A Taste for Nightshade

by Martine Bailey

  Catching her reflected eye in the mirror she laughed out loud, her red mouth wide and knowing. She put aside a few carefully-chosen costumes and elbow-length mittens. Then, finally, she chose a few costumes of a particular nature: shiny satin, ebony black.

  Lastly, she gathered the garments she would wear for her journey: a grass-green woollen gown and a lace cap and apron. The effect was somewhat grand for a domestic servant. Her auburn locks were pinned tightly, her figure flattered by a frilled muslin kerchief, crisscrossed in an ‘X’ over her breast. Pulling out a few auburn tendrils from her cap, she adjusted her bodice to show a little more flesh. Then she grew very still, and smiled slowly into the empty space before her.

  ‘How do you do, sir,’ she said with a graceful curtsey. ‘Now, what pretty dish might you care for tonight?’

  7

  Greaves, Lancashire

  Summer 1792

  ∼ To Roast Larks ∼

  Put a dozen larks on a skewer, tie to the spit and dredge and baste them; let them roast ten minutes. Take the crumbs of a halfpenny loaf with some butter the size of a walnut; melt and stir them about till they are brown, then lay them around your larks with a little melted butter.

  The Lady’s Magazine, 1792

  A formal card, an invitation to call at Huxley House, was delivered to my door the following Sunday. It was addressed to myself alone, Mr Croxon no doubt having warned his family of my father’s habits. Only after much re-reading of this handwritten proof did I confide in Anne. Sitting in her tiny parlour, I announced my news. Though at first astonished, Anne jumped up and took my hands and kissed me with baffled pleasure. She puzzled over the name of my prospective groom. ‘Mr Michael Croxon? Mr Croxon’s eldest? To marry – you?’ The question hung in the air. ‘Grace, did you say you have not yet met him?’

  ‘I am to meet him on Sunday. All my hopes rest upon it.’

  A shadow of worry crossed her face. ‘Still, you must be cautious. He may not be agreeable to you.’

  ‘I so much hope he is. I pray for it.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Consider what a chance this is for me.’

  ‘Yes, and if it is the same Michael Croxon I have seen about the town – goodness, he is handsome.’

  We both suddenly laughed like girls. ‘Is he? I cannot quite recollect him. Handsome and willing and keen to make his fortune. So why should I be cautious?’ I quipped.

  ‘And how does he mean to make his fortune?’

  I sketched the Croxons’ plan to use my inheritance. ‘I do not deny that my land is attractive to them,’ I admitted. ‘But Anne, if that means he will marry me? It is a stroke of extraordinary good fortune.’

  ‘Yes, but that is all the more reason to make careful enquiries.’ She looked at me with shrewd appraisal. ‘Surely this land of yours is not so valuable that—’

  ‘That what? That he would want even me?’

  ‘Grace.’ She grasped my sleeve to prevent my standing to leave. ‘I am full of joy for you. It is only that – I care for you, for your happiness.’

  Anne smiled at me, but I saw strain in it, and was peculiarly vexed, as if she took pleasure in picturing obstacles in my way.

  The closer the meeting drew, the more trepidation I felt. At night I lay awake, plagued by fears of the worst kind: if I found my suitor entirely unappealing, might I still marry him, simply to leave Father? Or might Michael Croxon take one look at me and reject the whole plan? By the morning of the visit I found myself cursed with a rash, my face and hands scabbed and itchy. Anne had suggested I buy a new gown, but my father had no money to give me. Thus I was forced to choose between my threadbare grey plaid or the superior silk of my mourning gown, bought when Mother died. I tried on both until I was sick of the pair of them, and then, idiotically pulled on the antiquated silk with a pair of workaday shoes. At the appointed hour a grand carriage rolled up to the door of Palatine House, causing quite a stir amongst the children of Wood Street and their curtain-peeking mothers. Once inside, I sat in a sort of dumb terror, all my old fears of speaking in company tormenting me.

