The Silent Companions

by Laura Purcell

  My guilty mind flew straight to Merripen. ‘Josiah . . .’

  ‘I know you have always seen things. Sensed things, before they are there. Those tisanes you gave me . . . I thought it a gift from God. But . . . Tell me truly.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  He had difficulty pushing the words up his throat. ‘You had a daughter. They said it was impossible to birth another child, but you had a daughter. I rose faster in court than any other man of my station. Was it herbs? Or . . .?’

  I know I coloured, conscious of my transgression, of drawing my skirts a little too close to the flame of sin. ‘How can you ask me such a thing?’

  ‘I know you would not do that awful, that wicked act in the stables,’ he ran on hurriedly. ‘But do you think that you might have accidentally . . .’ He glanced at my diamonds. They flashed as I swallowed. ‘I do not know. Is it possible that some dark force has its eye fixed upon you?’

  ‘Josiah!’ I cried.

  ‘Answer me, Anne. For I looked at that animal and I cannot believe this is the work of human hands.’

  So I told him. I told him the excruciating, miserable truth: that it was his wife’s stupidity, not her cunning, that brought a demon upon him.

  He has not spoken to me since.

  I cannot summon the strength to cry. I do not resent his hatred. Nothing can burn hotter than the contempt I feel for myself. I ripped off my sparkling diamonds, ashamed to think how much my poor Josiah spent, how much he invested in me.

  He is confined to the country now; he cannot show his face at court. His acquaintances no longer answer his letters. He has nothing to do but stomp about like a caged bear, shoot our grouse and pick quarrels with the villagers as we prepare for the harvest. They do not want to work our land after what has happened. They are afraid that the gypsies have cursed us.

  Heaven grant that the servants do not follow suit. For now they seem minded to stay and revel in the gossip, yet when all is said and done only Lizzy can be trusted to remain with us. Not that Lizzy is quite content – her every glance reproaches me for keeping Merripen a secret from her. Dear Lizzy, she never can accept that I am a lady grown. She does not realise how many secrets my traitorous heart can keep.

  The house falls silent as a tomb. No guests, no decorators, not even my sons to cheer the gloom. Years ago, we placed the boys in noble households so they could learn how to run vast estates. They are back with them now, but I do not suppose Josiah’s relatives will be prepared to keep them for much longer. It is a risk to be allied with us.

  Even Hetta is not the comfort she once was. As I sat in the Great Hall today it was heartbreaking to see her skipping around those wooden cut-outs, as if the prospects of our house and our family had not gone up in smoke around her.

  I have spent nearly nine years of my life yearning only for her smile, but today I could not stand it.

  I watched her, playing as she does for hours with the painted boards, and unleashed the wicked torrent of my thoughts. I thought that I should be happy today, were it not for her and her gypsy friend. I should be on my way into the service of the Queen herself but Hetta was the reason – the only reason – that no one else in The Bridge smiled today.

  ‘How can you?’ I burst out. ‘How dare you smile and prance like that? You know what has happened.’

  She cocked her head at one of the companions, as if it had spoken. Then she went on playing.

  My rage mounted. God forgive me, I know it was wrong, I know she is only a child. But I could not help myself. ‘Listen to me! Do you not understand what this means for us?’

  She should do. But it seems she does not fully comprehend. Perhaps she cannot.

  ‘Merripen!’ I cried, pushed to the end of my endurance. ‘Your friend Merripen has done this to us!’

  The smile dropped from her face, quick as a curtain falling.

  ‘He has killed the Queen’s horse,’ I said, ‘because we moved his people off the common. He has made your father most unhappy.’

  She glanced at the nearest companion and then at me.

  ‘You made me employ that heathen and now he has ruined us, ruined us for good!’

  I could not read her expression. She opened her mouth and, for one wild moment, I thought she was actually going to speak. Then she ran from me.

  I heard her feet pattering on the stairs as fast as rain, as fast as my tears fell. I slid down into my chair, feeling like a knave.

  Hetta was the only one left who did not hate me. And now I have pushed her away.

