Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Her green eyes swept across the expanse of lawn and tables and chattering guests. Even at a distance she felt Jean Pierre’s slate-gray stare. She felt him in her heart and in her very soul. Dropping her chin, she closed her eyes. Please, God, I’m trying to follow the right path. I won’t seek him again. But help me! Strengthen my resolve! Help us to live in the same house without betraying our feelings, without dishonoring ourselves.

  For today, she’d borne all she could. Pleading an indisposition, Bristol retired early, before the toasts to the newlyweds began in earnest. But weary as she was, sleep didn’t come readily. She tossed in her bed listening to the music and laughter drifting through her windows, and she tormented herself, wondering about that moment when Jean Pierre would lead his bride to their newly finished quarters in the hallway next to her own.

  The next morning, Bristol looked for the answer she both dreaded and longed to know. And a dagger pierced her ragged heart. Diana’s face was glowing and radiant when she joined Aunt Pru and Bristol at their table on the terrace. Before lowering a pale face, Bristol noted Diana’s perfectly fitted gown of rose-colored moiré and thought miserably that Diana had never looked so lovely or so happy.

  “Good morning, dear.” Aunt Pru greeted her new daughter-in-law with a wide smile. She looked past the battery of servants cleaning the party debris and waved toward blue skies and banks of flowers creeping over low stone walls. “It’s such a glorious day, I decided we’d breakfast outside and take the morning air.”

  “Indeed,” Diana agreed in her whispery voice. “Glorious!” Her golden-brown eyes turned inward, and Bristol wondered if Diana referred to the day... or the night.

  Clenching her hands in her lap, Bristol worried that the smile on her lips looked as ghastly as it felt. “Good morning, Diana,” she murmured haltingly. “May I pour you some ale?”

  Diana’s eyes widened curiously, as if seeing Bristol for the first time, and unconsciously Bristol shrank from the strange flicker she saw there. Diana’s gaze abruptly narrowed. “You didn’t stay for my party,” she said icily, her smile vanishing. She stared at Bristol, sunlight turning her eyes a tiger gold.

  Uneasily Bristol glanced at Aunt Pru, but Prudence leaned to the flower centerpiece, examining it in absorbing detail. “I’m sorry, Diana, I wasn’t feeling well.” In the silence, Diana’s golden eyes didn’t move; clearly she expected a less feeble answer.

  Bristol bit her lip and stumbled on. “I... I’d stayed up very late the night before the wedding, and I... I was simply exhausted.” Still Diana’s golden eyes stared. “And...” It was one of those awful moments that stretched into eternity.

  Diana smiled. “What an odd coincidence. Robbie mentioned that he too didn’t sleep the night before our wedding.” Diana sat gracefully and arranged her rose-colored skirt with care.

  Bristol’s jaw tightened, and she felt herself staring at Diana’s finely molded face. Diana could not possibly know anything about Jean Pierre and Bristol. Bristol told herself that her own guilty mind manufactured suspicion where none existed. Still... Bristol felt those strange golden eyes swirl and narrow when Diana’s gaze flicked toward her.

  Diana folded a linen across her lap, and her lips curved in a lazy, satisfied smile. “Fortunately, Bristol, Robbie was able to overcome his fatigue.”

  Bristol started and gripped her napkin with both hands. Jean Pierre and. Diana. Would he have stroked Diana with the same sensual touch Bristol knew so well? Had he teased Diana to whimpering madness like...?

  Aunt Pru cleared her throat. “Try the poached eggs, Diana, they’re excellent if I do say so.”

  Diana glared at her plate, a frown pulling her delicate brows together. “I don’t eat poached eggs.” Her whispery voice rose on a note of suspicion and ire.

  “Oh?” Aunt Pru responded weakly. “Well, then. Well, then. Perhaps you’ll enjoy the sausage. No one turns a sausage like our Maggie.”

  Diana rolled the sausages across her plate with the tip of a slender finger. She shuddered and shook honey-colored curls. “I won’t eat sausage,” she announced flatly. Her mouth thinned.

  Aunt Pru shot a worried glance toward Bristol; they both saw the angry flush turning Diana’s cheeks to crimson. Bristol quickly offered a basket of raisin buns. “These are wonderful,” she said, her voice too loud. “And there’s quince jelly if you like.” She realized she was holding her breath.