  Huxley House was three miles out of town, a square-fronted redbrick villa, built on a fine grassy eminence. It was all in the modern style, with a carriage drive curving to a brass-knockered double door. Glancing up at the rows of pedimented windows, I wondered if Michael stood watch for me as anxiously as I awaited him, but on the doorstep only a pair of mute servants swung the doors aside. Then Mr Croxon ushered me into his drawing room, where Mrs Croxon waited, greeting me with unveiled scrutiny. I thought her a woman straining to impress, dressed in a flimsy muslin costume, almost immodest on a buxom woman of more than forty. The Croxon’s drawing room was so heavily gilded that it shone brassy yellow, commingling queasily with the purple sateen upholstery. I sat where I was bid on the edge of a striped sofa, feeling giddy with nerves. When tea was served I faced another trial, as my hands shook so violently I dared not drink. ‘Purchased from Mr Wedgewood’s shop in London,’ Mrs Croxon boasted, caressing the lid of the sugar bowl. I made no reply, much regretting my decision to wear my outmoded black furbelows and crucifix, the many mirrors confirming I looked like a relic of a bygone age.

  ‘Ah, here is Michael.’

  Somehow I rose and reluctantly offered my itchy fingers. I found myself standing before a young man with tawny curled hair and – the phrase was the most apt way to describe him – the face of a sad archangel in an Italian masterpiece. When he extended his hand to greet me, I trembled in his grasp. He was paler than is ordinary, his dark eyes a beautiful forget-me-not blue. I searched his face and found even his few flaws attractive – a somewhat brutish break to the symmetry of his nose only added interest, and the downward turn of his well-formed lips lent him a poetic look. I was a little taller than him, but that was no fault of his. As we stood together, I was engulfed in a sort of delicious agony.

  He ushered me to sit close by him; we were both stiff-mannered, but who would not be, under such testing circumstances? Like his parents, he was dressed in high style; a silver-stitched waistcoat, with the lapels turned up in a flourish, and a snow-white neck cloth, ornately knotted. I found it hard even to look at him; he was a dazzling apparition.

  ‘But now, Miss Moore, that is enough of me. What of yourself?’ He lifted his eyes courteously to my overheated face. I noticed shadows, almost bruises, beneath them, that only made his expression more melancholically handsome. ‘How old are you?’

  Breathlessly, I told him I was twenty-two years old, very anxious he should not consider me an old maid.

  ‘I see,’ he said with a charming little lift of his brows, as if this were not so very bad.

  ‘You run a household?’

  ‘Only for my father,’ I said earnestly. ‘But the house is rather large.’

  ‘Good. And you have instructed domestics?’

  ‘Well, when my mother was alive. Yes.’

  ‘Your land. It is in a fine position.’ As he spoke, he patted his hair, releasing a pleasing scent of pomade.

  ‘I have never seen it, sir.’

  He gazed at me quizzically, almost as if I spoke in jest. ‘No matter. You have not been out much in society, I believe. I like that, Miss Moore.’

  I was grateful when this scrutiny ended at a summons to the dining room. To my dismay, we were at once served a dish of larks, a species of bird whose joyful song often brightened my solitary walks. I toyed politely with the tiny pin-boned carcass, but lifted none to my mouth, unable to stop my ears to the sound of bones being crunched between Mr Croxon’s teeth.

  As for Mrs Croxon, she began to lament the absence of her younger son, Peter, whose portrait made a pair with Michael’s, one on either side of the chimney breast. According to the artist, he appeared to be a younger, more wide-eyed version of his brother.

  ‘I cannot believe he has not come home on his birthday, when cook has gone to all this trouble.’ Mrs Croxon impatiently beckoned the maid to serve us another unappetising dish.
>
  Michael directed a mutinous stare at his mother. ‘He is out trying his luck with Miss Brighouse and her ten thousand pounds, at Bleasedale, Mother. A slight to both myself and Miss Moore. But it is hardly out of character.’

  ‘Now, Michael,’ barked Mr Croxon.

  The visit was brought to an early close by Mrs Croxon’s insistence that the carriage must take me home at once, so it might then be sent for Peter. In the entrance hall we stood in awkward silence until Mr Croxon turned to his son. ‘Michael, what do you say?’

  Michael made a brief bow and smiled beatifically in my direction. ‘Grace, I trust you will be good enough to visit us again, next Sunday.’ At my blush, Mrs Croxon nodded with a knowing smile.

