Praise for Laura Purcell
“So many books are hyped up as being the next Jamaica Inn or the next Rebecca, but The House of Whispers really is, and I think Queen Daphne might have to hand over the crown to Queen Laura . . . exquisite.”
—Natasha Pulley, author of The Watchmaker of Filigree Street
“If Charles Dickens and Emily Brontë had a love child, it would be Laura Purcell. The House of Whispers is a deliciously creepy novel full of rambling houses, storm-soaked nights, sinister secrets, and hidden agendas that kept me turning the pages.”
—Lorna Cook, author of The Forgotten Village
“[The Silent Companions is an] extraordinary, memorable, and truly haunting book.”
—Jojo Moyes, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“[The Poison Thread is] an uncanny Gothic mystery . . . Satisfying.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“[The Poison Thread is] a compelling slice of early Victorian gothic . . . Vivid and well researched, this book is an evocative portrait of a society that punishes women who dare to contravene social norms. . . . A splendid mystery with suitably melodramatic flourishes.”
—The Guardian (UK)
“One of the most well-written horror stories I’ve read this year, The Silent Companions is proper Gothic fare. . . . What is commendable is how Purcell is able to weave all these [classic] elements in a story that is layered and psychologically complex till the very end.”
—Book Riot
“The chill of The Silent Companions sneaks up on you and then settles in like a gray mist on a British moor . . . a shivery treat.”
—BookPage
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS
Laura Purcell worked in local government, the financial industry, and a Waterstones bookshop before becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Colchester, the oldest recorded town in England, with her husband, and is the author of The Silent Companions and The Poison Thread.
ALSO BY LAURA PURCELL
The Silent Companions
The Poison Thread
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain as Bone China by Raven Books, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 2019
Published in Penguin Books 2020
Copyright © 2019 by Laura Purcell
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2020933988
ISBN 9780143135531 (paperback)
ISBN 9780525507192 (ebook)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Stephen Brayda
Cover images: (house) Lee Frost / Trevillion Images; (swallows) Shutterstock
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Contents
Praise for Laura Purcell
About the Author
Also by Laura Purcell
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Cast of Characters
Part 1: Hester WhyChapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part 2: Hanover SquareChapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part 3: ProtectionChapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part 4: Forty Years AgoChapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part 5: Potent LiquidsChapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part 6: A Broken ManChapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part 7: Pixy-LedChapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgements
No voice divine the storm allay’d,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch’d from all effectual aid,
We perish’d, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm’d in deeper gulfs than he.
From ‘The Castaway’
by William Cowper, 1799
Cast of Characters
MORVOREN HOUSE
Esther Stevens/Hester Why – A lady’s maid working under an assumed name
Mrs Quinn – Housekeeper
Merryn – Scullery maid
Lowena – Housemaid
Mrs Bawden – Cook
Gerren Tyack – Coachman and groom
Creeda Tyack – Longest serving member of staff
Miss Louise Pinecroft – Mistress of the house
Miss Rosewyn Pinecroft – Her ward
Mr Trengrouse – Curate of the parish church
Dr Bligh – Vicar of the same
MORVOREN HOUSE – FORTY YEARS AGO
Dr Ernest Pinecroft – Physician
Miss Louise Pinecroft – His eldest daughter
Mrs Louisa ‘Mopsy’ Pinecroft – His deceased wife
Miss Kitty Pinecroft – His deceased daughter
Master Francis Pinecroft – His deceased son
Pompey – The family dog
Creeda Nancarrow – Maid and former porcelain worker
Gerren Tyack – Stable boy
Consumptives from Bodmin gaol
Seth
Michael
Harry
Tim
Chao
HANOVER SQUARE
Sir Arthur Windrop – Master of the house
Lady Rose Windrop – His wife
Mrs Windrop – His widowed mother
Esther Stevens – Maid to Lady Rose
Mrs Glover – Housekeeper
Burns – Maid to Mrs Windrop
Mrs Friar – Nurse and accoucheur’s assistant
Part 1
Hester Why
Chapter 1
Love is fragile,
my mother once said. It can break.
Maybe that is true, for some people. Not for me. My love is a grasping thing. A vine I cannot extricate myself from, pulling me down, down.
