Once, I would have revelled in this: the hushed panic of the sickroom where I reign supreme, other servants hurrying in deference to my orders. A chance at last to use my costly palsy water. But I do not experience that gentle hum of satisfaction, deep within my bones. I feel no sense of purpose. Instead, there is something else. A tightening, a dread.
The blue people on the walls and the bed hangings seem to crowd together, whispering. I cannot hear the drips as I once did. It is hard to hear anything above the knocking of my heart.
Another drop of laudanum slides from the bottle and down my throat. It softens nothing. My eyes are pinned open and forced to behold the agony I have caused through my carelessness. There is no doubt in my mind: if I had not broken the urn, Miss Pinecroft would not have suffered the fit.
She is stiff upon the bed, her lips ghost-pale. I dribble the palsy water between them: lavender and malmsey wine, herbs, the same spices I use in her drinking chocolate. It only trickles from the corners of her mouth.
No physician will come to aid me. Gerren has set out on the indomitable pony for help, but I hold no hope of his success. Icicles hang from the window and the glass is marbled with frost. Every now and then, snow huffs through the chimney and makes the fire hiss like a cat. Gerren will be lucky if he is not lost in a drift himself.
His wife does not seem overly concerned; at least, not for him. I hear her at the end of the corridor, admonishing Rosewyn.
‘Hold it tight! Tight! I am locking the door. Don’t you even think about moving.’
There is a slam, the click of a key turning in a lock.
Hairs stir on my arms as Creeda stalks closer. The door to Miss Pinecroft’s chamber is open wide. Weak as I am, I will not be able to protect my mistress against the witch.
Is this what she wanted all along? Did she hex me on purpose so I would break the china? It would make a dreadful sort of sense to eliminate Miss Pinecroft and rule the house through Rosewyn, who must now surely inherit.
‘She’s been blinked.’
I twist round at the sound of Creeda’s voice. She stands on the landing, a good few paces from the door. The emotion on her face startles me.
I expected triumph. Something malign, sinister. But there is no mistaking the expression written there.
Creeda is terrified.
‘It is an apoplectic fit.’ I sound withering in my derision, far more confident than I feel. ‘I understand that she has suffered them before.’
In answer, Creeda gestures at the brass lock on the door.
Ninety-nine.
‘Blinked,’ Creeda repeats. ‘Even you, Hester Why, must see it. Something’s going in and out of that room at night. Feeding off her.’ She shoots one anguished glance at Miss Pinecroft before turning and clomping down the stairs.
A moment later I hear her again. ‘Leave that! Leave it be. Go on with you.’
Buckets clanking, the skitter of maid’s feet. Whatever monstrous objects she hid within the urn, she does not want them touched.
I take my mistress’s hand. It is limp and cold as a dead fish. ‘What is happening?’ I beseech her. ‘What can I do for you?’
She is inscrutable as always. For once, it is not her fault.
This apoplectic fit has damaged her nerves more severely than the last. Already I can see the alteration: slackness all over the body and the candles in the brain gradually winking out. There is no saying whether we shall get her back.
I wish it were the season for lady’s smock. That would be the best herb to use. But the frost has devoured everything and there is so little at my disposal. I should have stocked the cupboards against this. That is what I am paid for. How uncaring I have been, how flagrantly selfish. I should have thought of more than my precious laudanum.
But there is one person in this house who requires even more help than Miss Pinecroft.
From behind the walls, Rosewyn whimpers softly. Not for others to hear, the noise flows down the corridor towards me rhythmically, perfectly even in volume and in pitch, as though it is something she does not control, as natural as her own heartbeat. I wonder how many hours she has spent thus. Alone. Waiting.
‘A moment,’ I whisper to Miss Pinecroft, patting her hand. ‘I shall be gone for just a moment.’
Leaving the door to Miss Pinecroft’s chamber open, I creep to Rosewyn’s room. My footsteps fall as softly as they would in church. I do not want to startle her. This morning’s screams and uproar will have scared her enough.
It is only when I reach the locked door that I realise how canny Creeda has been. Her line of salt fills the gap between the wood and the floor exactly. She did not put a grain out of place when she closed the door. How many years of measurement and practice would that take?
I sink down, peer instead through the keyhole. Rosewyn sits on the floor, knees hugged against her chest, slowly rocking. It reminds me of the day I took the Farley children to see the poor caged beasts at the Tower Menagerie. It is heartbreaking.
‘Miss Rosewyn,’ I whisper.
She moans.
‘Come here. To the door.’
She does not even look towards it. Her hands fly up to cover her ears. ‘I mustn’t listen to you!’ she wails.
‘It’s me,’ I say, louder. ‘Miss Why.’
A pause.
‘Miss Why?’ she repeats. Her hands remain clapped to her ears. ‘You were angry at me.’
‘Pray forgive me, miss. I was not truly angry. I was . . . frightened.’
‘I am frightened,’ she bleats.
‘I know.’
Slowly, she unfolds. Taking a quick survey of the room, she scuttles across the floor on her hands and knees until she is sitting right before me. Her blue eye peers back through the keyhole.
