{"product_id":"the-silent-companions-isbn-9780143131632","title":"The Silent Companions","description":"\u003cb\u003e“[An] extraordinary, memorable and truly haunting book.” \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJojo Moyes, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaura Purcell's THE SHAPE OF DARKNESS is now out from Penguin!\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSome doors are locked for a reason.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                   \u003cbr\u003e When Elsie married handsome young heir Rupert Bainbridge, she believed she was destined for a life of luxury. But pregnant and widowed just weeks after their wedding, with her new servants resentful and the local villagers actively hostile, Elsie has only her late husband’s awkward cousin for company. Or so she thinks. Inside her new home lies a locked door, beyond which is a painted wooden figure—a silent companion—that bears a striking resemblance to Elsie herself. The residents of the estate are terrified of the figure, but Elsie tries to shrug this off as simple superstition—that is, until she notices the figure’s eyes following her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Victorian ghost story that evokes a most unsettling kind of fear,\u003ci\u003e The Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e is a tale that creeps its way through the consciousness in ways you least expect—much like the companions themselves.“A perfect read for a winter night . . . An intriguing, nuanced, and genuinely eerie slice of Victorian gothic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Guardian\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions \u003c\/i\u003elands on your night table, don’t plan on leaving your bed anytime soon. Immersive, meticulous, and reminiscent of the masters of gothic fiction—not only a compulsively readable ghost story, but a skillful, loving ode to the entire genre.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Lyndsay Faye\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eJane Steele\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Purcell crafts a virtually flawless work of Gothic fiction with this deeply atmospheric, foreboding story. . . . In inviting us into her eerie Gothic world, Purcell masterfully attends to every atmospheric detail—from the dirty hems of skirts to the slanting light of dawn. Her novel is reminiscent of the work of all the greats, particularly Shirley Jackson and Daphne du Maurier, but Purcell has a style all her own. A must for all lovers of Gothic literature.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Library Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An atmospheric, eerie Victorian gothic novel . . . its combustible tale of a 19th-century woman tormented by an English country house’s creepy curios does produce sparks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This perfect fireside read combines all the best characteristics of the gothic genre.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Irresistibly creepy, this romps along, Purcell turning her screws with skill. It’s what crumpets and dismal afternoons were made for.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Glamour\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A genuinely creepy Victorian ghost story, it’ll keep you up half the night reading it . . . and you won’t want to turn off the light.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Good Housekeeping\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the most well-written horror stories I’ve read this year, \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e 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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The chill of \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e sneaks up on you and then settles in like a gray mist on a British moor . . . a shivery treat.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Laura Purcell weaves a classic tale of gothic horror. . . . Purcell has all the finest ingredients of the gothic tradition. . . . Reminiscent of Susan Hill’s \u003ci\u003eThe Woman in Black\u003c\/i\u003e and even du Maurier’s \u003ci\u003eRebecca\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e will chill readers who fall under its spell.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ghost stories are having a revival at present, and \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e . . . is a worthy newcomer to the genre. . . . These silent companions . . . are one of the creepiest concepts I’ve come across in a ghost story, both frightening and original. . . . The writing is strong and the concept provides a fresh twist on an old classic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Historical Novels Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Layering on the dark and creepy, this intriguingly plotted novel is the full-blown Gothic, maintaining throughout an unsettling claustrophobic atmosphere mixed with some unusual historical detail.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Daily Mail \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sinister slice of the Victorian Gothic . . . It is a measure of Laura Purcell’s skill...that she spins these tropes into something creepy and page-turning.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Times\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This atmospheric Gothic novel tells a deliciously creepy ghost story.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSunday Express \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Chilling.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sunday Post\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Creeptastic . . . Laura Purcell has nailed it with a story that conjures up Susan Hill’s \u003ci\u003eThe Woman In Black\u003c\/i\u003e, Henry James’s \u003ci\u003eThe Turn Of The Screw\u003c\/i\u003e and a little bit of \u003ci\u003eRebecca\u003c\/i\u003e by Daphne du Maurier.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Emerald Street\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You may want to leave the light on once you put down this intensely spooky gothic chiller. . . . Irresistibly creepy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe People\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A superbly atmospheric, tense novel full of creeping dread.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRed\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine \u003c\/b\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Really tense and unnerving. It still won’t let me go.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWoman \u0026amp; Home\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine \u003c\/b\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A creepy, unsettling tale that I had to finish reading in broad daylight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eStylist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e, “10 must-read books for October” (UK)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A delightfully creepy, unsettling gothic ghost story that will send a shiver down your spine and stay with you long after you’ve turned the final page. Prepare to be chilled!