The Silk House : A Novel (2020)

by Nunn, Kayte

  Patrick Hollander had other matters on his mind, however, for once in the shop he began pulling the cloth off the shelves and holding it up to the light as if he were searching for something, discarding the precious fabric as he went, not caring that it fell off the counter and spilled on the floor. Jeremiah, who had been serving a customer, appeared to be frozen in fright at first, but then began hastily retrieving the bolts, brushing them off where dust had collected and attempting to return them to the shelves. The woman he had been serving hurried past Rowan and out of the door, glancing behind her, an aggrieved expression on her face. Rowan ventured closer to the shop doorway, for she was curious as to what had brought on her master’s volatile mood.

  ‘Do not bother with that, Jeremiah,’ said Patrick. ‘Out with the old, for we are starting afresh.’

  Then Caroline appeared in the passageway and she too barely seemed to register Rowan, sweeping past her and into the shop. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, husband?’ she demanded. ‘What is this commotion?’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear, I have never seen the world so clearly. We are no longer going to sell the same designs as every other merchant from here to the southern shores, for I have engaged a designer who will bring forth a new style. Our fabrics will be sought after by the entire country. The ladies at Bath will promenade in gay colours and uncommon patterns that will dazzle the eyes of all who see them.’

  ‘That is all very well and I am most pleased to hear that your business in London was successful,’ Caroline said, placing a hand on his arm to calm him. ‘But until we have these new fabrics, what do you suppose we might sell? People will still require cotton and muslin, broadcloth and linen, you know.’

  A maniacal light danced in his eyes. ‘Forgive me my enthusiasm,’ he said, shaking off her hand. ‘It appears you do not see things as clearly as I do.’

  ‘Come now, that is not what I meant at all,’ she said. ‘Merely that it might be unwise to cease business so abruptly. For if we were to do so, our customers – and I am relieved that there is not one here at present to witness this – would perhaps not return when we do have material to sell them. We should not want them to take their business elsewhere, should we? What are your thoughts on this, Jeremiah?’

  ‘It is not fair to involve him, my dear. I suppose you talk sense,’ Patrick said sulkily. ‘But I have found a designer of whom there is no equal. And all of London is too blind to see it. I am the only one with the vision, the only one who knows her worth. We shall make a fortune with her designs.’

  ‘Her worth?’ Caroline repeated.

  ‘Have you a head made of wood?’ He was exasperated now. ‘Yes, I said her worth.’

  Rowan caught Jeremiah’s eye as her master and mistress faced each other. He appeared bewildered, and as if he wanted to say something but feared to. Did he know more about the state of the merchant’s finances than their master was prepared to reveal? Rowan thought it likely.

  ‘I hope you know what you are about,’ Caroline said eventually.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, mistress. Leave me be to conduct my business,’ he said. ‘It is nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rowan heard the bitterness in her mistress’s voice.

  But the next time Rowan passed the doorway to the shop, she saw that the bolts of cloth had been returned to their rightful places and any sign of her master’s wild interference had been cleared away.

  One cold, bright morning a few weeks after her mistress’s return, Rowan entered the dining room, to see Caroline sitting alone, her chair pushed away from the table, her plate of bacon and bread untouched and her hands resting on the embroidery of her stomacher.

  ‘Was it not to your liking, mistress?’ Rowan asked as she gathered up the plates.

  Caroline shook her head, and Rowan regarded her more closely, seeing that her skin was paler than usual and her face had a drawn look about it. ‘Are you quite well?’ she asked.

  Caroline went to reply, her lips moving soundlessly, but then her face blanched whiter than whey, and she slid off the chair and crumpled into a heap on the floor, her skirts billowing about her like a puffball fungus.

  ‘Alice!’ Rowan cried as she grasped her mistress by the shoulders and did her best to raise her to an upright position, ‘Alice! Come at once!’

  She dared to slap her mistress’s face to try to wake her – gently, mind – but there was no response. After what seemed like an age, but must have only been minutes, she heard someone coming towards her.