  Slowly Diana looked from Bristol to Prudence. “I eat one meal only,” she hissed in an icy whisper. “I eat a slice of ham, carrots, and a dish of vanilla pudding.” Her voice climbed rapidly until she was shouting into their astonished faces. “I told you! I know did!” Abruptly Diana jumped from the table, her face dark and mottled. “Who prepared this death plate? Who tries to poison me?” The golden eyes narrowed in wild and dangerous rage, and Diana snatched up her plate, running from the terrace into the house.

  For a breathless moment neither Bristol nor Aunt Pru moved. They stared toward the tall French doors through which Diana had disappeared. Then Aunt Pru came to life, struggling frantically to rise from her chair. She huffed toward the doors, moving faster than Bristol had yet seen her do. “My God! Diana’s going to the kitchen! We have to stop her!”

  Bristol lifted her skirts and dashed after her aunt. They rounded the hallway toward the kitchen in time to see a flash of rose as Diana stormed into Maggie’s domain. “Oh, dear heaven,” Aunt Pru gasped. She drew a breath and pushed through the door behind Diana, Bristol at her side. Aunt Pru halted, and fluttering hands leaped to cover a rounded mouth. Bristol stared.

  Diana crossed the kitchen in large angry strides, and as Bristol and Prudence skidded to a stop by the door, Diana hurled her plate at Maggie O’Hare’s feet. Food and slivers of china exploded over Maggie’s shoes. “I won’t eat poison! I demand my usual meal, and I want it now!” Diana’s eyes spun golden fury, and her whispery voice jerked to a shriek.

  First Maggie stared incredulously at the mess soiling her shoes and hem; then her heavy red face deepened to purple. “Poison?” she screamed. “You dare call my food poison?” Maggie’s fists tightened on wide hips, and a weighty ladle twitched in her fingers. “You be getting your high-and-mighty arse out of my kitchen! And now!”

  “What?” Diana shrieked, her voice cracking with rage. “Nobody talks to me like that!” Her tall body shook, and her hands opened and closed at her sides, balling the rose moiré into wrinkled clumps.

  “Diana, no!” Aunt Pru whispered, her face as frozen as those of the servants standing stiff and horrified in the large warm room.

  “How dare you burst in here and insult my food! This is my kitchen! You hear that?” Maggie advanced a step and thrust her angry purple face inches from Diana’s. Her features congealed into those of a furious gargoyle, and the ladle came up threateningly.

  Diana fell on her. Screeching and clawing, Diana sank taloned hands into the tangled mat of Maggie’s gray hair, and kicking feet shot from under the rose-colored gown. Maggie’s fist struck hard at Diana’s ribs, and the ladle thudded painfully in a series of raining blows. But Diana had the strength of ten; Maggie’s bulk offered no obstacle, nor did Diana appear to feel any of Maggie’s heavy blows. Handfuls of hair flew over the fighting women.

  “Oh, my God!” Aunt Pru breathed. She sagged against the wall. Passing a hand over her eyes, Prudence shut out the appalling sight. But not the sounds. They screamed and hissed like clawing cats.

  Bridey Winkle slowly lowered the cup of ale she’d held midway to her lips since Diana burst through the door. Bridey was first to recover her senses. She dashed across the room, shouting to the men for help, and Bridey thrust her small dark body between the scratching, kicking women.

  “Oh, God,” Aunt Pru repeated again and again as Diana blacked Maggie’s eye and kicked Bridey Winkle in the stomach. Maggie’s ladle cracked heavily across Diana’s jaw, and a bright slash of blood opened along Diana’s cheek.

  “Oh, God,” Aunt Pru moaned, her fingers
digging into Bristol’s arm. Bristol didn’t notice. She leaned against Aunt Pru, her green eyes wide and horrified.

  Chaos had invaded Hathaway House.

  Later, after Diana had been carried to her room, kicking and screaming, and Dr. Weede had departed after administering a sedative, Aunt Pru gulped a glass of strong ale and stared miserably at Bristol. “I didn’t think to ask her about food preferences. It was thoughtless of me... unforgivable! This is all my fault!”

  “Nonsense, Aunt Pru!” Bristol drew deeply from her own glass. If she was as chalky as her aunt, neither of them looked well. “You couldn’t have guessed this would happen.”

