She sits so quiet and still that I did not notice her as I walked past. Behind us, in the centre of the room is a wingback chair and upon it – or rather, being swallowed by it – is the frail figure of a woman.
Mrs Quinn was right; she appears far older than her sixty years. Her hair is not grey but a startling white. Wrinkles cover her face, so fine they might have been drawn with the point of a needle.
Palsy has marked her with a lopsided look. Invisible strings seem to tug at the corner of her mouth and the lid of her right eye.
Considering her afflictions, she is dressed tolerably well in a sage-green polonaise with a black belt at the waist. An outdated fashion, but she remains neat. I wonder, fleetingly, if she has retained this gown from her youth.
‘This is Miss Why,’ explains Mrs Quinn. ‘Remember me telling you that I employed her to be your nurse and personal maid?’
I fall into a curtsey. My mistress’s codfish eyes do not blink.
Mrs Quinn gestures that I might rise, rather than await a signal from Miss Pinecroft.
‘I am very pleased to meet you, madam,’ I venture. Ordinarily, it would not be proper to speak until she addressed me, but I sense that is not a formality to be adhered to here. ‘Your household is beautiful. I am honoured to be a part of it.’
Ever so slightly, her head inclines. She is listening, but her eyes do not move from the china.
In their prime they must have been fine, blue eyes like a summer’s sky. Age has watered them down and blurred their focus. With her mouth slightly ajar, the impression is that of an aquatic creature. The poor woman. My heart aches for her.
‘It is very cold in here,’ I say gently, taking a step forward. ‘Shouldn’t you like to have a fire built up?’
‘No.’
I did not expect her to speak; I fight the impulse to recoil at the sound of her voice. It is so low and hoarse, it might have emerged from below ground.
‘Miss Pinecroft don’t generally keep a fire,’ Mrs Quinn informs me.
I frown. On a day like this, with ice drawing ferns on the windows and the wind roaring outside, it seems utterly foolhardy. Even our breath is misting as we stand here watching the old lady.
And I suppose that is their problem: she is the mistress and they are not used to contradicting her. That is a nurse’s prerogative.
‘I understand that Miss Pinecroft suffers from occasional rheumatism? That will not be helped by the chill. Truly, madam, it is freezing weather. Will you not consider again, or at least take another shawl?’
There is a pause, and I think Miss Pinecroft will not respond. Mrs Quinn looks quite astounded at my effrontery.
Finally, the cracked lips part and mutter, ‘Shawl.’
Slight as it is, the progress pleases me. ‘That is a sound decision. I shall go and fetch it for you.’
It will be a relief to escape from this room to a warmer part of the house. I do not know what I shall do if I cannot persuade her to light a fire all winter. Her health will suffer, and so will my own. I cannot sit for hour upon hour in that room, without even a dram of gin to warm my blood.
What I would give for another glass of that heated wine.
Mrs Quinn prattles softly to the mistress as I approach the door. ‘A nice shawl to warm you up, that’s just the thing. We’re lucky to have Miss Why. ’Twill be pleasant to have someone sit with you, won’t it, while Creeda’s busy with Miss Rosewyn?’
‘Rose?’ It is as if I have been yanked back from the threshold on a rein.
Mrs Quinn starts up. ‘No, Miss Why. Rosewyn. ’Tis one of our pretty local names.’ She hesitates. ‘Miss Rosewyn is an orphan. The ward of Miss Pinecroft. Our kindly mistress adopted her.’
‘Oh.’ My throat seems full of my pulse; there is scarcely room to swallow. ‘I was not aware of her existence.’
A child? Is that possible? I cannot see Miss Pinecroft exerting herself to visit poorhouses and take an interest in the orphans, much less anyone committing such a burden to her care. This is not an environment suited to a young person; even if the house had more warmth and spirit, its proximity to the cliff would render it hazardous.
But perhaps it was different before the apoplectic fit. Perhaps Miss Pinecroft was active in the neighbourhood, the kind of influential lady no guardians would dare to cross. I must remember that. The shell who sits before me is by no means representative of all the woman once was.
