The Silent Companions

by Laura Purcell

  It was difficult to untie the bow with her gloved hands but she managed. Her fingers found the edges of the lid, sweaty with anticipation. Crêpe and bombazine, braided with silk. Three-pieces, tasselled and fringed. She could not wait to see. She pulled the lid free of the box.

  Screamed.

  Ribbons of black material lay heaped together with dead leaves. Thistles prickled up, sticky and congealed with blood. In the midst of it all rested something black, white and furry, dotted with flies. She made out lumps of mangled flesh, bone. Veins like skeins of red silk. Then the drooping ears, the closed eyes. Blood smeared down the fur at the forehead. A cow’s head.

  Beatrice’s head.

  The stench caught in her throat and made her gag. She fell onto her back and scrabbled away, hands squeaking against the floor. She was going to be sick. She was going to be sick and yet she could not take her eyes from the box. Beatrice. Poor Beatrice.

  Her head collided with a hard object. In utter panic, she whipped round. Hetta stood behind her, smiling still, the rose pressed to her bosom.

  ‘No, no.’

  Pitching forwards, she sent Hetta clattering to the floor. She found her feet – her legs were jelly but somehow she forced them on, up the stairs, two at a time. Her skirts caught around her ankles. She stumbled, tripped and picked herself up again. She had no idea where she was going, only that she must climb, climb – to the roof if she had to. Put as much distance as possible between her and that awful sight . . .

  Dimly, she heard Mr Underwood enter the Great Hall and call her name. Then the throttled sound of Sarah’s shock. But she could not stop. That scent of roses: it was following her, getting thicker and thicker with each step –

  She jerked to a halt one stair short of the landing. Barring the way was another flat wooden face. A new companion, but one she recognised.

  A moustache like a wire brush hung above its lip. Macassar oil smoothed the hair, a single curl falling over the left eye. Broken veins rippled on the cheek. And the eyes . . . The expression of torment in the eyes chilled her blood.

  ‘Rupert.’

  It could not be. She shut her eyes – if she looked any longer, she would go mad. But still she saw it; felt it, close to her face. Getting closer.

  ‘No, no.’

  She took two steps back. The train of her dress coiled around her ankles like a rope. Panicked, she thrashed her feet and stepped into thin air.

  Three jolting knocks. Then there was only black.

  THE BRIDGE, 1635

  This morning I heard a man scream for the first time in my life. It is not a sound I wish to hear again: guttural, shameful, travelling across the stable yard and up through the lantern tower.

  I awoke in a sweat of ice. Josiah lay in bed beside me, staring at the ceiling with the same horror I felt all over my skin. Memory fell with a sickening blow: the King and Queen. It could not be – please Almighty God – it could not be that some harm had befallen them?

  The dreadful noise came from outside. It set the dogs barking. I flung myself out of bed and ran to the window. Raindrops spotted the glass, I could not see out clearly. A gauzy haze hung in the air after last night’s storm. Puddles steamed in the morning heat.

  ‘What is it?’ Josiah demanded.

  The reply did not come from me – it arose from that place where the dreams brood, where knowledge arrives fully formed. ‘Someone is dead. Life has left this house.’

  He was up in an instant, the coverlet thrown back and his bare feet thudding on the boards. I saw him snatch up his sword before he ran into the corridor.

  We were not the only ones awake. Guests milled about in their nightclothes, bleary-eyed, their hair tangled from the night before. As soon as Josiah saw them, he assumed an air of calm.

  ‘Do not be alarmed. Pray, return to your beds. I will go and find the cause of this disturbance.’

  They mumbled, rubbing their eyes. Tired as they looked, they did not seem inclined to obey him.

  I followed Josiah down one flight of steps, desperate to see the children safe. I found them gathered outside the nursery with Lizzy, all deathly pale. Hetta’s sparrow screeched from within. Hairs raised on the back of my neck. Mary once told me that sparrows carry the souls of the dead.

  ‘We do not know what the commotion is,’ I told them. ‘Your father has gone to deal with it.’

  ‘Mistress?’ Lizzy tried to catch my eye but I would not look at her. One glance, and I knew I should lose hold of my composure.

  ‘Not now, Lizzy.’