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eDead Good\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Writing in the tradition of country house ghost stories, Laura Purcell has created a book that is unnerving and compelling in equal measure. \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e is an atmospheric gothic tale that chills the blood.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sophia Tobin\u003c\/b\u003e, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Silversmith’s Wife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Magnificently creepy . . . I really wished it were longer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Natasha Pulley\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eWatchmaker of Filigree Street \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Frighteningly atmospheric, genuinely haunting and psychologically astute, the horror of \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Companions\u003c\/i\u003e lingers like truth in the darkest corners of the human mind.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Helen Sedgwick\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Comet Seekers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling and claustrophobic. The pages all but turn by themselves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Essie Fox\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Last Days of Leda Grey\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not since \u003ci\u003eThe Little Stranger\u003c\/i\u003e has a book so entranced and haunted me. Compelling, bewitching and beautifully written. Read it if you dare.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Anna Mazzola\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Unseeing\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eLaura Purcell\u003c\/b\u003e worked in local government, the financial industry and a bookshop before becoming a full-time writer. She lives in Colchester, the oldest recorded town in England, with her husband and pet guinea pigs. Fascinated by the darker side of royal history, Laura has also written two historical fiction novels about the Hanoverian dynasty.\u003cb\u003est joseph's hospital\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The new doctor took her by surprise. Not that there was anything      unusual in his arrival - doctors came and went often enough. But      this one was young. New to the profession, as well as the place.      There was a brightness to him that made her eyes ache.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'This is her? Mrs Bainbridge?' The Mrs was a nice touch. She could      not remember the last time she'd been given a title. It played      like a tune she could only just recall. He looked up from his      notes, intent upon her. 'Mrs Bainbridge, my name is Dr Shepherd. I      am here to help you. To make sure we are giving you the sufficient      level of care.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Care. She wanted to stand up from where she sat on the edge of the      bed, take his arm and gently guide him to the door. This place was      not for innocents. Next to the stocky, middle-aged hag of an      attendant he looked so vibrant, so alive. The limewashed walls had      not yet leeched the colour from his face or dulled the tone of his      voice. In his eyes she saw the gleam of interest. This disturbed      her more than the attendant's scowl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Mrs Bainbridge? Do you understand?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Told you.' The attendant sniffed. 'You'll get nothing from her.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The doctor sighed. Tucking his papers under his arm, he came      farther into her cell. 'That does happen. Often in cases of great      distress. Sometimes the shock is so intense that it renders the      patient unable to speak. It seems likely, does it not?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They bubbled up, the words in her chest. Her ribs ached and her      lips tingled with the force of them. But they were ghosts, echoes      of things that had been. She would never experience them again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He bent forwards so that his head was level with hers. She was      acutely aware of his eyes, wide and unblinking behind his      spectacles. Palest rings of mint green.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'It can be cured. With time and patience. I have seen it done.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The attendant sucked in a disapproving breath. 'Don't get close,      doctor. She's a fierce one, all right. Spat in my face once.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How steadily he watched her. He was close enough for her to smell      him: carbolic soap, cloves. Memory flickered like a tinderbox. She      refused to let the flint spark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'You do not wish to recall what happened to you. But you can talk.      The smoke inhalation was by no means bad enough to render you      mute.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'She won't talk, doctor. This one's no fool. Knows where they'll      put her if she ain't in here.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'But she can write?' He looked about the room. 'Why is there      nothing here for her to write with? Have you not tried to      communicate with her?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Wouldn't trust her with a pen.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'A slate then, and chalk. You will find them in my room.' He      fished in his pocket and thrust a key at the attendant. 'Fetch      them. Now, if you please.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With a frown, the attendant took the key and shuffled out the      door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They were alone. She felt his eyes upon her - not hard but      uncomfortable, like the tickle of an insect crawling over her leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Medicine is changing, Mrs Bainbridge. I am not a man who will      give you electric shocks or plunge you into cold baths. I want to      help.' He cocked his head. 'You must know that certain . . .      accusations have been made against you. Some people suggest you      should be moved to a more secure facility. Or that perhaps you do      not belong in an asylum at all.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Accusations. They never explained the basis of the charge, only      called her a killer, and for a while she had lived up to the      reputation: throwing cups; scratching the nurses. But now she had      a room of her own and stronger medication, it was too much effort      to act the part. She would rather sleep. Forget.