  Somewhere in the distance, thunder booms. I do not know how long I have sat here rueing my fate, begging for the strength to go on. But the storm must have nudged closer, for the light has clouded and the hall has fallen into a bruised, grey-yellow murk. Drops of rain hit the window. A companion, the sweeper, watches me.

  Her gaze has become shameful, degrading; as if she knows every secret of my soul.

  I have ordered them returned to Mr Samuels first thing in the morning. All of the fine objects, returned. I cannot stand to have his treasure in my house any longer. I hate every piece of it.

  A very curious thing happened today. My cart rumbled back from Torbury St Jude with my servants, but the goods were still tied down.

  ‘What is this?’ I barked. ‘I told you to leave these with Mr Samuels.’

  ‘I know,’ said our man Mark, ‘and I’m sorry, mistress, but it weren’t there.’

  I looked at Jane. ‘What does he mean? Did Mr Samuels refuse to take delivery?’

  ‘No,’ she said shakily. ‘No, not that.’ Lines of confusion furrowed her brow. ‘The shop – it wasn’t there.’

  How could that be? A shop so full and well stocked only last June!

  ‘What? Is the shop vacant?’

  ‘No, mistress.’ Her voice was high now, close to tears. ‘It was not there. The shop. We must have driven up and down a dozen times but I swear . . . It’s as if it never existed.’

  I could only gape at her. The beef-witted girl! I never heard anything like it. She went into the shop with me herself. Shops do not simply disappear!

  Perhaps she is ill; there is certainly something amiss about her, for she has been all aquiver since they returned.

  I must go into town to settle the business myself, and soon. Until then I am stuck with our misbegotten companions. I cover their faces with sheets but I know they are there, watching. As if they know what has happened. As if it amuses them.

  THE BRIDGE, 1866

  ‘My diamonds. Where are my diamonds?’ Elsie raked through her jewellery box, scattering chains and pearls across the dressing table.

  ‘Elsie.’ Jolyon sounded tired. He slouched against the bedpost. ‘Leave that. You must rest.’

  ‘But I cannot find my diamonds.’

  ‘They will turn up.’

  ‘Rupert wanted me to have them.’ She dug faster. She had lost Rupert. She had lost the baby. She would not lose the diamonds too.

  ‘Elsie.’

  ‘I am not being hysterical, Jo. Rupert heard it too. He wrote me a letter but I can’t—’ She shuffled through the belongings strewn over her dressing table. No one had cleaned it during her illness. The surface was coated in that coarse, beige dust. ‘I cannot find it right now.’

  ‘You need to calm down. This is not you speaking. You have been very ill.’

  Ill. A laughably inadequate word. ‘This is not a nervous disorder. The wood inside me! And Sarah saw the companions,’ she whispered. ‘She saw them too.’

  ‘This is not like you, Elsie. You are no neurotic girl.’

  ‘Then why don’t you pay me the courtesy of believing me?’ Without warning, she burst into tears.

  Jolyon came to her side at the dressing table and placed a hand on her shoulder, bringing with him his familiar scent of bay leaves and lime. His fingers trembled on her collarbone. Of course, he was not used to seeing her cry. All these years she had hidden her sorrow from him, held herself tight, strong. But now a chambe
r inside her had unlocked and she could not seal it up again.

  ‘What you are asking me to accept, dearest . . . It is impossible. You see that, do you not?’

  It was all very well for him. His pressed suit, his necktie and shining shoes proclaimed his place in a world of order and sense, figures and business. He did not know what it was to ferment out here with a malicious, nameless fear.

  ‘I am not blaming you,’ Jolyon went on. ‘I do not think you made it up. Poor, dear heart, you have been cruelly deceived.’

  She stared at him. ‘How do you mean, deceived?’

  ‘Consider it. Could a person butcher a cow and deliver it to your door without any witnesses? Someone must have seen something. Did Peters not notice Beatrice was missing? What about the gardeners? And where were the maids, all that time? Why did they not answer the door?’

  ‘You do not think . . .’

  A thought was forming, drawing memories together as a poultice draws filth. The maids.

  He removed his hand from her shoulder and ran it through his hair. ‘To be honest with you, I think the maids were playing a joke. Perhaps they did not mean for it to go this far.’