  I must appear every inch the mistress, in command. I turned my back on her to face the children. Despite her early night, Hetta looked more exhausted than the boys. I felt her forehead. She was burning up.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ I ordered. ‘All of you, back to bed.’

  The boys groaned. I did not heed them; could not stop to argue with them. A strange energy stirred me, a kind of nauseous excitement, and I returned the way I had come, intending to reassure the guests.

  Crackling beneath all the fears in my mind was the one I could name: the plague. There had been sweltering temperatures and reports of sickness in London. Now my child was aflame with fever. I prayed to God it was not the plague.

  We lost Mary to a sweating sickness. People told me it was a kind, swift death, but they did not see it. If my sister died in kindness, I dare not imagine cruelty.

  She was well in the morning. Yet as we dressed, I felt it for the very first time: the sense of foreboding I have come to trust above my other senses. Our eyes met and I knew Mary felt it too. By noon she was abed.

  It began with shivers. Then came the heat, scorching through her skin, running off her in rivulets of sweat. Before the night had passed, her jaw was bound. Gone. Dead at only twenty years old.

  My bare feet crunched against the rushes on the floor. Beset by memories of Mary, I did not notice Jane running up the stairs. I collided with her and we both fell back, blinking, bewildered.

  ‘Oh, mistress, forgive me.’ She did not look like herself. She had been up earlier than us, I realised. She had been awake and about her duties before the scream sounded.

  ‘Jane! Jane, tell me what has happened.’

  She burst into tears.

  I wrung it from her piece by piece. I did not need to go down to the stables, to smell the blood and see the flies for myself; it was all there gleaming in the pupils of her eyes.

  There was a dead horse in the stalls. Not just dead – mutilated. Its tail was cropped and nailed outside the door, its mane attacked with a frenzy of scissors. The ostler found a score of lacerations scratched in the skin, like a tally you might carve upon a tree.

  ‘Which horse, Jane?’

  ‘Oh . . . m-mistress!’ she sobbed.

  ‘Not my grey mare?’

  Jane shook her head. I saw a glimpse of the truth shining back from her wet cheeks. ‘W-worse.’

  ‘No. You are not saying . . .’

  ‘The Queen’s horse!’ she cried.

  My legs gave way; I slumped against the wall and then slid down it, straight to the floor. ‘But who would . . . Puritans?’

  ‘I don’t know, mistress, I don’t know. Mark says someone’s missing from the stables.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A boy. A gypsy boy. Bless me if I knew we had one! What was he thinking, taking on a nasty, dirty beast like that?’

  My blood froze. Merripen. Merripen had done it.

  I do not know how. I do not know where a boy of nine or ten years old would find the strength for this infernal act. Where, in his young mind, would such a hideous urge come from?

  The Queen’s horse! The Queen’s!

  My head splits with agony. It is my fault, mine. We are ruined. The court will never return here. Josiah . . .

  Dear God. Josiah will find out. He will know what I did, that I have destroyed his life’s ambition with my foolish whim. Can a marriage withstand that? Can my heart?

  God forgive me in my wickedne
ss. I wish it had been the plague.

  THE BRIDGE, 1866

  Elsie awoke to three explosions of pain. The first in the small of her back, raking down into her thighs. The other beat her skull, at the top towards the crown, where it then radiated into her face. She felt her lip, swollen where her tooth had punctured the skin.

  But these injuries were nothing compared to the third: the ripping claws in her belly.

  They started softly, plucking at her internal chords, steadily building the rhythm until she screamed. Whoever nursed her pressed a bitter, sour-smelling liquid to her lips. She felt a scalding torrent of blood between her legs then fell back, exhausted.

  She slept without dreams. Something hovered at the edge of her consciousness – as a scavenger hovers over a dying animal, waiting to swoop – but it did not strike.

  She was caught in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope: she smelt the stale tang of unwashed skin and syrupy blood; tasted aloes and castor oil; heard Jolyon’s voice and another she did not recognise. She only gleaned a few sentences, but they were sufficient.

  ‘Wood? Inside her?’

  ‘In there with the baby. Poor thing was splintered. I never saw anything like it.’

  The baby.

  It was missing. Amputated. She could not feel its motions or the bubbles inside.