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'I am here to decide your fate. But in order to help you, I need      you to help me. I need you to tell me what happened.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As if he could understand. She had seen things beyond the      comprehension of his small, scientific brain. Things he would deny      were possible until they stole up beside him and pressed their      worn, splintered hands against his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A dimple appeared in his left cheek as he smiled. 'I see what you      are thinking. Every patient says the same, that I won't believe      them. I confess, there are many delusions here, but few are      without foundation. Some experience has formed them. Even if it      sounds extraordinary, I should like to hear it - what you think      happened. Sometimes, the brain cannot cope with the information it      has to process. It makes sense of trauma in odd ways. If I can      hear what your mind tells you, I might be able to understand how      it works.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled back. It was an unpleasant smile; the one that made the      nurses edge away. He didn't flinch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'And perhaps we can turn your predicament to our advantage. When a      trauma has occurred, it often helps the victim to write it down.      In a detached way. As if it happened to someone else.' The door      whined; the attendant had returned with the chalk and slate in      hand. Dr Shepherd took them and reached towards the bed, offering      the items like an olive branch. 'So then, Mrs Bainbridge. Will you      try for me? Write something.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tentatively, she reached out and picked up the chalk. It sat      strangely in her hand. After all this time, she could not remember      how to begin. She pressed the tip to the slate and drew a vertical      line. It squeaked - an awful, high-pitched squeal that set her      teeth on edge. She panicked, pushed too hard. The end of the chalk      snapped off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'I really do think a pencil would be easier for her. Look, she is      not dangerous. She is simply trying to do as we ask.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The attendant glared. 'On your head be it, doctor. I'll bring one      later.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She managed to scrape out some letters. They were faint, but she      was afraid to use force again. Just visible on the slate was a      shaky Hello.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dr Shepherd rewarded her with another smile. 'That's it! Keep      practising. Do you think you could build it up, Mrs Bainbridge,      and do as I asked? Write down all you remember?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As easy as that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was too young. Too fresh and full of hope to realise there      would be times in his life he would want to erase - whole years of      unbearable moments.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She had pushed them down so deep that she could only reach one or      two. Enough to confirm she did not want the rest. Whenever she      tried to think back, she saw them. Their awful faces barring the      way to the past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe the slate clean and write      again. Why?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He blinked behind his glasses. 'Well . . . Why do you think?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'That's right.' The dimple appeared again. 'Imagine if we could      cure you? Set you free of this hospital?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e God love him. No.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'No? But . . . I do not understand.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Told you, doctor,' said the attendant in her harsh, magpie voice.      'She did it, all right.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She tucked her legs up and lay flat on the bed. Her head throbbed.      She raised her hands to her scalp and gripped, trying to hold      things in place. Bristles prickled from her shaved head. Hair      growing, months passing, locked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e How long had it been? A year, she supposed. She could ask them,      write the question on the slate, but she feared to learn the      truth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Surely it was time for her medicine, time to deaden the world?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Mrs Bainbridge? Mrs Bainbridge, are you well?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She kept her eyes shut. Enough, enough. Four words, and she had      written too much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Perhaps I have pushed her too hard for today,' he said. But still      he hovered, an unsettling presence by her bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This was all wrong. Her mind was thawing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Finally, she heard him straighten up. Keys jangled, a door creaked      open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'Who next?'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The door closed and muffled their voices. Their words and steps      petered away down the corridor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was alone, but the isolation did not comfort her as it used      to. Noises that usually went unnoticed came painfully loud: the      rattle of a lock, laughter far away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frantic, she buried her face beneath her pillow and tried to      forget.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e o\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The truth. She could not stop thinking about it during the cold      grey hours of silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They didn't get newspapers in the day room - at least, not when      she had been allowed in there - but rumours had a way of seeping      under doors and through cracks in the walls. Journalists' lies      made it into the asylum long before she did. Ever since she awoke      in this place, she had been given a new name: murderess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Other patients, attendants, even the nurses when they thought no      one could hear: they twisted their mouths and bared their teeth as      they said it, ravenous. Murderess. As if they wanted to frighten      her. Her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't the injustice she loathed but the noise, its syllables      hissing in her ears like - No.