The Poison Diaries

by Wood, Maryrose

  He shakes off his reverie and resumes his usual authoritative tone. “Remember: This is my home, and Weed is our guest. In my absence you are his host. You may act toward him as such. As for love—be virtuous and use the judgment God gave you, Jessamine. You are still scarcely more than a—”

  “Father, enough.” I wheel from the sink. Soapy water drips from my hands onto the floor. “I will heed your words. But I am far from a child.”

  I expect he will be furious at my insolence, but I no longer care. Perhaps he senses this.

  “My apologies, Jessamine,” he says, inclining his head. “You are quite right. I may not think of you as full grown, but you are certainly not a child anymore.”

  He reaches toward me and lifts my hair away from my face. “In fact,” he adds softly, “in this light, you look a great deal like your mother. May your virtue be rewarded with a longer, healthier life than hers.”

  In the afternoon I work in the herb bed, thinning out the weak seedlings and pinching back the rest, then laying down a fresh layer of rotted hay as mulch. Afterward Weed and I walk. He fills my head with tales from the ancient forests, tales so old that the trees themselves call them legends. It is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, and the world I have lived in all my sixteen years is revealed to be something else entirely, something so marvelous I could never have imagined it.

  When we return to the cottage Father is gone: boots, coat, medical bag, and all. He must have received the summons to London he was expecting.

  Father is entitled to his secrets, too, I tell myself, still giddy from the walk. That is only fair, considering.

  Weed and I are alone. We have been alone together many times, of course, but now that Father has left, perhaps for days, our shared solitude is altered. It feels heightened, expectant, almost celebratory. It is like playing house, I think. Imagine if this cottage were ours, just mine and Weed’s—

  I prepare a fine dinner for the two of us, a spring stew of lamb, potatoes, and fresh greens. When the food is ready I set the table and light candles. I find tea already made in the kitchen; I warm it and pour it into cups that I choose only after careful inspection.

  Weed devours his food; I am pleased. We converse as we usually do during dinner, but after the meal is done our conversation lapses. It is different with just the two of us here. He feels it too, I can tell. It is delicious, this privacy: Which of us will be the first to mention it?

  I sip my tea, and Weed sips his. All my senses begin to feel heightened. The candlelight twists and leaps. The linen napkin in my lap is pleasantly smooth to the touch. From outside I hear the anxious whir of crickets, and the soft flep-flep-flep of bats whizzing back and forth by the window.

  I notice that the bucket I once used to soak the belladonna seeds is now set in a corner, partially filled with smooth pebbles. Father must be gathering them to rake into a path.

  “I wonder why they call it belladonna?” I ask, breaking the silence. “‘Lovely lady.’ It is a strange name for a plant.”

  “They say it can be used to make a woman more beautiful.”

  I snort. “How? That is ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps, but that is what some believe.”

  I stir my cup, now nearly empty. “Have you ever seen it used? Does it work?”

  “I have not seen it myself, but I am told that it has—a strong effect,” Weed answers carefully.

  “Then I must try it.” I feel suddenly bold, silly, reckless.

  “But you could not be made more beautiful,” he says with a smile. “It would be impossible.”

  “I am sure the belladonna would disagree.” I stand. “Come, Weed! You must show me how to do it.” Laughing flirtatiously, I grab his hand. Where does this dizzy abandon come from? I scarcely feel the floor beneath my feet, as I half drag, half dance Weed to Father’s study.

  “There it is,” I say, pointing to the high shelf. I could drag a chair over and stretch up for it, but there is no need—my mood has infected Weed, and he reaches the forbidden bottle easily.

  “How does it work?” I ask as I twirl in front of the desk.

  “A drop in each eye; that is all you need.” Weed opens the jar and removes one of its precious dark pearls. It rolls lazily in his palm. “It will make your pupils widen, your eyes flash with fire—they say no man can resist its gaze.”

  “Do it,” I plead, in a voice that sounds utterly unlike my own. “Make me beautiful, Weed. I wish to look at you with these flashing eyes you speak of.”

