A Taste for Nightshade

by Martine Bailey

  ‘Shall we go?’ Michael came up beside me, beer on his breath.

  ‘Yes,’ I said merrily. ‘Look. My gingerbread husband. Will you take a wife?’

  He glanced morosely at the tray of gilded ladies. I suppose to his eyes they were grotesques, in their wide skirts and cross-laced stomachers.

  ‘I’ve already purchased some refreshment for the journey home,’ he announced. ‘And that hoyden at the ale tent tricked me out of two shillings. This place is a den of thieves.’

  Back in the carriage I removed my gloves to inspect the gilded figure. It was a piece of gimcrackery of course, but it had a country charm to it. As I did so, a quaint saying echoed in my mind, that ‘the gilding is soon rubbed off the gingerbread’. It seemed that exactly such disillusionment had begun for me that day. I had noticed certain proofs of Michael’s character that I did not much care for. Naturally, I was already acquainted with the Croxons’ enthusiasm for what the Brabantists would have called Mammon, so his enthusiasm for my inheritance was not unexpected. But his flare of temper when I made an intelligent observation on the magic lantern was plainly unjust. And finally, there was another matter, one that I decided to test at once.

  I rested my bare hand on my lap, remembering how John Francis and I had used to steal secret caresses. Yet for long moments my hand lay unsought, even though our chaperone had chosen to ride outside with the driver.

  ‘Michael. Are you happy?’ I asked at last, knowing I might again be called tiresome, but willing to take the risk.

  ‘How could I not be?’ He took a long swig of ale, his gaze fixed on the window.

  My hand continued stiff and empty on my lap.

  ‘I should say, are you happy with me?’ I asked steadily. That at least sent a shadow of alarm across his features. Seizing my hand he raised it and kissed it, in a smart, dry manner. ‘Grace, you are all I could ever want in a wife.’ His voice was charmingly smooth but undoubtedly strained.

  ‘Am I? Truly what you – want?’

  He pulled a mocking sort of face as if I must be joking. Then my husband-to-be squeezed my hand and made a confession of sorts. It was gloomy in the carriage, but I could see him watching me intently. ‘You doubt me, Grace. I hear it in your voice. I am not surprised. It is best you know the worst. The fact is I suffer from a species of melancholy.’ He sighed heavily. ‘My moods can be horribly capricious. Just then at the fair, that low creature disgusted me with her wretched trick.’ His hand in mine felt suddenly heated. ‘No, it is more than that. For some years now, I have existed in a kind of low and desponding situation, an indifference to my own life or death. I cannot expect you to understand, but perhaps, as a woman of sentiment, you might sympathise? My parents believe I need a change of circumstances, a project, and most of all, a good wife.’

  I considered this, then asked, ‘And you? Do you want those things?’

  He lifted his head and addressed me directly, his fine soulful eyes shining fixedly into mine.

  ‘I do, Grace. I need you. Don’t disappoint me, please. I have been so – miserable. And now— I see hope.’

  At last he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. So this was the answer, I told myself. I had wondered at his father’s hints of past troubles, and now he had told me, frankly and openly, that he suffered. I embraced him in return. I needed him, too. And I was flattered too, for which good woman would not wish to rescue a handsome and sensitive man?

  10

  Greaves to Delafosse Hall

  September 1792

  ∼ To Make A Bride Cake ∼

  Take four pounds of fine flour, four pounds of butter, two pounds of loaf sugar; add a quarter ounce of mace and the same of nutmegs. To every pound add eight eggs. Pick and dry four pounds of currants, blanch a pound of sweet almonds, a pound of citron, a pound of candied orange, the same of candied lemon, half a pint of brandy. Work the butter to a cream with your hand, then beat in your sugar a quarter of an hour. Beat the egg whites to a strong froth and mix in, then your flour and mace and nutmeg, keeping beating it well till your oven is ready, put in your brandy and currants and almonds. Tie three sheets of paper around the bottom of your hoop, rub well with butter and put your cake in. Lay your sweetmeats in three lays with cake betwixt every lay. It will take three hours baking.