  After a pause, Aunt Pru shrugged and favored Bristol with a weak grin. “Well, at least I’ve discovered what the kitchen looks like.” Her tone sobered, and she added, “Now, if Bridey can only persuade Maggie to stay on. Do you think...?”

  “Yes, of course.” Bristol patted her aunt’s round arm, feeling drained and disturbed. “Maggie’s been with Hathaway House too many years to leave.”

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Pru answered uncertainly. “Once Maggie threw a pot at me; she said if anyone ever came into her kitchen again... Did I tell you?” she asked in a distracted voice.

  Gently Bristol turned Aunt Pru toward the stairs. “Yes, you told me. Ask Bridey to cancel the carriage, Aunt Pru, and lie down. We can make calls tomorrow.”

  Aunt Pru’s troubled blue gaze met Bristol’s, and she paused with a hand on the railing. “That’s good advice.” Silently they climbed the winding staircase under the eye of Hathaway ancestors. Aunt Pru stopped. “Diana pulled out Maggie’s hair! And blacked Maggie’s eyes!” She waved flashing plump hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “And Bridey’s limping, and Diana is black and blue and has a cut on her face. Whatever will Robbie and Hathaway say when they return from their ride? They leave for a simple trip to the doctor’s and come back to—”

  “Shhh.” Bristol kissed her aunt’s wilted cheeks. “It isn’t your fault! Everything will seem better after a rest.”

  “I hope so,” Aunt Pru said emphatically, turning toward her bedroom. Then she predicted in a dark voice, “But I have an idea this is only the beginning.”

  Prudence was correct. As summer passed, Diana’s behavior worsened. At Charles Easton’s river picnic, she upset the tables and threw hampers of food into the Thames when it was discovered her vanilla pudding had been forgotten. No one could poison ham and carrots and vanilla pudding. How this might be go, Diana never explained, and no one asked. She exposed a breast at the Globe Theater and screamed abuse at horrified patrons. She whipped two carriage horses so severely one later had to be killed. She tormented her personal maid until the young girl packed her few belongings and ran away from the security of a much-needed job and lodgings. When the message arrived that Diana’s mother, Lady Thorne, had died, Diana erupted into a three-day rage of such weeping violence that at the finish, not a stick of bedroom furniture remained whole or usable.

  She soiled herself at Louis Villiers’ dinner party. An invisible rapist chased her sobbing through Lord Babbington’s garden. She set fire to the skirt of a flirtatious duchess who dared cast a seductive eye toward Diana’s exhausted husband.

  Something had to be done.

  When the rainy season arrived and summer leaves crisped to orange and red, Jean Pierre agreed Diana could no longer be allowed outside Hathaway House. A house of Diana’s own was out of the question; she couldn’t be left untended. Jean Pierre remained the only person capable of soothing Diana’s rages, and he too became a prisoner in Hathaway House, unable to leave lest his absence bring on Diana’s terrors and incite her to fresh violence. His employees and business acquaintances came to Hathaway House when Jean Pierre was needed... and they came by appointment only.

  Watching a man of such great physical energy pace the halls like they were a cage wrenched Bristol’s heart. Throughout the dismal summer, she’d accepted whatever invitations came her way, regardless of who tendered them. And yet, wherever she was, with whomever, her heart lay absent from the many garden parties, theater engagements, dinner parties, and float picnics up the Thames and away from the stink of London. Her mind and emotions remained behind, in Hathaway House, with a troubled man who daily grew more tense and strained as he futilely attempted to cope with his wife’s demands.

  And as autumn tinted the countryside and the social season drew to a reluctant close, Bristol discovered more and more of her evenings free to be spent with her adopted family. By October, when chill blinding fog made outings impossible, London society ground to a standstill. Only a fool would venture into the fog, inviting carriage collisions, or robbery by highwaymen, or the near-certainty of becoming lost and stranded in thick obscuring London fog. All across the city, people huddled before dirty coal fires and made do with each other.

  At Hathaway House, this created a greater tension than in most of the grand mansions along Pall Mall. Lord Hathaway’s cozy red-and-wood study became the scene of hurried unpleasant dinners instead of the laughing, affectionate intimacy Bristol recalled so fondly. Nearly every night, Diana found an excuse to disrupt the meal. Often Jean Pierre had to carry her from the room.

  “I waited and waited!” Diana complained. “Who was that man you spent all afternoon with?” She stared up from her platter of ham, her golden eyes demanding.