It is dragging me all the way to Cornwall, a county I have never set foot in before. Had I felt this chilling mist, perhaps I would have thought twice about answering the advertisement for a nurse and personal maid. But what choice do I truly have? I can never return to London. I must take the Mail coach somewhere, and it seems appropriate to flee to the end of the country, a place teetering on the edge of the map.
This is the bitterest winter I can recall. Too cold, even for snow. A world washed innocent and white might bring me some comfort, but no – this is the season of sleet and gunmetal skies. Everything is grey and cold. It is like purgatory, like my heart.
Frosted branches scrape their fingers across the roof as we dash along, our wheels skating on the road. Not even the sour breath and body odour of my fellow passengers serve to warm the air inside the coach. An elderly woman who smells of chamber pots squashes in close to me; on the other side, a brute beast of a man is spreading his legs. Officially, the Mail coach boasts room for but four interior passengers; however, this driver has squeezed in six of us. My arms are pinioned to my sides, numb. And we are the fortunate ones, riding inside instead of on the roof.
The windows rattle in their frames without intermission; the sleet persists in its sullen patter. Shadows creep over the faces of the passengers opposite me, spreading like a stain. Only their eyes remain bright, gleaming now and then with a rodent cunning.
It seems an age since we last baited the poor horses. My dry lips begin to twitch. All day I have been travelling with scarcely any relief.
Dressed as I am in her discarded clothes, my appearance is one of respectability. It would not do to produce my hip flask now and draw attention to myself. It would be indecorous. Reckless. And yet . . .
My lips are very dry.
I might risk it.
I must risk it.
Struggling against my companions, I manoeuvre my reticule from where it hangs on my wrist to the lap of my gown. The pewter flask inside bangs against my thigh. With practised hands I line the neck up with the drawstring opening of my reticule and pull the stopper. The other passengers will see me raise the bag to my mouth, but not what it contains.
Only a sip – swift and fleeting as the touch of a lover’s lips. It is sufficient. Medicinal.
I lower the reticule, refasten the stopper. Not one person marks it.
Even without their scrutiny, I experience a flush of shame. Some inner consciousness that I have come to rely rather too heavily upon spirits of late. But alcohol cleanses a wound, does it not?
Water races across the windows. Drear mist creeps through the cracks in the doors, an uninvited guest. Just now it seems to me that this must be hell: not a fiery pit after all but leaching cold, and a yearning for rest never to be granted. Dead flesh, the marble statues overlooking graves: both of these are cold.
Finally, there is a shout from the roof. ‘New London Inn, Exeter!’
Our destination, yet there is no check to our wild pace. Instead, there is an awful high-pitched shriek.
As we jerk to a halt, I hear a crack, feel it tingle in my back teeth. The silence that follows is deafening.
The man next to me clears his throat. ‘Most likely a sack of mail,’ he says unconvincingly.
I know it is not that.
Shouts outside. The other five passengers stare at one another. I alone lean forward and listen to the guard cursing up on the box.
His words ring like a summons, stirring something I presumed long dead.
The old feeling of purpose.
‘Let me out,’ I cry. ‘Move. For heaven’s sake, move!’
The hulking man barely shifts; I am obliged to climb over his legs and tug the door open. Cold air rushes in, burning my cheeks with its touch. I leap from the coach.
I land heavily on my knees, grazing them, narrowly avoiding a pile of dung. The tight knot of my reticule rubs against my wrist. Although it is only late afternoon, the yard is fearfully dark. Everything is flavoured with smoke and straw.
Our carriage is turned almost completely the wrong way, facing back towards the entrance of the yard. Thick black lines on the frosted cobbles show the pattern the wheels took as they hit the ice too fast. It is the guard’s fault – he did not apply the chains in time. The carriage lamps illuminate wisps of steam rising from the horses and beyond, inky spots of blood on the cobbles.
‘A surgeon!’ someone calls.
As I suspected, a passenger has toppled from the roof.
He retains consciousness; his eyelids flick and his lips splutter their pain. Yet no one approaches. A few ostlers stand in a semicircle, regarding him as if he is contagious.
I should mimic them. Leave it be until a surgeon arrives to assist the injured man. But I have already broken my resolution to stay inconspicuous by jumping out of the coach.
