A Taste for Nightshade

by Martine Bailey

  Mrs Palmer, however, was against my leaving; and for myself, I was in a quandary. Yet what was there to linger for? I had written only briefly to Michael: that I had enjoyed myself immensely and been to the Assembly and myriad sights, thanks in part to a chance encounter with Peter. The previous day I had received a short but surprisingly affectionate reply that concluded, ‘Do not stay away too long, dear Grace. Your affectionate husband, Michael.’

  He had certainly not written like a husband lost in a lover’s arms. It was enough to goad me to action. Buttoning up my new damson wool redingote, I put on my other new purchases, a hat trimmed with sable and matching muff and tippet. I had at last found costumes that suited my character: gowns in rich sapphire blues, purples, and emeralds, tight-sleeved and high-waisted. Our neighbour the milliner had taught me a voguish way with broad-brimmed hats, worn at the tilt Van Dyke fashion, with feathers and rosettes. Alighting behind fresh horses and with skids for the wheels, we set off across the slippery cobbles and out through the city gates.

  Through the carriage glass I looked out over fields of blinding white snow. At every bridge or hillock the carriage swerved and swung, but inside the coach, with my blankets and a basket of food packed by Mrs Palmer, I was well enough. I pitied Tom outside, growing as stiff as a statue in the bitter snow flurries flying in the wind. By eleven o’clock we reached Tadcaster, and took on food and liquor and advice. We agreed to head for Leeds and pass the night there, but by two o’clock I regretted setting forth. The sky was a sulphurous grey, and we faced the prospect of losing the road, for the hedges were fast disappearing beneath treacherous drifts. On we slithered for another hour, until at last the Half Moon Inn at Top Widdop appeared like a lighted beacon in the murk.

  The landlady greeted us like heroes, and Tom had his health toasted liberally by the company. This humble inn was by sunset near to bursting with journeymen and market folk all stranded by the weather. I secured a tiny garret room, and was extremely glad of its privacy and stillness, for my head reeled from the journey.

  Amongst the other persons holed up in the steaming parlour was the London mail driver so eagerly awaited at York; a crimson-faced barrel of a man, in a state of great agitation over the lateness of the mail. Fixing upon me as the latest arrival from York, he fretted over how he would be fined by the hour for failing in his duty. I reassured him as well as I could, and our conversation then turned to broader matters. On learning of my destination, he remarked, ‘Delafosse Hall? That large estate near Earlby? As chance would fall, I might deliver your mail direct, Mrs Croxon, and so save myself a rambling journey, if you are agreeable.’ He handed me a letter addressed to ‘Whosoever Be At Delafoss Hall, Earlby, Yorkshire’. Up in my garret I studied it by the light of a fern-frosted window.

  To Whosever,

  This letter be a second inquiry to the whereabouts of my sister Mrs Eleanor Jane Harper, a widow, she being engaged in September as Housekeeper at this same Delafoss Hall. I pray you write me if she may be fell ill or in some manner is in need of her family for she is not replied to my letters as she is customed to do so. Most especily she is at all times wanting news of her boy James what is apprentice and he is now needful of his £5-00 fee what she is certainly willing to pay of her own account. I beg you do send a few lines in charity to me Mistress Bess Doutty at the Dog Inn, Pontefract, to put my mind at ease. God bless you for your goodness,

  Bess Doutty

  My first thought was that poor Mrs Doutty had no notion of what Nan had called her sister’s ‘gin-bibing’ ways. I supposed it a sad case, but not an unusual one.

  Then, for the first time since I had questioned Nan, I asked myself why our first housekeeper Mrs Harper had departed so hastily. The influence of that drinking companion of hers was a part of it, perhaps. Yet, to neglect her sister, and leave her son without his fee? Like a loose skein, my pulling at the question unravelled all the worries I had gathered tight this last fortnight, and brought my musings back to Michael himself.

  I had not thought deeply about Michael since arriving in York, and I wondered if Peter’s company had lulled me into complacency. Had the two brothers’ resemblance somehow tricked me into forgetting how much of Peter’s affability Michael lacked? I had considered them both on first acquaintance to be handsome and desirable men. Yet now I knew Peter better, I recognised he was of a more amiable stamp, at ease with women and able to form rapid, warm attachments with everyone he met. Michael was civil when he wished it, but beneath his veneer, was too self-interested to care for any human conduct save his own. Indeed, Michael was, as John Francis had perceived, neither kindly nor sensible. For the very first time I allowed myself to speculate whether Michael might know something about Mrs Harper’s untimely disappearance. He had certainly met her before we married; yet he showed not a jot of concern at her disappearance. But how great a leap was that, from self-absorption to something far more sinister?

