‘Miss Why? May I enter?’
Although the hand taps gently against wood, its sound reverberates in the base of my skull.
A door creaks. My eyes are gummed together. Rubbing them hurriedly, I gain a watery sort of vision. A large lady approaches me. She makes the air heavy, luxurious with a scent I cannot yet place.
‘Good to see you’ve slept. You’ll feel brighter now.’
Sleep crusts over my thoughts. On instinct, I raise myself to a sitting position and hold out my hands to receive the vessel she passes to me.
I recognise the aroma now: wine. It calls me back to myself.
‘Mrs Quinn. Forgive me, my wits are still gathering wool.’
She nods. ‘ ’Tis to be expected. You won’t have got much rest in the coach.’
This is true, but I did not expect a housekeeper’s sympathy for that. Mrs Glover in Hanover Square wouldn’t pity an underling unless their arm had fallen off, and even then she would do it grudgingly.
‘It was good of you to remember the wine.’
‘You need something to drive out that chill. I sent Lowena – that’s my other maid – out to collect the eggs. Poor girl came back stiff as a ramrod! She said there’s frost all over the rocks. Won’t be surprised if we have snow before long, and ’twill be a trial. You can imagine how difficult ’tis, Miss Why, perched up here when the roads are impassable.’
Greedily, I slop wine into my mouth. It has been warmed and spiced. Mrs Quinn does not make a remark about the rapidity with which I drink; she seems content chattering away.
‘I know you left London backalong, but have you seen the London papers? Dr Bligh – that’s our vicar – he gets them now and then. Told me that the River Thames has frozen solid! Can you credit that?’
Her words form ice crystals inside me. Resolutely, I swallow the last sip of wine. ‘It makes me feel cold simply to imagine such a thing.’
Mrs Quinn believes I only quitted the capital to attend on my dying mother. In fact, Salisbury was simply the furthest destination I could reach with the money given to me by my sister. My actual parents, still alive, will be shivering along with the rest of the Londoners. Nursing their shame, wondering what has become of me.
Mrs Quinn offers me a gap-toothed smile. ‘Ready to be shown about? Thought I’d take you to meet the mistress first. That’s the most important.’
Running a hand over my head, I realise my hair has not been improved by lying upon a pillow. ‘Certainly. Let me first put on a cap and then I shall be ready.’
I hand Mrs Quinn my cup, hoping against hope she will decide to take it downstairs while I am tidying myself. She does no such thing.
She will be in the room when I open my trunk; there is no avoiding it. I think of the bloodstained clothing, the snuffbox.
‘Tell me about Miss Pinecroft.’ It is the brightest tone I have used all day and it rings false. Rising from the bed, I kneel down beside my trunk and put the key in the lock. ‘I believe you wrote that she has lived threescore years?’
‘I did. But she’ll appear much older to you, I daresay. ’Twas about a decade ago she had the last apoplectic fit and she hasn’t been the same since.’
Winching the lid of my trunk open a crack, I slip my hand inside and grope for a plain cap.
‘Miss Pinecroft can talk but she don’t choose to, much. We’ve tried all we can to perk her up. She don’t seem to want it. She prefers to . . .’ Mrs Quinn makes a vague gesture in the air, ‘. . . sit. I used to fancy she was going over all her fond memories, but they don’t seem to cheer her.’
Thank heaven, I have it. Pulling the cap out quickly, I slam the lid of my trunk back down. Mrs Quinn starts at the sound.
Her eyes linger on my luggage and I begin to feel that she is rifling through me, like the pages of a book.
‘I believe the muscles can be affected,’ I say quickly, jamming the cap over my hair. ‘You mentioned one side of her mouth was palsied, did you not? It may simply be that her face can no longer express her mood.’
I stand before her, smile, a little too widely.
‘Yes,’ she replies with a touch of wariness. ‘Happen you’re right. Let’s go down, and you can tell me what you think.’
It is a relief to leave that cramped room. Haggard daylight struggles through the windows in the corridor, casting patterns on the stone flags. At least the white paint gives an impression of space. Wind creeps along the walls outside. It sounds like a woman, pouring hushed secrets into her lover’s ear.
My ability to focus appears to have returned, and not a moment too soon. I must learn the layout of this house by heart in case I find myself less competent at another time. There is a strong likelihood that I shall. With the inn so far away and my hip flask dry . . . I must not dwell upon that. I shall contrive something, I always do.
Mrs Quinn leads me to the head of the staircase that descends into the stucco hall. Now my mind is clearer, I can appreciate the artistry. It really is a masterpiece; the engravings are pure as fresh fallen snow. I wonder how Merryn and Lowena manage to keep it clean.
Mrs Quinn pauses with a chink of her housekeeping keys. ‘No. I’ll show you the mistress’s bedchamber before taking you down.’
She continues to walk along the corridor. I see now that the landing and staircase serve as a divide between the wings: the east belonging to the servants and the west to the family.
The west wing is decorated in the style that I am used to. Rich mahogany panels the floors. The walls are papered in china blue, interset here and there with brass sconces for candles. Rosemary leavens the air with sharp lemony notes. My new mistress must have a great many gowns in storage.
Sound is intensified on this side of the house, which sits closer to the cliff edge. The wind scolds and is answered by a defensive mutter from the sea.
Yet that is not all I can hear. There is something low, resonating beneath.