‘You must not upset yourself,’ I continue soothingly. ‘All that noise downstairs . . . It was nothing to be scared of. Miss Pinecroft came over unwell, that is all. It was a shock and something broke.’
‘Was it fairies? Did the fairies hurt her?’
‘No. I was there the entire time. I saw nothing.’
How I wish that were true. It is still printed on my mind: the faulty plate and the painted figure thrashing in the water. But Rosewyn has no need to hear of that.
‘I want her,’ she moans.
‘Soon. I will take you to visit your guardian as soon as I can . . .’ Helplessly, I work the door handle. What is to be done? I may be a thief, but I am not one by trade. I cannot pick a lock.
We are interrupted by the sound of a latch and hinges squealing. Wind gusts from the entrance hall below. I jump as Miss Pinecroft’s bedroom door slams shut.
I hear boots. Gerren’s voice muttering something, and then Mrs Quinn, much louder.
‘Lord bless you, Mr Trengrouse! You’ll have caught your death of cold. Come inside, quickly!’
Has Mr Trengrouse really trudged all the way back through the snow with Gerren?
‘How is Miss Pinecroft?’ he pants. ‘Does she live?’
‘Yes, sir, but the fit has weakened her. She don’t seem to know us.’
‘Poor lady. I fear I shall not be of much use – you have Miss Why, after all – but I would pray over her, if you will let me.’
‘We’d take it kindly, sir. Come, give me your things. I’ll dry them before the kitchen fire. Goodness, they’re frozen stiff. Let me fetch you some tea. ’Tis so good of you to come, sir.’
I climb to my feet. ‘I will be back, Miss Rosewyn.’
Her whimper rises once more as I walk away.
Back in the toile-de-Jouy chamber, my mistress lies motionless, the blink of her white lashes the only sign she is still alive. Her breath is grainy. Full of sand.
Mr Trengrouse taps gently on the door and enters, bringing the scent of frost with him.
This is the first time I have seen him without a smile. It has not been an easy journey for him, that much is clear. Snow forms a tidemark at his knees; his boots are coated in a thick white crust.
‘Miss Why.’ He bows. ‘I am so terribly sorry that this has happened. I came as soon as I could.’
I clench my hands around the band of my apron, feeling like the imposter I truly am. I hate for him to see that I have failed yet another mistress. Up until now he believed I could cure anything: the angel who leapt from the coach to save his brother-in-law.
‘Who is watching the children?’ I ask.
‘My housekeeper, same as when I come on a Sunday.’ We stand shoulder to shoulder, looking down on Miss Pinecroft as if she were already in her coffin. ‘She thought I had lost my wits to come out in this weather.’
‘You are all goodness, sir. I doubt anyone else would rush to our assistance.’
Miss Pinecroft stares up at us. God forgive me, she reminds me of the pilchard in Mrs Bawden’s Stargazey pie.
‘Dr Bligh would be here too, but for his age. He cannot ride through the snow.’
Although my mistress is often silent and still, there are people who care for her well-being. It makes me feel as though I am being slowly crushed. I was the one meant to protect her. Didn’t I vow to make amends for my past? Yet here she is, stretched out and gaping like a landed fish.
My own incompetence sickens me.
‘Please, Mr Trengrouse.’ I grab at his sleeve. ‘I must talk to you. I need your help . . .’
His face registers alarm. ‘Of course. I shall help you in any way I can.’
After a brief hesitation, I dart to the door and close it. This is not proper. I should not be behind a shut door in a bedroom, with a man, but I cannot risk being overheard.
‘Whatever is the matter, Miss Why?’
‘It is this house!’ I burst out. ‘Oh, Mr Trengrouse . . .’ The sight of his dismay causes me to stop and gather my breath. ‘Forgive me, sir. I have not slept. I am so afraid for my mistress and poor Miss Rosewyn. You have compassion for Miss Rosewyn, don’t you? You said yourself . . .’
Gently, he takes my shoulder and guides me to the easy chair. ‘Yes. I am very fond of Miss Rosewyn. But what’s all this? Has she distressed you in some way?’
I sit down heavily. ‘No. Creeda has. Creeda is keeping her prisoner! Even now she is crying behind a locked door. Surely, such measures cannot be warranted?’
Mr Trengrouse frowns. His gaze flicks between me and the figure in the bed, torn.
‘Please try to calm down, Miss Why. Are you sure there isn’t some mistake? Perhaps at times Miss Rosewyn is too boisterous and can be a danger to herself.’
‘It is not that,’ I insist. ‘It is cruelty. Can we not appeal . . .’ My head swims. No doubt the guardians who signed Rosewyn over have long since perished, and she is not a minor, but there must be someone responsible for her welfare? ‘I am sure no charity would wish to see Miss Rosewyn in such hands. Can’t you tell me where she was adopted from?’
‘That all took place long before I was born, Miss Why.’
‘But there must be records. Was she on the parish? As the curate you must at least have a list of the places nearby that care for orphans.’