  ‘What?’ Alice appeared, the broom she had been holding clattering to the floor as she took in the scene. ‘What strange spell have you cast upon her? Is it the draught? I knew it was bad medicine,’ she cried. ‘You have poisoned her. You’ve killed her!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ Rowan scolded Alice as if she were one of her brothers. ‘She has fainted clean away, can you not see that?’ She hoped she was right in her assumption. ‘Help me get her to the parlour where we can lie her upon the chaise and loosen her clothing. Take her feet, won’t you?’

  Together they half-carried, half-dragged their mistress across the passageway and into the parlour. ‘I should go for the master,’ Rowan said once they had arranged her on the chaise longue and placed a small pillow under her head. Alice began to loosen Caroline’s bodice and unlace the ribbons of her stays, but she was interrupted by the arrival of Patrick, thundering up the stairs.

  ‘What is this? I heard the commotion all the way in the shop! Must you make so much noise? Caroline? Rowan? Alice?’

  The two maids kept their gaze fixed firmly to their boots.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Now

  As Thea lay on her bed reading early on Saturday evening, she could hear the faint noises made by the girls below, music playing in some rooms, piano and violin practice in others, laughter, indefinable thumps and thuds, squeals and hurrying footsteps as they came and went. They had adjusted well – in fact, she could hardly believe they’d only been at the school a week. She had been pleased to see almost all of their names on the sign-up sheet for the hike she had planned for the next day.

  When Thea was growing up, Sundays in her family were always, even in driving wind and rain, reserved for long walks along the Mornington Peninsula coastline or the windy bluffs of the Macedon Ranges. Her mother would pack food, a Thermos of hot chocolate in winter, orange cordial in summer, and they’d hike for miles, her father often a speck in the distance as the rest of the family struggled to keep up with his cracking pace. When they were older, she and Pip grumbled and had to be dragged into the car when they would have preferred to spend their Sundays absorbed in a film or a book or out with their friends. Now, those memories had softened with time and she could think of them almost fondly. She remembered her mother’s call for lunch, her father’s insistence not to stop until well after noon. Looking out to sea or on the spine of a ridgeline, always ravenous, unwrapping squashed ham-and-tomato sandwiches from their daypacks. Even now, the smell of tomatoes took her straight back there.

  Thea became so engrossed in her book that she was barely aware of darkness falling. It was only when the alarm trilled for dinner – unlike during the week, the girls ate all of their meals in the boarding house at the weekends – that she leapt up and flew into the shower. Claire was coming to pick her up at seven-thirty and she had less than half an hour to get ready.

  She had finished drying her hair and was running her fingers through it to give it some semblance of style, when the honk of a horn sounded through her open window. She glanced at her watch. Claire. Right on time.

  She grabbed her coat and bag and wound a scarf around her neck. Shoving her feet into boots, she glanced around the room, checking that she hadn’t forgotten anything. Wine. Yes, the wine. She picked up the bottle she’d bought that afternoon and ran down the stairs. When she reached the bottom she stopped at the dining room, where the girls were eating pizza. She flashed them a brief smile and rac
ed along the passage to open the front door, knowing the Dame would be there in case they needed anything.

  ‘Only five minutes late,’ said Claire, as Thea climbed into the passenger seat and drew the belt across herself, clipping it in place.

  ‘Sorry. Must do better.’ She made a face.

  ‘Teasing,’ said Claire with a quick grin.

  Thea did a double-take as she noted Claire’s outfit: a wide scarf embroidered with multicoloured flowers across her shoulders thick gold hoop earrings, hair pulled back in a middle parting and heavily pencilled eyebrows.

  ‘Come as your favourite feminist icon,’ said Claire.

  ‘Wait, what? Who?’

  ‘Frida Kahlo. Don’t worry, if you keep your glasses on you’ll be the spit of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.’

  ‘Thanks. I think,’ she answered, pushing them up onto the bridge of her nose.