  ‘No . . . they would not.’

  ‘You got rid of all the servants at the factory after Ma died,’ he said gently. ‘You are not used to managing such people. It would be quite simple for the maids to move things, keep spare dummy boards hidden. Write in the dust. Consider. They could have orchestrated every move.’

  It was too horrible to believe. ‘But . . . why?’

  He shrugged. ‘They resent you. Your very presence in the house. Once their work was easy and slapdash. Now, with a mistress, and the prospect of a baby . . . No doubt they thought it amusing at first, but they have overstepped the mark.’

  Could two women enact such spite? Slaughter a cow and shred a dress just to get back at her? Elsie struggled to imagine it. And yet . . .

  Mabel took the carriage home from church that Sunday before Christmas, didn’t she? She had plenty of time to set up Hetta and place the handprint on the glass. It was Mabel who came running to say Hetta’s eyes had moved, Mabel who screamed about the companion in her bathtub. She could have put it in the bath herself.

  ‘No, that doesn’t explain it. I saw things, Jolyon. I saw a pair of eyes move and I heard that one in the bath, brushing her hair!’

  ‘Did you?’ he asked softly. ‘Or did someone plant that idea in your mind? You have been ill and grieving, very open to suggestion. Maybe the maids just prompted you. They knew your frightened imagination would provide the rest.’

  She experienced a shrivelling sensation in her chest as she remembered Mabel, standing by the wardrobe, looking guilty as Elsie and Sarah cried over the baby.

  She looked at Jolyon, his dear face, hazy through her swimming eyes. ‘But . . . I raised Mabel up.’

  ‘And she has betrayed you, my poor love. I would wager she took your diamonds, too. She has the key to the box, does she not?’

  Her clever boy. Nothing got past him. He had grown stronger than her, sharper than her. And here she was, an utter blockhead, thinking she had helped those in need. She had only helped them to rob her.

  She covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Oh, Jo, I’ve been such a fool. Will you ever forgive me?’

  He put his arms around her and drew her to him. Her head rested on his chest. How tall he was now. ‘Forgive you? Goose! What have I to forgive you for?’

  She buried her face in his waistcoat and did not answer.

  Her boxes were all packed and tied, ready to be loaded into the carriage. The tight-faced servants stood clustered around them in the Great Hall. Elsie walked past and thanked God she was leaving: leaving this horrendous place and all the ghastly things that had happened here. Leaving the companions.

  They faced the wall, like children put in the corner for failing to learn their lessons. Had Mabel positioned them like that? Elsie could not bring herself to look at Mabel, think of Mabel. She felt sick just sharing the same space as her.

  Shakily, she went to the mirror and arranged her bonnet and veil over her widow’s cap. The face reflected below the brim was misshapen, strained with dread. She felt awful. Her body was in a state of flux. Tender breasts pushed hard against her corset, confused as to whether to ripen or deflate. And all the while her baby lay cocooned in a derelict church, bearing a name that was not his own.

  It was Mabel’s fault. Helen’s fault. Mrs Holt must share the blame for failing to supervise them. Or perhaps she was laughing up her sleeve at Elsie, too.

  The splinters. That hellish thought went round and round in her head like a child’s spinning top. It did not tie up with the rest. Scaring her and making her jump – that was one thing. But meddling with an unborn baby . . . She knew the maids would not do that.

  What in the name of God had happened to her?

  Jolyon’s steps sounded on the flags. She did not turn, but heard him pull on his gloves. ‘Did you find my sister’s diamonds, Mrs Holt?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m afraid not. I am sure they will turn up.’

  ‘They will not.’ He took a breath. ‘Mabel has taken them.’

  Mabel gasped. ‘I never did!’

  Elsie whirled round, her fury leaping like a flame. ‘Oh, you did. I saw you with them once before, remember?’

  ‘I were warming them.’

  ‘Without permission.’

  ‘Tell me, Mabel,’ said Jolyon. He was calm, in control. ‘Who else has access to my sister’s jewellery box? Besides you?’

  Mabel’s eyes slipped to the door. ‘Miss Sarah?’

  Sarah’s mouth flew open, but Elsie did not let her speak. ‘I trust Miss Sarah.’