  With a gentle hand beneath my chin, he tilts my head back.

  “Open your eyes wide, and look up,” he instructs.

  I do, and am forced to stare at the murals on Father’s ceiling that are left over from the chapel days. I see Adam and Eve, alone in the garden, the tree of knowledge behind them, a serpent coiled around the overhanging branch from which dangles the delicious, forbidden fruit—

  “Hold still, now—”

  One—two—the drops burn like acid, and I cry out.

  “It only stings for a moment,” Weed soothes. “Now close your eyes—and when you are ready, open them.”

  You have both gone mad, some sane ghost of my former self scolds me—

  Silence, I bid the ghost, and open my eyes. As soon as I do I know the drops have worked. I feel their powerful heat throughout my being. The belladonna drops have made me ravishing, sloe-eyed, worldly, irresistible—at least I imagine they have. The world is a blur. Each object melts into the next in a syrupy swirl of color.

  “Weed, I cannot see,” I complain.

  “You do not need to,” he replies. “You are to be admired.”

  “But I wish to know what you see when you look at me.” I flail my arms about. “Where is the mirror?”

  “Very well.” Weed leads me to the glass. “Come, look. Admire yourself.”

  We stand together before the mirror. I can make out only shapes: a dab of yellow where my hair ought to be, floating above a long smudge that is more or less the color of the dress I dimly recall putting on this morning. The image swims before my eyes, turns liquid. Then, like parchment that gets too near a flame, the edges begin to go dark.

  “Do you see?” Weed asks, from someplace far away. “Can you see how beautiful you are?”

  I cannot. I cannot see anything now. The soft veil of darkness wraps around me. Weed’s voice is my world, now. It caresses me like a breeze. Warms me like the sun.

  I love him.

  I turn and reach out until I find him. My blindness makes me bold. In this dim, private world, anything that might happen is merely a dream, a wisp, a fantasy. Nothing is forbidden.

  I am blind, and I have never felt so free.

  I cling to Weed’s body, a landmark in the dark. Unseeing, I run my hands up his chest and twine them around his neck. I throw my head back, so that he may gaze into my charmed, useless eyes and be captivated by their spell.

  “Lovely lady.” His whisper coils around me like smoke. “Belladonna. My lovely, lovely Jessamine—”

  I love you, Weed.

  In the darkness I let myself melt, so he has no choice but to catch me and lift me, cradling my body against his. His mouth finds mine. After the first kiss I arch so his lips brush the tender skin of my throat instead.

  Their warm, velvet touch sears me with pleasure. I would writhe in these flames forever, if it would keep his burning mouth pressed against me like this. I would stay eternally blind, if it meant my skin would always be this alive, every nerve on fire—

  This is wrong, I think, but I have no wish to stop.

  I love you, Weed; how I love you—

  And are we not wed, bound by the secret only we two can share?

  Together we sink to the floor. Weed whispers my name against my flesh. I feel his breath come faster. I want him to kiss me again, and say so. This fierce longing flies beyond the wildest notion of what is proper, yet we are swept into each other by a relentless current—the rush to fertility triumphs over all—


  I hear a distant thud, like a heavy door closing.

  Stop, I whisper, but no sound comes out.

  Weed freezes in my arms. He hears it too: the sound of a man’s boots walking deliberately across ancient wooden floors. The footsteps get louder as they approach.

  I hear Weed scramble to his feet. I reach down and try to smooth my skirt by touch alone. I can feel that one of my shoes is gone, but how will I ever find it without the use of my eyes?

  A familiar creak; it is the door to Father’s study opening.

  There is a sharp intake of breath—an anguished cry—

  “Father?” I stretch my arms forward, clawing at the dark fog that surrounds me. “Father, is that you?”

  13

  IT IS HOURS—DAYS, WEEKS? I have no way of knowing—before the darkness begins to lift.

  My head aches. So do my wrists. I am slumped in a chair, but I cannot tell where I am. I seem to be restrained, somehow.