‘Of course, you don’t know about Miss Rosewyn. That’s my fault, I didn’t mention her.’ Mrs Quinn seems embarrassed. She puts a hand to the chatelaine at her waist. ‘Come now, what am I thinking to send you upstairs without your key?’ She waddles away from the mistress. ‘I’ve more to show you besides. Let’s take our leave for a minute and come back with Miss Pinecroft’s shawl.’
Glad as I am to quit the cold chamber, it seems melancholy to leave Miss Pinecroft there alone. I wonder who has dressed her, whether she has drunk the chocolate Merryn prepared.
‘Just in here,’ Mrs Quinn says, indicating a door to the right, which I did not observe previously. She leads me into a small room, more of a closet, where there is only space to stand one abreast.
Fishing in a drawer, she retrieves another set of keys. These are shining new, unlike her own.
‘Here we are. Freshly cut for you. Now, Miss Pinecroft don’t like her staff to be traipsing in and out of the china room; it’s one of her private apartments, which of course you’ll clean. Creeda’s always looked after the collection, and very loath she is to have another body touch it. But her hands aren’t what they were.’ I place my own behind my back, hoping she does not see their tremors. ‘When she read your character letters, and all those handsome things your employers said about how careful you were, she said you could have a go.’
I smile as if I am pleased, not appalled. All of that china! It will be a penance indeed to keep it clean, but it is not the work that troubles me.
Without gin, my hands will continue to shake.
‘We keep some dusters, brushes and vinegar in these cupboards. The trick, I think, is to make sure the water’s neither too warm nor too cold. Merryn can help you with that.’ Mrs Quinn pulls a shorter key from the bunch. ‘This one here is special to you. Opens our physic cabinet.’
She goes to a box on the wall, shows me how the lock turns.
The cabinet opens, and my heart begins to flutter.
I see hartshorn, lavender oil, soda ash, calomel and the range of dried herbs I would expect. There is a fleam and bowl for letting blood. A plaster iron lurks in the corner. But these are not the cause of my agitation.
Gleaming at the front are three large bottles of laudanum.
‘I kept it stocked,’ she informs me proudly. ‘Visited the apothecary myself so we’d have enough to last us through winter.’ Following my gaze, she adds, ‘ ’Tis for her pain, not that she complains of it much. But she feels it, I know. And a drop of laudanum helps settle her when she takes one of her turns.’
I daresay it does.
Part alcohol, part opium: the River Lethe must have flowed with this bitter, forgetful liquid.
It could calm any nerve.
It could steady a hand.
Chapter 4
And so I have begun my new position with theft.
By the light of a single candle, I fill my hip flask with laudanum. The slosh of liquid is alarmingly loud. I am certain someone will hear it, or detect the spiced scent, but I am alone here in my small physic cabinet. The night is still. Only the sea refuses to slumber.
My first day’s tea allowance is all used up in replacing what I have taken. It makes a passable substitute for the reddish brown laudanum. With only my hands and the bottles illuminated by the candle’s glow, I can watch the preparations like a dumbshow, pretend it is detached from me and someone else commits the crime.
This
will not be the pattern for my employment here. Come Lady Day, when the roads are in no danger of being blocked and I have my first quarter’s salary from Mrs Quinn, I shall pay her back with twice the amount of opiates I have borrowed. Yes, borrowed. It is a loan, regrettable, but necessary.
When it is done, I close the cabinet and turn the key in the lock, How weary I am. Weighted with that exhaustion that settles deep in the bones, and yet, if I were to lay down my head right now, I know I would not sleep. I would toss as the sea is doing.
Does it have memories too? Can it recall the cargos it has swallowed: spices, silks, even human souls? I hope so. It would be frightening to think the water indifferent, unchanged by all it held within its depths.