  Back in the welcome peace of my chamber at Palatine House, I threw myself down on my bed, and allowed my true emotions to surface. The Croxons were a little odd; I was not easy with their showiness. But what did I care for them? Michael had made an instant and violent impression upon me. I no longer need worry that my suitor was not to my taste. As I lay daydreaming, it was as if a secret dam had burst within me; my throat and chest were crimson with pounding blood. Was it possible to fall in love at first sight, as the old ballads called it? There was not a single doubt in my mind from that very first day. I wanted Michael as my husband; I had set my heart upon it.

  Over the next three weeks Michael’s attraction worked even more powerfully upon me. Between visits I drew his portrait from memory a dozen times, tracing his cheeks, his brow and his jaw in pencil; then painting a pale wash of flesh tones over each sketch, creating a series of icons to my saviour. I knew Anne would have been horrified if she had ever seen my bedroom wall, covered with images of Michael’s masculine beauty. I hid the pictures for fear of seeming rather – peculiar, I supposed.

  A month to the day, Mr Croxon made a brief visit to Palatine House, at which, I understood, my father’s formal agreement was obtained. The following Sunday, the scene was set for me to meet alone with Michael in the gilded drawing room. After his mother had simpered away, he led me to a window. I was almost faint with anticipation.

  ‘Grace,’ he said; then swallowed nervously, making me feel even more anxious. ‘You will marry me?’

  I looked up into his face, unable to read his pallid gravity. My eyes took a draught of his lips and long lashes – then I quickly looked away. I nodded and whispered, ‘Yes.’ It was done, it was over. I had secured Michael Croxon as my husband. The whole affair seemed remarkably easy, compared to Anne’s protracted years of courtship

  For the latter part of my visit, the senior Croxons raised toasts to our nuptials, and Mr Croxon spoke enthusiastically of Michael’s plans to build a cotton mill on my land. Much was made of the large income it would provide for us. It was heartening enough, but I thought it rather dull talk for a newly betrothed couple.

  ‘As for a new home, we’ve found a grand place for you over Earlby way,’ announced my prospective father-in-law. ‘Delafosse Hall is a substantial residence on three hundred acres. Been empty a fair while, but it once belonged to the Blairs, a very noble family. What do you say to that?’

  ‘The Blairs were distant kin of mine,’ Mrs Croxon interrupted, red-cheeked from spirits. ‘Well, a distant branch. But that branch of the family died out, as these ancient families tend to do. I’m afraid the house will need improving – but what is that, if one might live in such grandeur? And I have engaged a housekeeper for you, a Mrs Harper, who is preparing your quarters even now.’

  ‘So you expect me to move soon?’ I asked, surprised at the rapidity of these plans.

  Michael leaned forward. ‘What do you say to marrying next month, Grace? There is no time to be lost in commencing the mill. The Hall is exceedingly well placed, sharing a boundary with your land at Whitelow. The river runs right by it, everything could not be more convenient.’

  Next month? I grew flustered. ‘How can all the preparations be made so quickly?’

  ‘Leave it to me, Grace. I shall take it all in hand,’ Mrs Croxon assured me.

  So, rather than lying fallow, my birthright had brought me this captivating husband, a grand estate, and the promise of a great deal of money to come. Even my father had performed a complete turnabout, insisting it was best if my land was developed by the Croxons. My head whirled giddily at my new prospects. Yet I did dismiss from my mind some aspects of the arrangements. I learned that Michael had inspected my land on seven occasions already. I calculated that to be two more times than he had met me, his prospective bride.

  ‘Grace dear, tell me in earnest. Are you sure Mr Croxon will make you happy?’

  Anne and I were standing outside Warburton’s Emporium, on a mission to find a wedding gift, but vexed as I was by her interrogations, it was impossible to make my choice. Why could she not accept my good fortune and share my joy?

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said to Anne. ‘I even dreamed it would happen,’

  Anne could not disguise the roll of her spaniel eyes. ‘You sound like one of your Circulating Library romances,’ she said sharply. ‘As one of Jacob’s parishioners once said to me, “Women dream in courtship, but wedlock wakes them”. Now when I first met Jacob, I thought him an unimpressive sort of fellow. But I gave him time, and in my own case, true feelings did blossom. And now that he is looking to expand his mission—’

  She rambled on, ever the generous wife to her decidedly ordinary husband.