He releases a heartbreaking moan, and I know I cannot delay any longer.
Pushing past the ostlers, I drop to my knees beside the patient. The aspect is not a pretty one. His head is cracked at the hairline and hints of a meaty coral-coloured substance frill the wound. If I do not intervene, he will die for certain. Clamping a gloved hand either side of the break, I push it shut, speaking the words of comfort I have learnt by rote. Coppery blood hums beneath the stench of horses and woodsmoke.
‘Hush, now. I will help you.’
He groans.
Nothing but a break can explain the angle of his right leg. I pray it is not an open one, for then he will lose the limb altogether. If, indeed, he survives the amputation.
Glancing up, I see that the guard and the coachman have dismounted. Three of the interior passengers have also ventured out to gape, but those travelling on the roof sit petrified. I cannot blame them. If I had seen this man tumble, I should be terrified of falling myself and sharing his fate.
I recognise the portly man who took up so much space next to me in the coach.
‘You there!’ My voice booms out full of authority. ‘Come here. Lend me your cane.’
He stumbles forward, drops his amber-headed walking stick and makes to retreat but I – impelled perhaps, by an unworthy sentiment of revenge – bark, ‘Now, the ties from the luggage. String, cord, anything strong. Bring it to me. Make haste!’
The other two passengers hurry to assist him, their shapes moving back and forth against the shadowy hulk of the coach. Despite everything, I experience a thrill of elation. I have not felt this alive for many weeks.
The patient’s blood pulses beneath my fingers, in time with my own heartbeat.
I turn to the guard beside me. ‘Sir, please place your hands here, where mine are.’
He stares at me as if I have lost my mind. ‘Put them . . . ?’
‘Either side of the wound and press, hard. You possess the strength, do you not?’
His face puckers. ‘Really, miss, that’s not what I’m paid for.’
‘Good God! What manner of man are you?’ I cry. ‘A pretty tale this will make in the coaching inns: how you bungled the chains and then left a woman screaming for aid, because you hadn’t the stomach for blood!’
This touches home. He obeys, although not without resentment, eyeing me as a dog that has turned on him. I expect that before now he mistook me for a lady. It is an illusion I can no longer support.
Retrieving the hip flask from my reticule, I slosh gin into the patient’s gaping mouth. There is no chance of my companions mistaking it for water this time; the perfume rises like a blush to condemn me. Eyebrows are raised, but I cannot regret my actions. With this poor man’s injuries, I am only
sorry that I do not have something stronger to administer.
He stirs. All vestige of colour has fled his face. His eyes stare but they are glassy and I doubt they discern me, or anything except the pain.
Tentatively, I touch his leg. His breeches and woollen stockings are torn, revealing brutal grazes, but my prayer has been answered: there are no punctures, no sickening flashes of bone poking through the skin. The break is clean.
I gulp at the gin myself, gaining courage for what I must do next. It is like drinking splinters of ice. A few sharp mouthfuls give a spur to my senses, and clarity to my vision.
I place my hands on the leg, will strength to my fingers.
Pull.
There is a terrible wet pop.
My patient roars. The horses rear in their harness. Even the guard looks as if he might swoon.
‘You will thank me, in time,’ I shout above the commotion. The injured man does not hear; he has fainted away.
Laying the cane along the length of his shin, I tie it in place with the pilfered string. A poor excuse for a splint, but it is better than nothing. I have seen the result of breaks that reset at the wrong angle: it is a lifetime of malformation and pain.
But this man’s leg looks good – straight.
How long it has been since I felt this gentle triumph, the warm tingle that spreads to the very tips of my fingers. Even gin cannot recreate such a sensation. I have fixed what is broken. Perhaps, perhaps, if I can continue in this path . . .
A heavy hand falls upon my shoulder.
The shape of a man, dressed all in black, is articulated against the lamplight. He wears a powdered wig and a haughty expression. In his free hand he holds a portmanteau – made of ox leather, unlike the battered one belonging to Father, but it is smaller, and I doubt it contains much of use inside.
I know a quack when I see one.
‘That will do, madam. I shall direct matters from here. Which of you fellows will carry this man to the inn?’