‘Yes, it scares me. That is reason enough. What do you think it is doing to my baby, having all these jumps and frights?’
‘But Hetta is my ancestor. I’ve read about her, I feel that I know her.’ Sarah’s voice slid from pleading to desperation. ‘What if she is trying to contact us? If she is asking me to right an injustice? I cannot fail her!’They said that, didn’t they? That the murdered could not rest but wandered, seeking justice. Elsie knew for a fact it was nonsense. It must be that old woman Mrs Crabbly, putting notions into Sarah’s head. Mesmerism, indeed!
‘Miss Sarah,’ said Mrs Holt, ‘if I may be so bold as to say so . . . I’ve lived in this house since I was a young woman. We never had any ghosts!’
Helen sniffed.
‘But you are not related to Hetta!’ There was a fanatic energy about Sarah. ‘She would not try to reach you. We are alike, she and I. Please let me keep her. At least until I have finished the diary.’
A sound came from the pile of companions – a dry creaking, like beams settling. She had to decide. Soon it would grow dark.
‘Do it,’ Mabel whispered. ‘Hack her up and burn the buggers to hell.’
Mrs Holt whirled round. ‘Mabel!’
Elsie sighed. The world was full of them, past and present: sad, lonely little girls. She has suffered enough already. Was Sarah talking about Hetta, or herself?
Elsie had already taken Sarah’s house and her diamond necklace. There was no doubt what Rupert would want her to do now.
‘Sarah may keep Hetta, if it is so important to her. But mark me, I want it kept locked up in the garret, not in my house, not anywhere near my baby.’
‘Oh thank you, thank you, Mrs Bainbridge!’ Sarah squealed. ‘I know you are doing the right thing.’ A red circle glowed on either cheek. Her eyes were glittering, like frost.
‘In the garret, do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes. I will keep her in the garret, that is no trouble at all.’
Sarah seized Hetta as if she were snatching her from the jaws of death. She held the painted side against her body, but she could not manoeuvre it with her bad hand.
‘Who will help me move her upstairs?’
Both Mabel and Helen stepped back.
‘For heaven’s sake!’ cried Mrs Holt. She jangled her keys and unlocked the kitchen door. ‘Come along then, Miss Sarah. My girls have become afraid of their own shadows.’
As soon as they were inside, Elsie withdrew a box of matches from her pocket. Peters held out his hand, but she shook her head. She wanted to set the fire herself.
‘About time, too,’ whispered Mabel.
Elsie approached the woodpile. The wind picked up and her veil billowed out behind her like dark smoke. She had a vision of herself, standing there, black and solemn.
The companions were a jigsaw of parts: the gypsy’s hair, scalped; that horrendous stiff baby, severed in half. They could not scare her now. Withdrawing a matchstick, she scratched it along the sandpaper.
A spark, a flare of blue, then the orange flame. Warmth prickled through her gloves. She watched the light bob in the breeze, feeling the power there in her fingers, ready to release with a single flick. She could smell the smoke already.
‘Do it, ma’am,’ Helen urged.
She let the match fall.
Wood cracked and the pile burst into a blaze. An eye watched her from beneath a flicker of flame. It melted, bleeding down the cheek, the colours running.
THE BRIDGE, 1635
I thought I had done the right thing. I thought all was well.
The gypsy boy, who calls himself Merripen, is established in the stables. He has taken a solemn vow not to leave doors unlocked or abet his thieving kin. I know what these people are like.
Ever since I relented towards her friend, Hetta has been all sweetness and light, running up and down the stairs with her spaniels bumping after her, cutting swathes of herbs for the kitchen and marvelling over my diamonds. I was surprised by her glee, but I was also proud of her. I thought she had conquered her disappointment like a lady. I assumed it was enough for her to have her friend in employment. How well Josiah has managed her, I said to myself. How was I to know? How could I dream that he had not even told her?
It all started when the boys arrived. The weather was sultry, uncomfortably close. All morning the magpies chittered, cackling their secrets. But my sons were in high spirits, tumbling from their carriage on their gangly legs, slapping one another on the shoulders.
James led the way into the Great Hall. Henry towered over him. He has shot up this year, tall and thin like a reed, like one of Hetta’s saplings. And Charles—! I never can believe that Charles came from my body. He is wide, sturdy and built with the strength of a mastiff. No wonder he wreaked so much damage; no wonder the midwife said . . . But that does not matter now.
We were full of embraces, full of news. Dinner passed in a happy, raucous blur and Hetta was smiling, smiling all the while. Once we had eaten, she showed her brothers the preparations for the masque: trapdoors and levers; platforms made to look like clouds. She tried a pirouette and James swept her into his arms, flying her around the painted backdrop of a blue sky.
It was then that another man arrived from Mr Samuels’s shop with boxes.
‘More!’ Josiah pretended to be scandalised, but I saw he was pleased with every single choice I had made.
‘We will astound the Queen with our curiosities,’ I said. ‘The Bridge will be the greatest showpiece she has ever seen.’
This time it was the counterfeit people – the wooden figures Mr Samuels called his companions. What wonders they are! The lady from the shop was there, and many more besides: a sleeping child; a lady with her lute; a gentleman with a doxy on his lap.
‘God’s blood! Did you ever see the like?’ Charles went over and touched one with his fat hand. ‘A person stepped right out of a portrait!’
Hetta gave a high, loud squeal of delight, like a dog when it sees its master. She bounded over to Charles’s side and gazed up at the figures, wonder written all over her face. As the boys chattered, she weaved in and around the boards, fingering their edges.
‘Hello,’ said Henry. ‘Henrietta Maria’s playing hide and go seek.’
So that’s what we did all day while the servants worked to make the house perfect: ran about like children, placing the companions in the strangest places, trying to make each other jump.
‘They need to look real,’ I said. ‘I want people to come upon them and start. I want the King to bump into a companion and beg his pardon!’
We found a thousand nooks and crannies in the house, a thousand corners to position them just right. As the light fell, the wooden figures watched me from their hiding places and they seemed to smirk, complicit. They promised to give the Queen the surprise of her life.