  ‘Shall we move along?’ I said, interrupting the catalogue of Jacob’s virtues.

  ‘Does he show you many signs of affection?’ Anne asked, as she hurried to catch me up.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ I answered brightly.

  This was not entirely true, for Michael had kissed me only once, in front of his parents, on the day of his proposal. Since then, although I often imagined his lips on mine, Michael had been most considerate in my company. At home, my daydreams merged with memories of summer afternoons with John Francis – alone on the hills, conversing with delicious frankness, enthralled by each other’s company. There had been the playful approach of his hand to mine, the potent awareness of his fingertips brushing my skin. I told myself that Michael’s courtship, beneath his parents’ gaze, must be entirely different. After all, I had caught Michael looking at me, when he thought I was distracted. He was biding his time, for he was a gentleman, not a farmer’s son.

  Michael did not allow himself such liberties, but he was certainly more civil to me than he was to his parents; towards whom he was morose or even sullen. I blamed his mother, who clearly irked him with her fussing manner. As for his father, he domineered over his eldest son. There were hints made of past troubles, of disappointing delays in Michael getting his plans in progress. When I tried to ask about these, Mr Croxon said that none of that need concern me. I noticed that Michael’s shoulders alone bore a great pressure to succeed, while Peter gadded about the countryside, sojourning at York or Ripon, enjoying the full liberty of his parents’ indulgence.

  ‘Grace, dear,’ Anne started up again, as we parted at the top of Wood Street. ‘You have not told me anything of his friends, his pursuits, his reading matter. Are they to your taste?’

  The truth was I did not know. Many people mistake my character, thinking that because I am softly spoken I am weak, or that not always having a ready answer means I have no spirit. They are wrong. Having lost John Francis, I was not going to lose Michael Croxon. My temper leached into my tone. ‘What does that matter? I love Michael.’ She reached out to me and squeezed my hand, but I snatched it away.

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ my friend said wistfully. ‘You know so little of the world.’

  After parting from Anne I could not bear to go home to my father. I was crackling with an agitation that sent me striding through the town and up into the surrounding hills. It was good to climb my favourite path, my heart pounding in my ears, my legs stretching beneath muddy hems. At the top of the hill I stood panting, surveying the huddle of buildings far below: the grey spire of Greaves church a
nd the straight line of the High Street, leading to the Market Cross and the roof of Palatine House. Turning to the north, my eye followed the road to Michael’s home, hidden behind a thick stand of trees. Further north, past high brown crested ridges and far blue hills, away in the distance, lay Whitelow, and my new home at Delafosse Hall. I was sorry I had too little time to paint the scene before I left, to make a remembrance of my old home in viridian and dark ochre. I had seen nothing of the world but Greaves – and now I was to launch myself into a new life, with a heady mix of hopes and fears.

  It was a blustery August day, and a restless warm wind whipped my hair across my face. From far above, the sound of a skylark drifted down to earth, a dancing speck on fluttering wings. I stood transfixed by its lonely song, a liquid hymn to freedom. Poor lark, stay safe away from shot and snares, I thought. And please let my waiting be over. I ached to see into the future. Anne vexed me because she was right: I was not so blind as to think Michael would want me without my land. But I was hopeful nonetheless. And what other course did I have? To be a lackey to my father, forever? I needed only courage and all would be well. True, some nights when sleep evaded me, I touched my crucifix and asked my mother out loud what I should do. No answer came; I was alone with Anne’s cautionary words churning in my mind.

  Walking over to the group of weathered boulders, called by long tradition the Ring Stones, I touched the surface of the mightiest. It was surprisingly warm, and I recalled tales of their mysterious movements in the moonlight, of midnight trysts and frolics. ‘Whatever awaits me – keep me safe,’ I whispered to the lichen-grey stone, feeling foolish enough. Then, looking for a token to offer to whichever ancient spirits inhabited that place, I found one of my mother’s silver buttons in my pocket and pushed it hard into the turf at the stone’s foot. I might have lingered all afternoon, but over to the west, where the land stretched to the sea and Ireland beyond, a cloud bank of sooty grey had appeared. The warm breeze dropped; the air was oppressive. I hurried home, racing the plashes of rain.