  Claire smirked and pulled away from the kerb, ‘I’m kidding about the fancy dress, by the way.’

  ‘Just promise me there won’t be karaoke.’

  They headed towards the roundabout at the top end of the town. Thea had seen the church on her first morning in Oxleigh, but at night it was spot lit, the beams trained on the tall spire, and looked rather magnificent.

  ‘You can go up there if you like,’ said Claire, seeing her glance skywards. ‘There are tours. Great view of the town.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Thea asked.

  ‘Five years. Can you believe it? Still, there are plenty worse places to be. I’m pleased there are girls at the college now – it can only be a good thing; give the place some balance.’

  ‘I don’t think all of the teachers share your view.’

  Claire laughed. ‘That’d be the dinosaurs. I overheard one of them calling the girls’ house “The Coven”!’

  ‘What the bloody hell?’ Thea was outraged. ‘Shouldn’t someone say something? To the headmaster, I mean?’

  ‘They’ll get used to it. They don’t have a choice, not if they want to keep their jobs anyway.’

  ‘What are they so afraid of?’

  ‘The unknown, most likely. Change, quite possibly.’

  They carried on along the road out of town, each lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘Have you noticed anything unusual about Silk House?’ Claire asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘Should I have?’ Thea wasn’t ready to admit to her own concerns just yet.

  Claire hesitated, flicking on her indicator and turning left off the main road. ‘There was some gossip, several years ago, that it was haunted.’

  Thea forced a brittle laugh. ‘No one believes in ghosts these days, surely? Besides, I’m sure there would be rumours about any house that old.’

  ‘But it’s odd that it’s never been held by any one owner for long.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Claire shrugged. ‘Common knowledge.’

  ‘That could be for any number of reasons. Anyway, who’s this ghost supposed to be? Or is it ghosts?’

  ‘A white-haired woman, according to some. Wearing a red cloak. Although others claim she has dark hair.’

  ‘Well, that’s a cliché if ever I heard one. Who told you about it?’

  ‘Someone in the pub, I think. I didn’t pay too much attention, and there was talk about several houses in the town being haunted, not to mention the mill.’

  ‘The mill?’

  ‘The one on the way to Summerbourne.’

  ‘I ran there the other morning. Didn’t see a mill. Mind you, it was thick with fog. Although, come to think of it, I did hear the water. And who’s the ghost there?’

  ‘Well, that’s the odd thing. From what I can gather, it’s very similar to the woman that’s supposed to appear at Silk House.’

  ‘You know, I found a very odd thing in the library,’ Thea said after a pause. ‘At the end of a book on four local sisters murdered for suspected witchcraft in the eighteenth century.’

  ‘Go on,’ Claire flicked a glance towards her then returned her focus to the road.

  ‘There was a list of names – and one of them, a woman by the name of Rowan Caswell – was once a maid at the silk merchant’s house, now known as Silk House.’

  ‘Do you think …’ Claire turned briefly towards her, her eyes round.

  Thea scoffed. ‘I think my imagination is getting the better of me right now. So, thanks for inviting me to the party – I could use the distraction.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Claire agreed. ‘It does seem rather far-fetched. Interesting, though …’

  They had been driving for about twenty minutes when Claire indicated a second time and turned off onto a dirt track. Headlights showed the way, which was overgrown with trees, their branches almost meeting overhead, forming a dark tunnel. The lane was narrow, hardly wide enough for Claire’s car. Thea instinctively grabbed the sides of her seat and held her breath, hoping they wouldn’t meet anyone coming the other way, especially as they were still rocketing along; clearly Claire was more used to these roads and felt no need to reduce their speed once off the tarmac.

  ‘Not likely to have a collision,’ said Claire, apparently reading her thoughts. ‘Everyone will be going in our direction – there’s only one cottage at the end of this lane.’

  Thea was only slightly reassured.