  The Experienced English Housekeeper, Mrs Raffald, 1772

  My wedding plans took on a vital life of their own: money was laid out, our new home secured, and the ceremony arranged by the Croxons. I knew I should have felt unalloyed joy, but instead a sick apprehension struck me in my moments of leisure. Why are you not happy, you fool, I chided myself, when you are leaving Wood Street at last? You must remember that no one on earth could make you more wretched than Father.

  The day arrived, and with it the most irrevocable step of my life. As Michael and I walked arm-in-arm to the carriage, I caught a glimpse of the two of us in a pier glass in the Croxons’ hallway. Michael, absorbed in inward thoughts, appeared as pallid and nervous as any groom of tradition, though infinitely more fashionable in his ivory coat, his hair artfully tousled. I stooped beside him in my over-frilled gown and ridiculous feathers. Instead of wearing my beloved crucifix, I wore a cameo lent to me by Mrs Croxon, who thought my lengthy mourning unhealthy. In secret however, I wore the crucifix sewn into my stays, a comfort against my heart.

  The old saying that every lass is a beauty on her wedding day had not come true for me. My nervous rash had cruelly spread, erupting in a scattering of tiny pimples. And my wavy brown hair did not, as Mrs Croxon’s maid had promised, look as lovely as a goddess’s; only rather silly, in a high mass of hot-ironed curls. From the midst of all my fine lace and feathers, I saw the tautness of great strain reflected back at me.

  As for the ceremony, I made the responses in a whisper, glad to have my back towards the eyes of the congregation. There had been rumours of objections to my Dissenting creed, so I held my breath as the parson asked if anyone knew of an impediment to our marriage and was met with silence. When he spoke of how a man must cleave unto his wife as one flesh, I blushed at the thought of our wedding night. I will make him love me, I swore to myself, flexing my hand to admire the gold ring that glowed hopefully on my finger.

  After the service, we crowded into the vestry and signed our names in the Parish Book: mine for the last time, Miss Grace Moore. Michael signed his name swiftly, almost scribbling it, then lifted his head and cast a sober glance towards his father, who smiled benevolently in return.

  A little awkwardness followed. I went to my new husband’s side and took his hand.

  ‘I am so happy,’ I whispered.

  ‘Good,’ he replied gruffly. ‘But this formality, when will it end?’

  Did he mean that he wished to be alone with me? I would soon learn my husband’s ways, I reassured myself. I wanted to shield him from the smallest irritation.

  ‘My dear,’ I said, smoothly, ‘it will soon be over.’

  Michael shook his head rapidly; it was almost a shudder. ‘Oh, for some fresh air! What time will it all be finished?’

  ‘After the wedding breakfast.’

  ‘What time, I asked?’

  I flinched. ‘I shall ask your mother.’

  I found that our hour of departure was one o’clock. Obediently, I hurried back to his side and repeated the information. Love and obey, that was what I had sworn. I am a new being, I repeated, a wife to this man, with his commanding moods.

  Back at Huxley House, Michael led me on his arm into the dining room, to a chorus of polite applause. Beside the minister, only my father was not of the Croxon household. The room had been decked with late-blooming roses that cast up a sugary glasshouse scent. Yet amongst the profusion of china and silver, the atmosphere was one of flamboyance, rather than celebration. Mrs Croxon announced that we should eat ‘exactly the Bill of Fare as given by a most genteel Countess at Bath’. I had no appetite for sardines in mustard, creamed oats and kidneys, for I had a stomach full of butterflies,
as my mother had called my fits of nerves. Michael too was restless and ate little, emptying his glass and ignoring his plate. The centrepiece was of course the bride cake, now crowned with the tester bed, painted in lurid crimson and gold. I worried how Michael might receive this, but he was too bewitched by the bottom of his glass. Saving us from the usual coarse allusions, the parson raised his glass and made the toast: ‘Here’s to the bride cake. The fruit for fertility, white sugar for purity, all the gay favours, and brandy to bless the bride.’