A floorboard shifts above me. My pulse quickens, but there is little to fear – I have every excuse to be where I am. I pick up the hip flask to hide it away, but even the cool feel of it in my palm is enough to make my mouth water. Two drops – just two, as I took in my childhood fevers. I place them carefully upon my tongue and feel the muscles in my shoulders relax. It is not gin, but it will do.
With the hip flask safely tucked inside my apron, I loop my finger through the silver candleholder and leave the physic cabinet. Shadows snake down the corridor. It feels eerie in this house at night, as though it is waiting for something, something I am not meant to see. When I heard the floorboard creak, I thought it was one of my fellow servants stirring. But there is no trace of them except the lingering odour of pork fat from our dinner.
Earlier I met our cook Mrs Bawden whose face closely resembled the ham she was dressing. The other maid, Lowena. The much famed Creeda did not appear. Could that be her, pacing above me? Mrs Quinn made her sound like a figure of ridicule, but at this time of night I do not find myself inclined to laugh. I would rather not meet an old crone riddled with superstition until the sun is firmly in the sky.
There is one unsettling elderly lady I cannot avoid. Guilt prevents me from looking her in the face as I enter the china room and stand before her chair.
In truth, I do not know what to do with her. Usually, a mistress will tell me of her pain and troubles, give me a problem to solve. But with this statue of a woman, it is all guesswork.
‘Do you wish me to fetch you something before bed, Miss Pinecroft? May I warm you some wine? Mix some Black Drop?’
There is no response.
I think I will quilt a cap with herbs for her. Such a garment, warmed and placed upon her head at night, would surely stimulate the brain. It is too late to start on it now.
‘Please, madam. How may I help you?’ I ask wearily.
She raises one shaking finger and points at the china behind me. ‘Keep it nice.’
She is not in full possession of her faculties, but I find I am too tired to conceal my irritation. ‘I meant medically.’
With only half a functioning mouth, it is difficult to interpret the expression she pulls. If I did not know better, I would say she was laughing at me.
My temper nearly snaps. It is late and it is cold. The windows cannot be well glazed, for the candle flame wavers as if knocked by a breeze. My index finger, curled around the holder, is starting to feel numb.
‘I believe it is time to retire, madam. Allow me to assist you.’
She shakes her head.
‘Yes,’ I counter. ‘I am your nurse, madam, and I will not have you catch your death of cold on my watch.’
Setting my candle upon a table, I go and place my hand on her arm. I fully expect her to yield now she knows I am not to be trifled with. But as I gently tug at her elbow, her wrinkled hand clenches around the armrest, anchoring her in place.
‘Madam!’ I exclaim.
I tug harder.
Her face is set in quiet determination. Two wrinkles between her eyebrows deepen.
I am pulling her arm harder than I should. I do not seem able to stop. For all her height, she is not stout, and the flesh has wasted away. Surely I can overpower her? Half-carry her, if needs be.
No. She deserves more dignity than that.
Changing tack, I release her arm and seize her around the waist. She adopts the ruse of an infant and falls limp.
‘Madam!’ I say again, panting. ‘Be reasonable!’
‘Must . . . keep watch.’
Watch over what, exactly? I turn my head briefly and regard the faintly luminous outlines of the china behind me. There is nothing else there. Even if there were, Mrs Quinn told me my mistress would not be able to see it clearly without spectacles.
As we are past the bounds of common politeness this evening, I dare to openly contradict my mistress. ‘You must sleep.’
All at once she meets my eyes, and I let go of her as if she has burnt me. There is something so cold, so overwhelmingly tragic in that watery gaze. ‘Bad things . . .’ she whispers, ‘. . . happen . . . when I sleep.’
I shiver. ‘Whatever can you mean?’ She is silent. ‘Do you suffer from nightmares, madam? I could sleep in a truckle bed beside you; my previous mistress often —’
‘No.’
I am tired and sick from lack of gin. I cannot endure this much longer. ‘But, madam—’
‘Leave.’
With a cry of frustration, I seize a taper, light it from the candle and stride out of the room.
Let her stay there, if it pleases her. It is her health that will pay the toll, not mine.
