Chapter 27

They have all been exceedingly kind. That has only made it harder to bear. When Mrs Quinn clucked over me and wrapped her shawl about my shoulders for the journey home, I wanted to scream at her. Does she not understand that I deserve no tenderness? Does she not see the rot at my very core?

My hands shake worse than ever, and it has nothing to do with gin. Much as I try to hide my emotions, Merryn knows something is awry. I see it in her sideways glances as I mix the chocolate like an automaton.

‘If thee an’t well enough to work . . .’ she begins.

‘I am quite recovered, thank you.’

‘Mrs Quinn says thee went down hard yesterday . . .’

‘I had simply not eaten enough,’ I snap.

Performing my duties is torture, but I would rather have them to focus on. If I were left alone in that salt-ringed bedroom with my newspapers, my snuffbox and my memories . . . I think I would drown myself in gin. Dram by dram.

I pour the chocolate into a cup that has two handles and a lid to keep it warm.

Merryn takes a breath, but I leave the kitchen before she can speak again.

When I am in the west wing, halfway down the corridor leading to the china room, a familiar scent reaches me: cardamom. I stop dead, my hands shaking on the tray. I have mixed the chocolate as Lady Rose would take it, by mistake.

It is all I can do not to break down in sobs.

After a few minutes, I regain something like composure. I balance the tray on one unsteady hand, open the door and step inside the china room. It is like plunging into a pool of icy water.

Never before have I felt a cold like this: sharper than any blade.

A violent gust slams the door behind me and I scream. Dust swirls in clouds across the floor. The curtains flail and I realise what has happened: Miss Pinecroft has opened the window.

This is too much.

‘Confound it!’ I cry, slamming the tray upon a side table.

I run to close it. Damp has warped the wooden frame of the sash and it initially refuses to budge. Shoving aside the billowing curtains with one arm, I pull at the wood until my fingernails crack. At last, with a great whoosh, it gives way and slides shut.

The wind dies. The curtains slap back into place. Outside I can see the ocean, writhing with glee, as if this were all a game.

‘Of what were you thinking, madam?’ I demand. ‘All the care I take of you, and you wish to undo it! For what? What reason could you possibly have?’

I round upon my mistress.

Miss Pinecroft’s spine is poker-straight. She clenches the arms of the chair. Her hair is blown awry and she looks terrified.

As if she is afraid something will rip her from her seat.

‘Miss Pinecroft? What . . .?’

Glancing down at her hands, my stomach turns over.

Her wrinkled fingers have twisted themselves into the shape of birds’ talons. Her nails are broken, worse than my own.

Gouged deep in the armrests are thin white lines. As jagged as the fissures in the jasperware cup.

What troubles me most is the fact that I screamed when the door slammed behind me, then I harangued my mistress in a manner deserving instant dismissal: I was loud and clamorous, but no one came. No one heard me above the tossing of the sea.

It occurs to me that if Miss Pinecroft should fall while I was out of the room, I would not hear her either. I would be too late to help.

And I must help her. Even if I achieve no other good. The thought steadies me. If I can be of use to this poor lady, who can barely hold her chocolate in her freshly bandaged hands, it will be my atonement.

I wish she would tell me what haunts her. Through a gap in the curtains, I glimpse steel-grey waves. Until now, I did not think there could be enmity in the sea, but it is there. Taunting my mistress.

Footsteps thud in the corridor and the door swings open, making us both jump. It is Rosewyn. Alone.

She offers a shy grin before toddling inside. The way she moves, her facial expressions: all are exactly as a child. She does not seem to belong in her body.

When she reaches the side of the wingchair, Rosewyn throws her arms around the old lady’s neck.

There is a moment of tension; Miss Pinecroft’s eyes bulge, her fingers grasp the armrests once more. I try to imagine her adopting Rosewyn when she really was a child – somewhere near forty years ago. Was Miss Pinecroft softer back then? Indulgent to the small, unfortunate girl? I think she must have been, for Rosewyn’s affection is evident. She truly loves her.

‘Good day!’ Rosewyn kisses the papery cheek and seats herself on the floor.

‘Hello, Miss Rosewyn,’ I say. ‘What brings you downstairs?’

Before she can answer, a heavy tread sounds by the door. Creeda stalks towards us, carrying the doll.

Rosewyn hunches her shoulders.

‘You’re not to go running off. Haven’t I told you a hundred times?’ Creeda’s voice is sand-rough.

I clear my throat officiously. ‘You needn’t be alarmed if Miss Rosewyn decides to visit her guardian. She is quite safe down here with us.’

Creeda cocks an eyebrow above her brown eye. ‘She is, is she?’

‘Allow me to light the fire. I would not want Miss Rosewyn catching a chill.’

