Mr Underwood.’
‘Mr Underwood? I do not recall inviting him.’
‘No.’ Sarah closed the lid of the piano over the keys. ‘No, you didn’t. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Bainbridge. It was me. I invited him.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘It’s just that . . .’
‘You might have mentioned it.’ She felt wrong-footed. In some way – she was not sure how – she had been insulted. ‘I am not prepared to receive guests.’
‘But I did not invite him as a guest.’ Sarah stood and nervously began to smooth her hair. ‘More as an . . . advisor.’
Another trio of knocks, quicker this time.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I want to ask him about Hetta.’
Dread bobbed in her stomach. ‘Sarah—’
‘I thought perhaps he would know what to do. The Church performed exorcisms, in the past.’
Exorcism. The word was guttural, too far back in the throat. Saying it aloud was like gagging, like beginning to speak in demonic tongues yourself. What was Sarah thinking?
‘You are not seriously going to ask him to perform some kind of ritual?’
‘No! Oh no, I don’t think Hetta needs banishing or anything like that. I simply want his advice.’
The house-bell jangled.
‘Clearly, no one is going to answer the door,’ Elsie said. ‘I had better do it myself.’
She was relieved to have an excuse to leave the room and escape Sarah’s intense expression. At least Mr Underwood would set her straight. He was a man of faith but not, she thought, of superstition.
The Great Hall was dingy and chill. The fire, though lit, did not draw well. No light glinted on the ceremonial swords or the suit of armour; they were dull, pewter grey. Air whipped in through the open front door. Underwood stood on the threshold, holding a long box.
‘Good day, Mrs Bainbridge. Forgive the intrusion. I rang the bell but the door was ajar and I found this, lying on the step.’
‘It will be my new gown! I’ve been expecting it from Torbury St Jude all week.’
‘Just in time for Christmas. How fortunate.’ He came in and placed the box onto the oriental rug for her. She knelt down – no easy task these days, with her budding stomach – and ran a hand over the package. There was no tag, no label, only a ribbon of olive and gold.
Mr Underwood removed his hat. It had squashed his blond hair flat against the scalp. ‘I wonder, is Miss Bainbridge at home? I received a note from her, asking to speak with me. I must say, I was alarmed. Her message sounded . . . confused.’
‘She is in the music room.’ Elsie stared down at the package. She had an urge to confess everything: tell him about the splinters on Rupert’s neck; the nursery; the garret; the handprint; the eyes. But to speak of such things made them a farce. You could not explain fear; you could only feel it, roaring through the silence and striking your heart still. ‘I feel I should warn you, Mr Underwood, that Miss Bainbridge wishes to discuss her beliefs. They are . . . unconventional. She used to work for a very old, very fanciful lady. I gather she was part of some spiritualist circle.’
‘Ah.’
‘I hope you will support me when I say I am – cautious – about such things.’
‘Absolutely. While the Church does not deny the existence of spirits, it is strongly against meddling in that field. Consider the Witch of Endor and the curse on King Saul for consulting a medium.’
It came to her in snatches of Sunday-school memory: King Saul, desperate for the advice of his prophet Samuel, begging the woman to resurrect him. Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up?
The disturbing recollection was, she had done it. The thing had been possible.
Elsie cleared her throat. ‘You must understand Sarah is particularly susceptible to these sham mesmerists and mediums. Her parents died when she was young. Without family she is vulnerable . . . May I trust you to try and dissuade her from these rash methods? With gentleness?’
‘You have my word upon it.’ She looked up from where she knelt on the floor. He regarded her softly – almost, she feared, tenderly. ‘It is as I once said to you: I want to school Fayford and eradicate superstitions like this.’
‘I have been thinking, Mr Underwood, about Fayford. My brother will come up from London for the holiday. If you could recommend some likely girls from the village, I might persuade him to take them back as apprentices. The wage is not high, but all ou
r children get schooling – at least two hours a day. They will have employment, food and a roof over their heads. A dry one, without leaks. Proper clothing. And at the end of their term, they will have learnt a trade. What do you say?’
‘I say it is the best gift I could possibly receive.’ A beatific smile illuminated his face. ‘In fact, I can think of some suitable children already. Their parents cannot object to your factory. It is this house that they fear. Which reminds me.’ He drew a brown paper parcel, tied with string, from his inside pocket. ‘Records from town. A rather dry read, I fear, but some of it may interest you.’
She looked at the string, twined tight. Her chest felt the same. It is this house that they fear. She was beginning to think they had reason. The bundle of paper might provide answers but, then again, it might tell her things she did not wish to know.
‘How kind of you to remember. Perhaps you could leave it in the music room when you speak to Sarah? I will sit there later and peruse it.’
He extended a hand. ‘Come with me. Let us go and persuade Miss Bainbridge out of these fancies together. Between us, I am sure we can make her see sense.’
She hesitated. ‘Thank you. But . . . I have already tried with Sarah. I think it would be best if she spoke to you alone, without my interference. These spiritual matters require a degree of confidentiality, after all.’
He let his hand fall and put it behind his back. ‘Yes. Of course. Very wise of you to observe, Mrs Bainbridge.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘This is the music room?’
‘That is the drawing room. Walk through and take a right. You cannot miss it. I doubt you ever saw a chamber so pink.’
He sketched a bow. ‘Thank you. I shall leave you to open your package.’
She watched him walk away, the tails of his threadbare coat swinging in time with his step.
Shifting her legs, she got into a more comfortable position and prepared to open the box. A new gown might prove just the distraction she needed. This would be her finest dress – her Christmas Day outfit.
The Silent Companions Page 15