  I am no longer two. I am alone.

  Christmastide must have come and gone, for when she crawled out from the fog one dreary morning Sarah was sitting in the room, soberly dressed, eating a collection of cold meats that looked like leftovers. Mabel fussed about the wardrobe, wearing the new uniform Elsie remembered buying for her Christmas box.

  Her mouth tasted horrific. She groaned. ‘My tonic. Give me . . .’ Drugs. She cared not what; opium, morphine, chloral.

  Sarah started at the sound of her voice. Dabbing her mouth with a napkin, she hurried over to the bed and took Elsie’s hand. She had lost weight, making her face look longer and more horse-like than ever. There were shadows around her eye sockets, the irises glittering with unshed tears.

  ‘Tonic,’ Elsie said again. Her breath grated in her chest. In another moment the pain would rise up to meet her; she felt it building, gathering its strength.

  Sarah shook her head. ‘The doctor says not to give you too much.’

  ‘The doctor! He has not felt anything like this.’

  ‘He says you must eat. I can give you bread and water, or beef tea . . .’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ Her tongue yearned for the astringent taste of opium; her head begged for sleep. It was aching now, turning over jagged objects and trying to pound them into memories. She wanted to cry – but no, that would hurt more. ‘For the love of God, give me the tonic.’

  ‘The doctor—’

  ‘The doctor is a man. He can have no comprehension of this pain.’

  Tears spilled onto Sarah’s sallow cheeks. She squeezed Elsie’s hand so hard that it hurt. ‘Oh, Mrs Bainbridge. I’m so sorry. It would have been a little bit of Rupert, wouldn’t it?’

  Pain flooded back, but not into her stomach. ‘Where is it? Where is my baby?’

  ‘With his father. Mr Underwood was very kind. He christened the little stranger and laid him to rest in the family vault. He was not supposed to. It will be our secret.’

  A little stranger. Grown in secret, buried in secret, always in the dark. Elsie felt her mouth open like a wound – wet, raw. ‘But then – I will never see him!’

  ‘We wanted to wait for you, but you were so ill. We could not delay any longer.’ Sarah shifted. Her corset creaked. ‘I can tell you what he looked like. He was very small. Dainty. We could only just tell that he was a boy.’

  ‘And . . . splintered?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘So it is true! I thought, I hoped, that I’d dreamed Jolyon saying it. Sarah, how could he possibly . . .’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you how. Even the doctor cannot say. I only know what I saw.’

  ‘What . . . did you see?’

  She looked away. ‘Please, Mrs Bainbridge, I do not wish to speak of it. Do not make me.’

  ‘It is my child.’

  ‘His skin had splinters,’ Sarah whispered, closing her eyes. ‘All over.’

  Pictures tried to form but Elsie would not let them, could not endure them. ‘His name. What did they christen him?’

  ‘Edgar Rupert.’

  ‘Edgar!’

  Sarah blinked at her. ‘Was – was that wrong? Mr Livingstone said it was your father’s name.’

  ‘Yes.’ She sank back against the pillow, nauseous. ‘It was.’

  Mabel closed the wardrobe. Pressing herself against the walls, she glided round the room and through the door.

  ‘Was Jolyon very angry?’

  ‘Angry? God bless you, Mrs Bainbridge, why would he be angry? He has shown nothing but concern.’

  No doubt that was true, but he would rue this lost opportunity as bitterly as Elsie did. She had lost the heir, the future of their business, lost him in a moment of – what? No, Ma, not carelessness. Something worse, something lurking at the back of her mind . . .

  ‘Beatrice,’ she gasped. ‘Beatrice.’ Sarah’s hand grew rigid beneath hers. ‘Oh Sarah, tell me I imagined it.’

  ‘I cannot. The poor creature. The dress . . . Mrs Bainbridge, what happened? You were not out of my sight for ten minutes.’

  ‘It was delivered. Mr Underwood . . . He said he found it on the front step.’

  ‘Yes, he told me. But how then were you at the top of the stairs?’

  A cold finger lay across her heart. ‘Oh God. Did you see it? Is it still there? What did you do with it?’