  “Forgive me,” Father’s voice murmurs. “You have been wild, running blindly, crashing into walls, tripping over furniture. I feared you would do yourself harm.”

  I blink, and blink again. The pitch-black night of my blindness has thinned to a pale gray fog that strips all color from the world. Through its mist I can begin to make out shapes.

  There is the dining table, and the light slanting through tall, arched chapel windows. I am in the parlor, in Father’s big chair that is usually pulled near the hearth. I try to move, but my arms are fixed tightly to my body.

  Father looms before me.

  “Now you have experienced, firsthand, the dubious charms of belladonna,” he says flatly as he frees my bound limbs. “My countless warnings, ignored. And these are the consequences.”

  “I am so sorry, Father.” I begin to weep.

  “Why, Jessamine?” He leans close to me. “What if I had not come back when I did? A broken carriage wheel postponed the coach to London until morning—” His voice catches. “If not for this random circumstance that interrupted my journey, where would you be right now?”

  Father straightens. Now I can see Weed, slumped at the far end of the table. His face is a wary mask. I open my mouth to speak his name, but I stop. The truth is I cannot fully remember all that happened between us. Memories, sensations, all are shrouded in fog—surely it was only a dream?

  “I was young once, too,” Father says. “I suppose it was inevitable that you would someday disobey me. I hope that this bout of painful blindness will teach you a lesson, Jessamine. One that could save your life—though I fear it is too late to salvage your virtue,” he adds pointedly.

  Weed shakes his head vehemently, and my heart swells with relief. I pray that he will deny that anything untoward happened, for even if I did lose my mind temporarily, I must believe that Weed would only protect me, and not take advantage—

  “It was not the belladonna,” is all he says.

  “Is that so?” Father moves toward Weed so forcefully he knocks a chair to the ground. “Or is it possible that you do not know everything after all, Master Weed? It blinded her, though it seems she will recover, thank God. And, judging from what I witnessed when I walked into my study, it also seems to have removed some—inhibitions.” He turns away from me; his voice is suddenly cold. “I must confess: I did not know that belladonna could have that particular effect. I will have to make a notation about it in my book.”

  Father addresses Weed. “Can you two be trusted alone together? Or would it be wise to tie you to a chair as well, Master Weed?”

  Weed clenches his jaw and turns away. Satisfied, Father leaves the parlor.

  I am too mortified to speak. Weed cannot bring himself to look at me. The air between us is thick with shame.

  It was not the belladonna…. I remember, now—yes, there was some strange abandon, a fever of recklessness that began to sweep over me, well before those cursed drops ever went in my eyes—before we had even entered the study. Weed and I were sitting at the table, sipping from those carefully chosen cups—

  Put it this way, Luxton: The boy seems to know a thing or two about brewing a pot of tea….

  “No!” The cry rips itself from my throat. Weed is at my side in an instant.

  “Are you all right?” He kneels next to me. His hands hover around me, longing to comfort me but afraid to touch. His whole being seems to throb with concern and devotion.

  I look at his face and will my raw, stinging pupils to focus, so that I may search for the truth in his eyes. unfathomable moss green pools—surely that is love I see shining in their depths? Love, and worry, and nothing else but that?

  Or have I been blind all along?

  Remember, Jessamine—the tea was already made when you entered the kitchen—

  No, no—

  Weed would never do something like—like that.

  “I’m convinced the brat put something in the tea.” Wasn’t that what Pratt said?

  No!

  Weed has trusted me with his darkest secret. And I trust him with my life.

  But should I?

  “Jessamine, my Jessamine,” he whispers desperately, again and again. “Are you all right? Are you all right? Are you all right?”

  29th May

  My eyes are healing slowly, but they are not yet well enough to sew. I wish they were, for I find it too painful to work in the garden. Every green living thing reminds me of Weed. How I envy the plants! They can whisper to him all day, and shelter him with their shade. But he and I are only permitted to see each other in the evenings, in the parlor, when Father is there.

  We speak stiffly of the weather and bid each other good night like strangers.