  This prompted my father to propose a toast of Lancashire posset. I quailed at the approach of the egg-thickened liquor in its double-handed pot, and when I raised it to my lips I could not swallow it. It is only wedding nerves, I told myself, all the time fiercely aware of the heat from Michael’s body, only inches away from my own bare arm. I wished very much that he would turn to me, speak confidingly, and ease my mind. But he is suffering too, I told myself. Once we are alone, we will share our confidences as lovers do. Then, to my dismay, my father started up a ribald tale of a notorious rustic wedding. Michael began to fidget and rock his leg in annoyance. Be silent, I prayed, throwing my father fierce looks. By the time his tale reached its rambling conclusion, the bride and groom were blessed by seven children in as many years. My father laughed loudly, but alone. Mrs Croxon looked at her husband and ostentatiously winced.

  My new brother-in-law, Peter, who I had by then marked as generally provoking, said light-heartedly, ‘At that rate of production, Michael, you may soon justify such an excessively grand establishment as Delafosse Hall.’

  Michael stopped swinging his leg and stiffened. ‘Must you always lower the tone to your own base level? Even on my wedding day?’

  Peter gave a shrug and looked to his mother.

  ‘Michael,’ his mother entreated. ‘It is only harmless teasing.’

  I kept my own face blank, only stared at the shards of sugar bedclothes lying broken on my plate.

  ‘Well, I do not reckon it harmless,’ he snapped. ‘Besides, you have not even seen Delafosse Hall. It is no larger than the owner of any rising business requires. And unlike some, I shall be working damned hard—’

  ‘Is that an invitation?’ Peter interrupted gaily. ‘There is an assembly at Earlby tonight. I know, I shall ride with you, and stay at the George. Then tomorrow I might call on you and take a look at Delafosse Hall.’

  ‘You shall not! You are not—’

  ‘Michael,’ his mother chided. ‘Such squabbling! Just like little boys.’

  ‘Mother,’ Michael turned to her, his face stricken, ‘even on my wedding day Peter jibes at me. You must be blind not to see it.’

  ‘Michael!’ Mr Croxon slapped the table, making crockery tremble. ‘Your mother has taken great trouble for you today. And, Peter—’ With a sharp look, he rid Peter of his smirk, ‘show proper respect for your brother.’ Then he considered. ‘Yet surely if Peter rode up, he might call on you and report back your safe arrival. Might he not, Michael?’

  The air around Michael prickled uncomfortably. Why could I not be left alone with my new husband?

  ‘Michael?’ Mr Croxon repeated.

  With ill grace Michael nodded at Peter and mumbled his agreement. The remainder of the meal passed in silence, save for the clinking of china, and noisy gulping as my father attacked the ready supply of spirits.

  Once the carriage had swung out of the drive I tried to revive the morning’s celebratory mood, and made every effort to ignore Peter, who was trotting on his horse just beside us. I turned to Michael. ‘It was a beautiful ceremony.’

  He attempted a thin smile. ‘Was it? I am glad it is over.’

  ‘As am I.’ I took his hand in mine, but he did not return my caress.

  ‘Please don’t,’ he said, with startling candour, laying my hand back on the seat. ‘I am sorry, Grace. I am in extraordinary low spirits today. I cannot bear this – play-acting.’

  ‘Play-acting?’

  ‘Pretending that the marriage is anything but a business alliance.’ He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  My lips parted, but no words emerged. He might have struck me a blow with his fists; all the air was suddenly knocked from my lungs.

  ‘Come now, I have married you. That is what you wanted, is it not? I have done my duty. As you saw today, my parents are satisfied. As for my brother,’ he said scornfully, ‘he is overcome with envy.’ He craned to see where Peter suffered in a flurry of rain.

  ‘Michael,’ I began, with a great effort, ‘I – care for you. It is more than a – business alliance to me.’

  He dropped his chin into his palm and stared sullenly out of the window like a thwarted child. Then suddenly he spoke, addressing his words to the empty seat opposite.

  ‘Surely you all have what you want by now? Yet still you place this strain on me. First Peter, and now you?’ His long fingers pressed his brow, as if he bore the burdens of the world. ‘I have met my obligation and I refuse to be complained of.’ Raking his fingers through his hair, he twisted a curl. ‘And we will be rich, which I am assured always makes life more pleasant.’

  For a long time I stared from my own window, disappointment enfeebling me.

  ‘But Michael,’ I exclaimed in a disconsolate tone I immediately regretted; ‘now we have made our vows before God – surely we have every hope of growing closer? You said you needed me. That you had hope for the future?’