  ‘Hush, hush.’ Sarah tried to hold her hands steady, but she was trembling too. ‘Do you mean Hetta?’

  ‘No. Rupert.’

  Sarah dropped her hands with a cry. ‘Rupert?’

  ‘There was one of him.’ She closed her eyes, trying to push away the memory, but it was no use. ‘A companion of Rupert, Sarah. He looked . . . Oh God, he looked wretched.’

  ‘No! No, you must be mistaken, Mrs Bainbridge. That is not in the house. No one has seen it.’

  ‘It was right on the top step.’

  ‘Good God.’ Sarah’s lips trembled, wilting rose petals ready to drop. ‘I never meant – I’m so sorry, Mrs Bainbridge. You know, don’t you, that I would never put Hetta in the Great Hall? She was in the garret, I promise. She was locked up in the garret, I do not understand how . . .’ She fell silent. Muscles twitched in her face, as if she were fighting with an emotion. ‘The truth is, it happened in the diary. Anne’s diary. A horse was mutilated, right after she bought the companions. And I’m starting to think that maybe . . . maybe Anne was a witch, after all. She writes about these potions she used to conceive Hetta . . . Perhaps that’s what Hetta is trying to do: warn us of her mother’s power.’

  Elsie closed her eyes. Every inch of her throbbed. She was beginning to wish she had never woken up. Sleep was simple, safe. ‘Sarah, have you mentioned any of this to Jolyon? Or to Mr Underwood?’

  ‘Yes.’ Suddenly her tone hardened. ‘I told your brother, and I begged Mr Underwood to perform an exorcism. They would not believe me. They had a talk, and then they made me see the physician.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, he gave me some beastly medicine. He was more concerned with this.’ Sarah held up her hand, still bandaged. ‘The skin has gone white and soft around the cut. He thinks it is infected.’

  An infection making Sarah see things. The medical men always had some explanation, but this one was insufficient. Elsie did not have an infection – nor did the maids. How could he rationalise what they saw?

  ‘The worst of it is,’ Sarah cried, ‘they want to separate us! Mr Livingstone is taking you back to London at the end of the month.’

  ‘London?’ Elsie’s eyes snapped open. Right now, London sounded as far away as Heaven.

  ‘To convalesce. He says a change of s
cene will be beneficial.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  Sarah was struggling to hold in tears. ‘The gentlemen say I am nervous. They think the trip would be too much of a stimulant for me and I had better rest here. Without you.’

  Elsie scoffed. ‘Rest? In this house?’

  ‘I used to love this house, I thought it was where I belonged. Until . . .’ Sarah met her eyes, beseeching. ‘I don’t know what to do, Mrs Bainbridge. You will be in London while I am here, alone, with . . . Whatever it is. Whatever they are. Tell me what to do.’

  ‘Burn it. Burn Hetta.’

  Sarah hesitated. ‘As you burnt the others?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did burn them, after I took Hetta inside?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sarah’s hands were in her hair, distractedly tugging it out of its pins. ‘You are sure that you burnt them?’

  ‘Of course I am sure! Peters and the maids watched me.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘What? Sarah? What is it?’

  ‘They are back, Mrs Bainbridge.’ Her voice broke. ‘The companions are all back in the house.’

  THE BRIDGE, 1635

  I do not suppose there ever was a shame like ours. I can barely breathe for the despondency that lays upon my spirit, the guilt I cannot scrub off.

  Again and again, that morning circles in my mind. I remember the shocked silence all around; how the courtiers were no longer gay but grave, stern as judges. I hear the humiliation ringing shrill inside my head as the Queen sobbed. She loved that horse. Of course we gave her my mare, but how insufficient it was compared to the fine-blooded creature she had lost. It looked like a poor woman’s horse. They rode away with a double guard, leaving us alone at The Bridge. Alone, with the echoing taunt of our failure.

  My disgrace is twofold. I have failed not only my King but my lord and husband, my heart’s dearest hope. He was not aware of my treachery – at least, not the nature of it. He came to me soon after they left and gripped my hands. When he stared into my face I saw that his own was drawn and quivering, as if the muscles themselves shook for fear.

  ‘Anne, you must tell me the truth.’ I could not speak. ‘I know we never mention it, but we must now. The time has come.’