Both the elder women move, but it is Creeda’s hand that nips my shoulder.

‘Don’t,’ she decrees. ‘Heat harms the porcelain.’

This woman. She irritates me like an itch at the back of the throat. She reminds me of Burns – but that maid was spiteful, openly malignant. Creeda speaks with none of her passion. It is her very coolness, her self-possession, that grates upon me. ‘Nonsense! I never heard of such a thing. Why . . . is not porcelain fired in a kiln, when it is made?’

She stares straight at me with those uncanny eyes. ‘Don’t presume to tell me. My family made this collection.’

I was not expecting that.

‘Nancarrow Bone China,’ I whisper.

She nods. ‘Yes. Nancarrow was my maiden name. I got everything when the factory closed down.’

It is on the tip of my tongue to mention the error on the Willow pattern transfer, but I forbear and resume my seat.

‘I did not know you had been married, Creeda.’

‘I am married still,’ she barks.

What man on earth would have the courage? I am about to make enquiries when I realise: Gerren. The band on her gnarly finger matches his.

What a pairing! I would be amused, were I less miserable. Creeda is the spider in the centre of a web, connected to everything. Even Miss Pinecroft follows her commands. Who, really, is the mistress of Morvoren House?

Outside, waves collapse into the embrace of the sea. Creeda proffers the doll to Rosewyn, who sulkily accepts it and places it in her lap.

‘Come on. Stand up, let’s be out of here.’

Rosewyn turns her doll over and begins to plait its hair.

‘Rosewyn.’

‘Perhaps you might adjust Miss Rosewyn’s clothes, if you are taking her back upstairs,’ I tell Creeda. ‘They are inside out. It is not fitting for a lady to appear so, even before her family.’

‘Maybe not, but it’s right for this child. Her gown must be that way.’

I had thought it a failure in the old woman’s eyes; that they might be weak, as Miss Pinecroft’s are. Can she really be doing this to Rosewyn on purpose?

Rosewyn glances up, smiles and returns to her doll.

She is natural – innocent. Fertile ground for any strange ideas this maid should choose to plant inside her head. It strikes me now that she is nothing but a doll herself, dressed and positioned to please Creeda.

What sins might she push this unwitting soul towards? Was it Creeda who urged her to rip apart the Bible?

Miss Pinecroft cannot defend her ward, but I can. I should.

‘I am not from Cornwall, Creeda. Perhaps you might explain to me what possible virtue your people see in wearing their clothes the wrong way around?’

She considers me. Her hooked nose juts further forward than ever. ‘I don’t know, Miss Why, if you ever heard of people being pixy-led.’

‘No, that is not a term I am familiar with.’

I imagine she is about to spin me a similar tale to the one Lowena recited at dinner on Saturday: floating lights, hidden bogs. As if the most dangerous hazard here were not the great clifftop, yawning where all can see it.

Creeda glances at the china. ‘They . . . want. Always more.’

‘Who?’ I ask, incredulous.

She deliberately misunderstands. ‘Our people. We keep their race alive. They can’t breed, you see. So they take us.’

Father told me once of the lunatics in Bedlam and their hideous fantasies. I never thought to see one in the flesh.

‘Of course they’re clever about it,’ she continues. ‘They know, by now, what moves us. I never hear of children tempted by succulent apples these days. It’s deeper than that. They call out for help. They shout in the voices of our loved ones who have died.’

Miss Pinecroft tightens her grip on the armrest.

I cannot reply to this madness.

‘Once they take you underground, you belong to them. But some people have turned back, before it was too late. They broke the charm by flipping their clothes inside out. So I protect my charge. I make sure Miss Rosewyn is guarded against them at all times.’

On the floor, Rosewyn finishes her plait and hugs the doll to her chest. It is the first time I have seen her show it tenderness, but she does not appear to be clinging to it with love: she holds on as one who is afraid.

‘Fairies, you mean?’ I scoff. ‘Imaginary creatures, waiting to take us underground? Bosh! This is nothing more than folklore! It is no excuse to dress poor Miss Rosewyn in such a whimsical manner. Why, if it is so dangerous, do you not all have your clothes on inside out? Why do you suppose they would want only her?’

I expect Creeda to be offended, to shout back. But not a muscle moves in her face. She merely looks sad, a priest before unrepentant sinners.

‘Don’t you listen, Hester Why? They want offspring. A woman young enough to bear them.’

‘They cannot be very powerful fairies,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Barren. Stopped by backwards clothes and a line of salt.’

Rosewyn presses a finger to her lips and makes a desperate hushing sound. ‘Shh! You mustn’t speak of them that way!’

‘They are not real, miss. I may speak of them in any manner that I choose.’

She shakes her head, solemn. ‘They listen.’ Her arms tighten about the doll. ‘They listen and then they punish.’