The taper is weak and anger blurs my vision, but I find the bedchamber Mrs Quinn showed me earlier. It is warmer than downstairs, though not much. I blow out the taper and undress by the light of the moon.
Merryn is already asleep in bed. I am grateful for her presence, her body’s small supply of heat.
I lie on my back, staring up into the darkness. All day I have yearned for repose. Now I have the chance, but my body has journeyed beyond it. It is too tired even to sleep.
Gradually, my breath regains its rhythm. Although my heart still pounds, it slows, becomes like the steady toll of a bell.
Whatever have I done?
Scolded my mistress. Practically insulted her person. Left her in a fit of temper with nothing but a candle to see her through the night.
All on my first day.
Shame tingles in my limbs, but I am too cowardly to climb out of bed and put it right. All I wish to do is curl in on myself. Weep.
I picture my new mistress in the lower regions of the house: watching over china plates with her blue tortured eyes; her poor old bones a prey to the merciless chill.
In the west wing, another floorboard creaks.
It is going to be a long night for us both.
Part 2
Hanover Square
Chapter 5
My position at Hanover Square was by no means my first, although it was a significant step up. No one could wish to be associated with a finer master than Sir Arthur Windrop. Newly knighted and newly married, he was making a stir in society with his beautiful young wife. Her credentials were not equal to his, but the newspapers were surprisingly forgiving. Lady Rose possessed grace, and an air of fashion that instantly smoothed over any embarrassment of birth.
I did not receive a kind welcome when I arrived at the redbrick mansion with its black iron railings. Our housekeeper, Mrs Glover, did not permit me to rest after my arrival like Mrs Quinn, nor did she bring me warm wine. Indeed, she scarcely allowed me to remove my shawl. She was a poker of a woman, tightly laced into a dress of deep brown with ruffles at the sleeves. Black mittens covered her hands and upon her head rested a cap of exquisite lacework.
‘Ah, Stevens,’ she said – I went by my real name in those days – ‘Good. You will join me in my room for tea at nine o’clock tonight.’
She did not trouble to tell me where her room might be. This was a difficulty of no small importance, for the servants’ quarters at that residence were bigger th
an the entire ground floor of Morvoren House, what with the scullery, larder, boot room, butler’s pantry and servants’ hall.
Mrs Glover had neither the leisure nor inclination to show me about herself. Instead, she steered me towards a woman with a profusion of curls at her forehead, arrayed in a dress suited to mourning. The fabric was expensive, fine-napped, trimmed in ribbon. It must have been a cast-off from her mistress.
‘Stevens, this is Burns. Burns is the personal maid of Mrs Windrop, Sir Arthur’s widowed mother. Burns has been taking care of Lady Rose since her marriage. She will inform you of your duties.’
Burns raised one eyebrow and I could tell she thought me a very inferior type of person. I seemed to shrink and thicken by her side. My sole aim had been to appear neat. Burns was something else, she was smart.
‘Lady Rose did insist on selecting her own maid,’ she sighed with a shake of her head.
I spent that morning trotting after Burns, thrown from wig to wall as the saying goes, watching her actions. Rarely did she deign to explain or speak to me beyond a scold: I had set out the items on the dressing table incorrectly; I should not touch that without first washing my hands; I did not need to be taking an inventory of my mistress’s gowns quite so soon – did I plan to steal something?
A spiteful harridan that woman was, yet on the first day I stood in awe of her. Burns, the butler, the footmen: they all seemed to exude the wealth of the household they belonged to. I feared I had made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Mid-afternoon, there was a distinct clop amidst the cacophony of hooves that rang in the square outside. All heads shot up from their work and feet began to move.
‘What is it?’ I asked Burns.
‘Are you deaf? It’s the master’s carriage. They are back from the china showroom.’
Nerves squirmed in my belly as I followed Burns’s quick step to the entrance hall. I had only met Lady Rose briefly, following my interview with Mrs Glover; Sir Arthur I had not seen at all.
The House of Whispers Page 4