  ‘Did I?’ he said dully. ‘I cannot remember it today. Tomorrow I may feel differently. Do not look at me like that. You may as well comprehend your situation from the first.’ He turned to me, with a hard expression. ‘Listen. Before we arrive, it will be easier if you rid yourself of any novelettish notions of marriage. I am sorry, but that is how it is. That is my final word.’ Then, turning to the window, he announced abruptly, ‘Here is Stone Edge. The horses must halt at the top.’

  The carriage was climbing slowly upwards, into a dreary brown moorland naked of vegetation. Above us stood a cliff of limestone rising almost to the lowering clouds. Outside, the coachman cracked his whip as the carriage swayed, then slowly climbed up the road that snaked to the top of the Edge. As we made the vertiginous climb I felt my own hopes were left abandoned far below on the plain. With much groaning of axles we reached the top, where I peered over the fearful precipice rather than at my husband’s face. Michael had broken his word. I was not mistaken; he had told me he wanted me, that I gave him hope. A business alliance? It was too cruel.

  In time I was roused from dejection by our arrival at an inn, a tumbledown heap of grey stone with a low slate roof. As I dismounted, I read the swinging inn sign: The Long Drop, blazoned with a crude flagon and a pair of hanging legs. Inside, I allowed myself to be fussed over by the landlady, and led to an ancient settle, where I huddled over the fire, miserably sipping tea. The landlady halted beside me, a clutch of empty tankards in her hand.

  ‘Delafosse Hall, mistress? I never heard that old place had been refashioned.’

  ‘Refashioned?’ I was too upset to converse.

  ‘I always heard it was fallen to ruin after the last folk went and died. But I reckon that must be another place I’m thinking on.’

  I smiled tightly, and, for the first time, asked myself what I knew about my future home. What was it my father-in-law had said? It had been empty a while and would need work to bring it back to its best condition. I glanced up at Michael, who stood at the counter, while Peter sat apart, drinking in a corner. Though Michael had visited the place, I recollected no intelligence of the Hall’s condition.

  Observing Michael talking loudly with the coachman, I discovered that there is a loneliness far greater than that of a solitary spinster; that of the unheeded half of a newly wedded couple. Now he began to address a band of rough-clothed men who supped their ale in a silent huddle.

  ‘I shall be setting up a cotton-spinning mill at Whitelow,’ he announced, surveying the ragtag company. ‘Soon there will be plenty of yarn for all of you, and
work for your children. Good, paying work.’

  When his words met only silence, he shuffled uncomfortably and added, ‘What say you to that?’

  A grey-headed man rose uncertainly and pulled off his cap. ‘Thank’ee kindly, master. We be much obliged to you.’ Then he sat down and raised his tankard.

  Michael grinned and called for the landlord to pour the man a drink. But as this was being performed, another voice cried out from a gloomy corner: ‘We look after us own trade here. Doff our caps to no one. An’ dinna’ share us profits neither.’ A chorus of supporting jeers rose from the shadows.

  ‘Who is that? Stand up and be known,’ Michael demanded, sounding suddenly a boy amongst men. I craned my neck to see who had spoken, but the men by the chimney made no reply save for snorts of laughter.

  ‘Speak up,’ Michael demanded. ‘What objection can you hold to the new mill?’

  ‘All that yarn’ll bring prices down,’ called an unseen voice.

  ‘And increase trade overall, to Britain’s benefit,’ Michael insisted.

  ‘To the benefit of your pockets, more like. While us children lose life and limb in them infernal machines.’

  Another chorus of approval rose from the chimney corner.

  ‘Don’t take no notice of them, sir,’ the landlord remonstrated.

  ‘Damned insolence. Thinking to challenge me on questions of trade. They will work for me soon enough. Especially when we sell our yarn over their heads.’

  Peter glanced up from his tankard; I saw a smirk on his face and detested him for it.

  When the ostler announced that the horses were ready, I rose to join Michael. As I crossed the room, I felt the occupants of the inn subject us all to scrutiny; and when I looked up, I saw a gaggle of men whose eyes looked very white against their dirty faces, watching us like a negro servant I had once seen, attending his mistress with ill-disguised contempt.