I tilt my head. Yes, there.
For all its depth, it is sweet. There is a music to it. Something bewitching, humming right through me.
But Mrs Quinn jangles her keys, and the effect is shattered.
‘This one here. You’ll have your own copy of the key, remind me to give you that later.’
The lock on this door is peculiar. Brass, attached to the wood in the old way instead of a mortice mechanism. An engraved pointer dog extends its paw in the direction of a dial. As Mrs Quinn turns her key, it moves, and the dog’s paw indicates the number sixty-six.
A lock to detect the number of times a room is entered. Who would have purpose for such a thing? It implies distrust.
The door opens without a sound. I catch a breath, struck by what I glimpse behind it.
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Quinn, ‘ ’tis very handsome.’
Toile-de-Jouy dominates the room. A repeating pattern of blue pastoral figures against a white background. Not simply the paper and bed hangings but the dressing screen, the easy chair and the tiles around the fireplace. The result is overwhelming. Wherever my eyes turn, they meet objects picked out in blue: mostly shepherds and their sweethearts, but there are horses and trees besides.
‘I wonder Miss Pinecroft can sleep in such a chamber,’ I observe. ‘I should feel as though I were being watched!’
Little people. Was that not the term Merryn and Mrs Quinn used? They are here now, with their crooks and straw bonnets. Perhaps this room put such fancies into their heads.
‘The mistress don’t sleep overmuch,’ she replies sadly, hovering on the threshold. ‘We’re not always successful getting her to bed. I’ve known her spend the night downstairs, but I discourage it as much as I can, for ’tisn’t good for her health.’
‘No, indeed.’
There is no looking glass that I can see. A wardrobe lurks in the corner, and I must be right about the gowns in storage, for it radiates the scent of rosemary as strongly as a kitchen garden.
‘She don’t like to bathe if she can help it,’ Mrs Quinn explains. ‘Water turns her all queer.’
The look we exchange informs me that Mrs Quinn is aware of the irony. Why a woman who dislikes water should live on the cusp of the ocean, heaven only knows.
‘When the mistress do go to bed,’ she continues, ‘I’m afraid ’tis necessary to lock the door. She’s prone to wander, otherwise. Can’t have her trying to get back down that steep staircase in the dark. She needs spectacles, you see, but she won’t wear them. If we’re not careful, she’ll fall and break her head.’
A sensible precaution, of course, but it does not sit easily with me. I cannot wonder that Miss Pinecroft is reluctant to retire to bed if she knows she will be detained like a prisoner.
‘I understand, Mrs Quinn. I will make certain to lock the door.’ I nod to reinforce my words. The ghost of my headache wails. ‘Now, I should very much like to meet Miss Pinecroft herself.’
She stands aside to grant me passage back into the corridor. Then she closes the chamber, locks it. The brass dial turns to sixty-seven.
I wonder what she is locking it against.
Returning to the staircase, we descend sedately, admiring the stucco. It seems a great pretension for a house that is not, after all, particularly large.
Set in an alcove is the statue of a man. I suppose he must be Poseidon, with his draggled beard and the seaweed artfully arranged to lend him some modesty. He stares at me as I pass, his plaster eyes blank.
‘Do you know the history of this hall?’ I ask Mrs Quinn. ‘It appears to be straight from a ducal palace.’
She chuckles and pinks – no housekeeper is above a touch of flattery. ‘Only what Creeda told me. ’Twas fitted out just before the mistress moved in, by a man with grand ideas. They got less grand as his money ran out. Then his fortune was lost at sea.’
I imagine the waves taunting him on his failure. Sir Arthur too was what the beau monde called ‘nouveau riche’: his wealth, as well as his knighthood, came from success in trade. But he had rather more acumen than the man who built this house.
Sir Arthur knew every item in his home, and its worth.
My tongue is beginning to feel dry.
As I gain the stone floor, I see that Merryn has kept her word and scrubbed my footsteps from sight. This time we turn in the opposite direction, away from the enticing odours of the kitchen behind the baize door.
There is nothing remarkable in this corridor; the usual little pier tables and prints that denote a lady’s taste. Several doors stand ajar, leading, I imagine, to a dining room and a drawing room, but we do not stop at them. Mrs Quinn takes me right to the end of the wing.
This door is also partially open but no light spills from the gap. A twilit world awaits within, silent and still.
‘Here we are.’ Mrs Quinn hushes her voice.
My first thought is that we are disturbing something sacred. The room carries the air of an abandoned church, the same preternatural calm. Heavy, tasselled curtains conceal the view from the window, but they cannot muffle the sound of the sea.
I have never stepped inside a place so cold. It sucks the breath from me. There is no carpet or fire to add even a hint of warmth.
Dark mahogany panels the walls, yet this is only the background. Shielding the wood is an armoury of china.
Plates, sugar bowls, large, freestanding jugs either side of the ash-heaped fireplace. The mantelpiece is a series of shelves displaying vases, figurines and teapots. More china than I have ever seen in my life. There is a shelf of urns with matching lids, an arrangement of elegant cups too fine to drink from.
We walk right up to them, close enough to touch. Every piece is blue and white. No glass protects the collection.
‘Good morning, Miss Pinecroft.’ Mrs Quinn speaks gently, as if to raise her voice would shatter the display. ‘I’ve brought someone to see you.’
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.