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She shifted in bed and hugged her goose-pimpled arms tight, trying      to hold herself together. Until now she had been safe. Safe behind      the walls, safe behind her silence, safe with the beautiful drugs      that drowned out the past. But the new doctor . . . He was the      clock signalling with a dread knell that her time was finished.      Perhaps you do not belong in an asylum at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Panic spiralled in her chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back again to the same three options. Say nothing and be presumed      guilty. Destination: the gallows. Say nothing and, by some      miracle, be acquitted. Destination: the cold, sharp world outside,      no medicine to help her forget.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only one choice remained - the truth. But what was that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gazing back to the past, the only faces she saw clearly were those      of her parents. Around them, shadowy figures massed. Figures full      of hate that had terrified her and twisted the course of her life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But no one would believe that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A full moon shone in silvery lines through the window at the top      of the wall, touching her head. She lay there, watching it, when      the thought came to her. In this place of misrule, everything was      upside down. The truth was mad, beyond the realms of any healthy      imagination. And that was why the truth was the only thing      guaranteed to keep her under lock and key.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She slid from the bed onto the floor. It was cold and faintly      sticky. No matter how many times they mopped it, the scent of piss      hung in the air. She crouched down beside her bed, finally facing      the bulky shadow across the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dr Shepherd had ordered them to bring it: the first new item in an      unchanging landscape. Just a desk. But it was another instrument      to crack open the charnel house and exhume all she had buried.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With her pulse pounding in her neck, she crawled across the floor.      Somehow she felt safer down low, crouched beneath it, looking up      the notched legs. Wood. She shivered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Surely there was no reason to be cautious here. Surely they could      not take any piece of wood and . . . It wasn't possible. But then      none of it was possible. None of it made the least bit of sense.      Yet it had happened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Slowly, she stood and surveyed the surface of the desk. Dr      Shepherd had left all the implements out for her: paper and a      thick, blunt-ended pencil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She pulled a page towards her. In the gloom she saw a void of      white, waiting for her words. She swallowed the pain in her      throat. How could she relive it? How could she bring herself to do      it to them, all over again?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She peered into the blank page, trying to see, somewhere in its      vast expanse of nothing, that other woman from long ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the bridge,        1865\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am not dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elsie recited the words as her carriage sluiced through country      roads, churning up clods of mud. The wheels made a wet, sucking      noise. I am not dead. But it was hard to believe, looking through      the rain-spattered window at the ghost of her reflection: pale      skin; cadaverous cheeks; curls eclipsed by black gauze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Outside the sky was iron grey, the monotony broken only by crows.      Mile after mile and the scenery did not change. Stubble fields,      skeletal trees. They are burying me, she realised. They are      burying me along with Rupert.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't meant to be like this. They should have been back in      London by now; the house thrown open, spilling over with wine and      candles. This season vivid dyes were in fashion. The salons would      be awash with azuline, mauve, magenta and Paris green. She should      be there at the centre of it: invited to every diamond-spangled      party; hanging on the arm of the host in his striped waistcoat;      the first lady escorted into the dining room. The new bride always      went first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But not a widow. A widow shied from the light and entombed herself      with grief. She became a mermaid drowning in black crpe, like the      Queen. Elsie sighed and stared into the hollow reflection of her      eyes. She must be a terrible wife, for she did not long for      seclusion. Sitting in silence musing on Rupert's virtues wouldn't      help her grief. Only distraction could do that. She wanted to      attend the theatre, to ride up and down on the rattling omnibuses.      She would rather be anywhere than alone in these bleak fields.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Well, not quite alone. Sarah sat hunched on the squabs opposite,      poring over a battered leather volume. Her wide mouth moved as she      read, whispering the words. Elsie despised her already. Those      mud-brown, bovine eyes that held no spark of intelligence, the      pinched cheekbones and the lanky hair that always dribbled out of      her bonnet. She'd seen shop girls with more refinement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 'She'll be company for you,' Rupert had promised. 'Just watch her      while I'm down at The Bridge. Show her a few sights. The poor girl      doesn't get out much.'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He wasn't exaggerating. His cousin Sarah ate, breathed and blinked      - occasionally she read. That was it. There was no initiative, no      yearning to better her position. She'd been content in her little      rut as companion to a crippled old lady until the crone died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As a good cousin, Rupert had taken her in. But it was Elsie who      was stuck with her now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Yellow, fan-shaped leaves came swooping down from the chestnut      trees and landed on the roof of the carriage. Pat, pat. Earth upon      the coffin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only another hour or two, and the sun would start to set.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300440166629,"sku":"NP9780143131632","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143131632.jpg?v=1767741516","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-silent-companions-isbn-9780143131632","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}