  About a mile later, they came towards a dozen or so cars parked at haphazard angles at the end of the lane, but there was no house in sight. Claire drew up behind one of the cars, a little hatchback well suited to country lanes, and turned off the engine. ‘Hope you don’t mind a bit of a walk,’ she said. ‘It’s over the stile and through that meadow.’ She reached across Thea into the glovebox and retrieved a heavy torch that, Thea imagined, would make a good weapon as well as light their way. ‘Don’t want to risk a sprained ankle. The ground’s pretty uneven.’

  Thea shivered at the change in temperature as they got out of the car, and pulled her jacket tighter around herself. Coming from a city, she was unnerved by the pitch black of the night: a slender sickle of moon hung low in the sky and gave only a faint glow. Thankfully, Claire’s torch threw a strong beam ahead of them, though outside of that everything was as black as soot. Mist lay on the ground and it seemed as if they were walking on clouds as they made their way across the rough paddock that Claire had so quaintly referred to as a meadow.

  ‘Well, this is one way to get to a party,’ Thea said, amused. As they walked, the faint sounds of music, the thump of bass and then lights in the distance drifted towards them.

  Claire’s torch flickered and then went out, casting everything into sudden darkness. ‘Bloody hell,’ she cursed. ‘Battery’s flat. I only replaced it last week.’ She shook it, attempting to revive the thing. ‘Must’ve been a dud.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter too much,’ said Thea. ‘We’re here now.’

  A long, low house with tiny square windows, whitewashed walls and a shaggy thatched roof that looked in need of a good haircut was in front of them, a path winding to the front door.

  As they approached, the door opened and Claire stepped forward to embrace the man standing there. Thea hovered behind her, pleased to see that he was wearing jeans and an old rugby jersey and that Claire had only been teasing her about the dress code.

  The thought that she probably wouldn’t know a soul there apart from Claire turned out to be a false assumption. No sooner had she crossed the threshold than she came face to face with Gareth Pope, leaning against a door frame. She smiled in recognition, but he gave her a curt nod and turned back to the woman he had been talking to.

  Well, two can play at that game, she thought as she and Claire were swept towards the kitchen, where a warm fug filled the air, steaming up the windows. The smell of spices, cloves and cinnamon wafted through the room and Thea found a warm glass of red wine with orange slices floating in it pressed into her hand.

  ‘Come on, let’s dance,’ said Claire, after introducing her to a few people. She pulled
Thea towards a long, dim living room where a few other guests were enthusiastically flinging themselves about, some more in time to the music than others. Thea took a swig of her drink before setting it on a bookcase and following Claire. She gave herself up to the beat, letting it pulse through her. Losing herself in the music and the darkness was easier than trying to talk to people she didn’t know. It also made it easier to avoid Gareth Pope.

  In between bouts of dancing, Thea sank into one of the battered old couches that had been pushed back against the walls. She smiled at a few people, but the music was too loud for anything but the most superficial conversation.

  At one point, Gareth came into the room, noticed her and then ducked out again. It seemed he was no more eager to talk to her than she was to him.

  Sometime later, as the crowd thinned a little, Thea went in search of the bathroom. She was a little dizzy from the wine, the warm room and the incessant music. As she climbed the stairs, she stopped to look out of the window on the landing, noticing straggling shadows moving across the field. It was later than she realised, and people were leaving, which also didn’t seem like a bad idea to her.

  When she returned downstairs, there was no sign of Claire. She searched in vain for her friend but found Gareth instead, who shook his head when she asked if he had seen her. ‘Not for at least an hour, but don’t sweat it, she’ll be here somewhere,’ he said taking a swig of his beer.

  Thea searched the kitchen and then another room that appeared to be a study, but with no luck. The possibility that Claire might have abandoned her in the middle of nowhere began to dawn on her. As she was cursing under her breath while trying to see if she had any mobile coverage to call a taxi – the thought that she might be forced to beg Gareth for a lift back to Oxleigh was too much to contemplate – Claire suddenly materialised.