  All day and all night I worry—will Father send Weed away?

  It is like waiting for a coming storm, but there are no shutters I can bolt fast against the wind. When the gale comes, I fear it will blow my chance for happiness far, far away, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Weed and I are so careful with each other now. We no longer take our walks together, for such luxuries of intimacy are no longer possible. The whole day long we live like brother and sister, chaste and respectful. But at night, I close my eyes and the dream that was no dream comes rushing back, its power undimmed. Then I toss in my bed, restless, exhausted yet unable to sleep.

  Sometimes I think we ought to run away and marry. Sometimes I do not know what to think. Especially when I am alone in the kitchen, preparing tea. My hands shake as I pour the water. Now I can see that Tobias Pratt’s accusations are the true poisons, for they have infected my thoughts with mistrust and suspicions that must be scrubbed away, again and again.

  2nd June

  Father asked me to prepare a special meal for this evening. I inquired whether we were having a guest; he did not answer.

  Is Tobias Pratt coming to take Weed away again? It is all I can think of. Oh, I am sick at heart.

  Mutton chops, braised carrots, fresh bread, and a raisin pudding for dessert. The work occupies me all afternoon. I am elbow-deep in soapsuds doing the washing up when Father enters the kitchen and instructs me to leave the pots and pans as they are, bathe, and change into fresh clothes. “You might want to put on something pretty,” he adds. As if I had a wardrobe of party frocks to choose from! Whatever could he mean?

  In spite of my dark mood I grow curious. Surely Father would not make such a request if our guest were the likes of Tobias Pratt? I wonder if the duke himself might be paying a call, though for what purpose I cannot imagine. I have heard no hunters’ guns today.

  I follow Father’s instruction as best I can. There is a light muslin dress in my closet that was my mother’s, with a smocked bodice and delicate embroidery at the hem and sleeve cuffs. The last time I tried it on, it dragged on the floor and was loose in the bodice, but now it seems to fit me well. I braid my damp hair and find a ribbon to tie around it. Even I scarcely recognize the womanly creature who gazes back at me from the mirror.

  See? A memory croons in my
ear. Can you see how beautiful you are?

  The thought paints sudden color on my cheeks. Now I have no need of rouge; the heat of shame has provided the finishing touch to my toilette.

  I enter the parlor, embarrassed to be seen in my mother’s clothes. To my surprise Father himself has set the table, not with our everyday dishes, but with the fine gold-rimmed porcelain ones that were his and Mama’s wedding china.

  And—my heart skips a beat at the sight—Weed is there. Freshly bathed, dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark trousers, and Father’s best jacket, with a scarlet silk lining. Even Father has changed shirts, and an ebony silk tie shines at his throat.

  In this way the three of us, dressed as if it were Christmas Day, stand stupefied as mannequins. “Is it the duke who is coming?” I finally ask, unable to stay silent. “It must be; why else all this fuss, Father?”

  Father laughs, deep and hearty. “Children,” he says, extending his hands to both of us. “This feast is for you.”

  Weed and I look at each other, amazed. Father clasps both hands behind his back and explains. “A week ago today, I left this house with a mind to go to London. Returning only a few hours later, I discovered that in my absence there had been a transgression. We need not speak the details of it again.” Father holds up a hand to secure our silence. “Please, let me finish. In the days since, I have reflected on this incident a great deal. I am sure you have as well. Now, let there be no mistake: My direct orders were disobeyed. For this there is no excuse; but you have repented, and I wish you to know that I forgive you.”

  “Father, you are too good—” I exclaim.

  “Patience, Jessamine. A moment ago I called you children, but I think we have seen—the transgression itself offered proof, as it were—that you are no longer children; far from it. I pride myself on my powers of observation, but sometimes a father is the last to see what is right before his eyes. The path ahead is clear: Jessamine, you must embrace the future that has already laid claim to you.” He looks first at me, then at Weed. “It is my sincere wish, and my joyous expectation, that the two of you are betrothed at once.”