  ‘I am sure it is all a mistake,’ Mrs Holt soothed. ‘I am sure—’

  Jolyon put up a hand, stopping her. ‘I am sure that your maids have been playing tricks upon their mistress. All this nonsense about companions! Mabel has access to the kitchen, does she not? Access to the largest knives?’

  Mrs Holt blinked. ‘Sir, you are not suggesting the cow—’

  ‘You’ve gone barty.’ Mabel threw up her chin, but she was all puff. Elsie could see her lips quivering and the alarm stretching her eyes. ‘If you think I swiped them diamonds and killed the cow then you’ve lost your mind. Sir.’

  Jolyon gave her a long, hard look. ‘Have I? We shall see.’ He placed his hat on his head. It made him look taller, more imposing. ‘Mrs Bainbridge and I will return at Easter. If the diamonds have not been located by then, I will report my suspicions to the police.’

  ‘But I don’t know where they are!’

  ‘Please, sir.’ Mrs Holt wrung her hands. ‘Mabel has worked here for over two years. I cannot believe she is a thief.’

  Jolyon softened his tone. ‘Dear Mrs Holt, you are too trusting. You did not see what was going on under your nose. I think you and I need to sit down and discuss hiring some more . . . suitable servants.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do not be alarmed. Your employment is safe.’

  ‘Dear me. Dear, dear, me.’ Mrs Holt’s throat worked convulsively.

  Bumbling, foolish old woman, Elsie thought. If she had supervised her maids properly, if she had considered what sort of girl she was taking on in the first place, all this unpleasantness might have been avoided. Elsie’s baby might still be alive.

  Jolyon picked up a suitcase, his expression level, unfazed. ‘Take comfort, Mrs Holt. We will talk again when I return from London. In the meantime, Miss Bainbridge will be in charge of you.’ He passed his case to Peters and went outside with the man to supervise the loading of the carriage.

  Sarah came forward. She could barely look at Elsie. ‘Mrs Bainbridge . . . This is all such a mess. I—’

  ‘Hush. You weren’t to know. We both got carried away with fear and our grief. Neither of us suspected the maids.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Do you . . . Do you really believe they did it all? Every last bit?’

  Elsie swal
lowed. ‘Jolyon believes it, and I trust him.’

  ‘But in the diary—’

  ‘Enough. I cannot bear to speak of it any longer. Return to your diaries, and your study of the family home. You will scarcely notice I am gone.’

  Sarah trembled for a moment. Then she pitched forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘God speed your journey. I am so sorry, Mrs Bainbridge.’

  ‘Well. I suppose you might call me Elsie now.’

  It was not until Elsie was settled in her seat, waving goodbye to Sarah, that she saw it: another face, intent on their departure. On the second floor, staring out of the window that belonged to her own bedroom, was a companion.

  This one she knew. Anne Bainbridge. Unmistakable: the same coral ribbons from the portrait in her hair; the same plump cheeks. Her yellow gown flowed and rippled where her arms lay, crossed over her chest. And there, painted on her throat, was a necklace. One glittering bow supporting three pear-drop diamonds.

  Elsie’s diamonds.

  THE BRIDGE, 1635

  Hetta’s birthday. In accordance with my custom, I went to All Souls Church to give thanks for the daughter they told me would never come.

  I say I am giving thanks. But deep down, I wonder. Am I praising God or serving a penance? For each time I step into the church there is a nagging guilt at the core of me. When I pray, there are two voices inside my head, gabbling over one another. One cries thank you; the other forgive me.

  Today I felt, more powerful than ever, the weight of God’s disapproval pressing down on me as I slipped into the deserted church and took a pew. A force loving but sad, intolerably heavy.

  Saints gazed upon me from the old stained-glass windows left from Queen Mary’s reign. They seemed to shake their heads. I clasped my hands tighter. And as I closed my eyes, the words came to me in a torrent: How dare you?

  My eyelids snapped open. I felt suddenly very small. But even as I dropped to my knees, the voice came again. How dare you? My gaze flew to the front of the church, to the cross, soaring up before the altar. Who are you to create a life where I have refused it?