  Patiently Jean Pierre met the golden swirl of accusation in his wife’s eyes. He touched her arm briefly. “You remember Mr. Aykroyd, Diana. He’s helping to run my company during my... during our vacation.”

  Bristol’s pale cheeks brightened. “How is Mr. Aykroyd? I’d so much like to see him! The next time he plans to visit, would you tell me?”

  Aunt Pru chuckled. “You’ve been too busy to see anyone! Mr. Aykroyd asks for you every time he calls. And each time, you’ve been out... breaking hearts!” She smiled proudly. “Which, confidentially, I think I’ve enjoyed more than you have.” She fluttered her lashes at Lord Hathaway in an attempt to flirt. But the mood wasn’t right, and it didn’t quite work.

  Lord Hathaway smiled at his wife in strained affection and adjusted his gouty foot carefully. “Poor Pumpkin! You enjoy the gowns and parties and flirtations so much. What a pity you don’t have a daughter of your own.” Distress leaped into his eyes, and he flicked an embarrassed glance toward Diana. “That is, I mean to say...”

  Jean Pierre took up the conversation smoothly. He looked soberly at Bristol, and her heart melted. His hollow, gray eyes were deeply shadowed, and the lines in his face had intensified. “Nothing would please Mr. Aykroyd more, Bristol. The next time he—”

  Diana scowled at them both and cut into Jean Pierre’s conversation. “How is it she knows this Aykroyd person, and I, your wife, do not?” Her fingers whitened on the edges of her lap tray.

  All eyes dropped to the tray, and Bristol held her breath. Diana had destroyed more meals than she’d eaten in this room.

  Gently Jean Pierre pried his wife’s fingers from the tray, and he spoke quietly. “You do know Mr. Aykroyd, chérie. The man with the scars?”

  Diana’s brow wrinkled, and she thought furiously, the process almost visible to those who watched. When she nodded and relaxed into her chair, a collective sigh blew through the study. “Yes.” Diana smiled. “I remember now.”

  And one more scene had been averted. But only for tonight.

  With the winter snows, Diana became acutely aware of her lack of freedom; she demanded to go out, and if her plans were thwarted, a fury erupted. It became a normal part of their lives to watch deliverymen carrying new furniture up the staircase. Winter also signaled a change in Diana’s diet. For no apparent reason, Diana sent word to Maggie (through Bridey Winkle) that her new menu would be a piece of boiled beef, one turnip, and pease pudding every meal—every day. Bridey coaxed Maggie into this concession, and Hathaway House laid in a supply of turnips. Everyone in the house wondered at the change, and no one dared risk asking Diana.

  Merciful
ly, there were periods of calm. To the vast relief and great astonishment of everyone, sometimes days passed when Diana behaved as sanely as anyone, appearing for meals lovely and perfectly composed. On these occasions, Diana revealed a delightful charm, which had the effect of making her bad periods all the more shocking by contrast. But when Diana felt well and serene, dinner reverted to a gay and laughing affair, and often the family played basset or ombre well into the night, with Diana a cheerful and graceful partner.

  “I’m afraid the men have bested us once again,” Diana said. She looked at the cards spread on the table, then dancing eyes peeped over her fan. “Gentlemen, we bow to your superiority.”

  “As it should be, ladies.” Jean Pierre grinned. He divided the wager between himself and his father.

  Aunt Pru squinted in a narrow stare. “Are you really going to take our coins?”

  “Now, Pumpkin...” Lord Hathaway smiled. “You’d take ours if you won.”

  Aunt Pru sniffed. “Well, of course, but that’s different.” She looked into an empty beaded reticule. “You’ve taken all my coins; it’s time to quit,” she said with a pout.

  Bristol started to rise from the table, but Diana’s whispery voice stopped her. “Oh, but this is such fun.” Diana’s golden-brown eyes held a charming appeal. “Couldn’t we have one more game... we’ll play for kisses.” Her silk fan fluttered, and she glanced up at Jean Pierre and Lord Hathaway with a teasing smile.

  Lord Hathaway bowed from the waist, favoring his leg. “How can any gentleman refuse such a tempting offer?” He winked at Jean Pierre. “We accept.”

  For an instant Jean Pierre’s eyes touched Bristol’s; then she looked away. “I believe I’ll sit out this hand,” she said faintly.