He bites his lip, will not meet my eyes. ‘That is the crux of the problem. There are no such institutions around here, Miss Why.’
I do not understand. He is shifting his feet in embarrassment and keeps glancing at Miss Pinecroft, as if to ask for her permission.
‘She came from somewhere. Would Dr Bligh know?’
Mr Trengrouse releases a slow sigh. ‘Dr Bligh . . . Dr Bligh was here at the time, yes.’
‘Then I will go and ask him.’
He puts out a hand as I attempt to rise from my seat. ‘In this weather, with your mistress so unwell?’
‘It is a matter of urgency.’
‘Please, Miss Why.’ His voice gets louder. ‘It is . . . delicate.’
I stare at him. ‘Please, sir, tell me what you know. You owe me a debt. Or at least your brother-in-law does.’
He hangs his head, thinks. ‘I shall tell you,’ he decides. ‘In confidence. Only please promise me you will remain calm and stop all this talk about running outside.’
‘You have my word.’
He exhales. His brown eyes flick back towards the bed before he comes round to the side of my chair and kneels beside me. ‘I do not wish to speak slander,’ he whispers. ‘Remember that gossip is rarely true. But Miss Pinecroft does not seem long for this world and . . .’
I nod impatiently.
Still he struggles. ‘You see, Dr Bligh was acquainted with Miss Pinecroft, briefly, when she was a young woman. They met to arrange the burial of her father – the plaque is still in our church. Even then her health was not strong. She didn’t venture out much, except with a small dog. He says that she had a squint.’
So her obstinacy over her glasses is of long standing.
‘Then, as now, she was a woman of few words,’ he continues. ‘I believe her father died with some sort of shadow over his name. After the funeral she shut herself away.’
‘So how would she have learnt of Rosewyn’s plight to adopt her in the first place?’
‘Ah . . . That is where it becomes rather unclear. There was no warning of the child’s arrival. Only Mr and Mrs Tyack worked at Morvoren House back then. I don’t suppose anyone local would have learnt of Miss Rosewyn’s existence, had Dr Bligh not become concerned and decided to call. He was sent away pretty sharp, but he gathered that the dog had died, Miss Pinecroft had suffered a fit and there was a baby in the house.’ He pauses. ‘It pains me to say this, Miss Why. I don’t wish to shock you. But I understand – that is to say, that Dr Bligh never heard of a wet-nurse being summoned.’
I catch sight of the blue chair beneath my skirts. China blue, like Miss Pinecroft’s eyes, like Rosewyn’s . . . Understanding rushes upon me. I have often reflected that I do not know who my mistress was or what she did in her youth. There must have been a fall, an indiscretion.
Rosewyn is her daughter.
I regret promising to stay calm. This is my saving grace. I may have failed Miss Pinecroft, but I can still help her daughter.
I can see it all so clearly now. How the birth must have brought on Miss Pinecroft’s first debilitating fit, leaving Rosewyn in Creeda’s clutches. Rather than taking on the role of housekeeper herself, Creeda employed others – people she could intimidate and control – so that no one would interfere with her monopoly over the child. She has cultivated the heir so that when Rosewyn inherits, she will do whatever Creeda wants.
Unless I put a stop to it.
‘If this is true,’ I say slowly, mindful not to sound indelicate. ‘If I understand you, sir, then protecting Rosewyn is vital. She is a gentlewoman’s daughter and should be treated as such.’
‘But we have no proof,’ he reminds me softly. ‘And even if we did, the revelation would ruin the good name of mother and daughter alike. I don’t even know if Mrs Quinn would stay on here if she thought there was anything . . . disreputable about the family. Please promise you will not breathe a word of it.’
‘It is our secret, sir. But I can assure you that Creeda’s actions are more reprehensible than any hushed-up scandal.’
I turn it over in my mind. Mrs Quinn is the only person in this house with the authority to remove a member of staff now that my mistress is incapacitated, yet I cannot imagine her dismissing anyone, least of all Creeda. How can I make her see the injustice taking place right under her nose? Convince her that it was almost certainly Creeda’s strangeness, not Rosewyn’s, that made the last nurse quit?
It is a dangerous game to play. The newspaper stashed away in my trunk flutters before my eyes. If, as I strongly suspect, it was Creeda who broke the lock and read it, she may counter my accusation with one of her own.
I swallow.
Mr Trengrouse offers me his hand. ‘Come, Miss Why. We’ll find a solution. But for now we must think of poor Miss Pinecroft. Let us pray together.’
He helps me to my feet and escorts me over to the bedside. Miss Pinecroft is just as I left her, but my perception of her has changed. My fancy irons out her skin, travels up to tint the white hair that spreads over her pillow like a thick cobweb. Trapped inside this body is a young woman who had a pet dog, a lover, even a child. She may be cold like a porcelain figure, but there is warmth within.
Has she heard us, whispering about her? Can she hear me now?
I stroke her hair away from her ear, lean down and press my lips to it.
‘I will help your girl,’ I whisper. ‘Do not fret. This time, I promise you, I will not fail.’