  Mrs Doutty made mention of this being her second attempt to solicit news. Setting that beside Anne’s observation about her letter not reaching me, I came to a decision. I would ask Peg if she suspected any message boy of stealing the mail. After all, I had seen cases in the newspaper, of scoundrels opening letters in hope of money or gifts. I also resolved that whenever I anticipated, or wished to post an important letter, I would hand it to the postmaster in Earlby myself.

  Next, and more reluctantly, I fully reflected on Nan’s observation that Mrs Harper was not the possessor of long black hair. The conclusion was inescapable: Michael had visited Delafosse before our marriage and most likely slept with the black-haired woman in my own bed. Since then, they had met at least once at the tower. Suddenly the self-pity that had overwhelmed me after my accident returned. Sternly, I told myself that Michael’s manner towards me was improving, and that Peg was no doubt correct about bachelors needing time to leave their free and easy habits behind them.

  The dinner bell interrupted my thoughts. That evening the entire inn’s company dined together, cheered by our landlady’s cauldron of hot-pot and solid plum duff. The mail driver entertained us with tales of vagabonds and highwaymen, mysterious French packages, and secret letters with royal seals. Afterwards, a local fellow pressed him to talk of his route across the country, marvelling at tales of such distant places as Rugby and Stamford. Pleasantly relaxed by a bottle of claret, I listened to the chatter. From nowhere, it seemed, a preposterous idea erupted in my mind – that I might abandon my home and instead take a passage on the next mail coach to London. Bizarre as it was, it gripped me as a most attractive plan. Unlike Anne, I was not so dependent on my husband that I must follow his whims like a slave. Besides, Michael had not even made me his wife by all legal standards. I might still be free and happy, and live a private life alone. I was intoxicated, of course, but I was not drunk solely with wine. I had been in good free-thinking company, and had even read a few pages of Mrs Wollstonecraft’s Rights of Women. Liberty: the word itself excited me. If I left Michael, he might never find me again. I felt my cheeks burn – how angry he would be! The thought was not an unpleasing one.

  By the glittering morning, my delirium had passed, and the many reasons to return to Delafosse jostled in my head. Foremost, and most mundane, in York I had ordered many goods for the Hall, which would soon be delivered. Also, Anne would write to me there within the week, with news of her departure from England. By breakfast time, I had decided the wine had simply made me cowardly. All these notions of running away, I scoffed inwardly, were mere signs of weakness. For the truth was that now I was alone again, I had let myself grow anxious at being left alone with Michael, which was absurd.

  I wrote a few lines to Bess Doutty, detailing the circumstances of her sister’s departure. As for her apprentice son, I inquired into his circumstances, for I do not like to see industry unrewarded. My friend the mail-coach driver took the letter from me, and also a testimonial to the mail authorities in his favour.

  News came that day from Halifax that the road
was passable, and so we set off again. Very slowly we progressed across the great moors of Yorkshire, seeing nothing stir save foraging birds and a single fox, a streak of red disappearing into a white hedge. I made sketches of the frost-bound trees, encrusted with crystals as bright as marcasite that sparkled in the winter sun. By three o’clock the sun was reddening, and the spire of Earlby church pierced the horizon. In the far distance, a wisp of smoke rose from Delafosse. I could not be still. I clung to the glass as we drew ever closer to the drive.

  A lone horseman waited there, muffled in a snowy greatcoat. It was Michael, as motionless as an antique statue, mounted upon Dancer. The carriage halted. Michael opened the door and I turned to face him.

  ‘Grace, thank God you are home. I have been looking out all day.’ Michael was flushed from the cold, his hair long and wet, his expression fiercely intent. He opened his arms, and, bewildered, I went to him. I felt mystified by his anxiety; but also suddenly, vibrantly alive.

  The drive was too deep with snow for the carriage to pass, so Michael lifted me up to ride before him on Dancer’s back. ‘You are cold,’ he said, in a low voice. I was shivering, though not entirely from cold; rather from a deep, uncanny excitement. Opening his coat, he wrapped it around me, so I could lean against his body, cradled in animal warmth. Our path grew darker by the moment, but I felt no fear as Dancer picked his way over high banked snow. The silhouettes of trees overhung us, glittering with frost in the unnatural hush of twilight. Michael was silent, managing Dancer’s nervous steps and reaching around me to pat his mane, occasionally speaking the horse’s name in encouragement.

  At last we emerged from the tunnel of trees. The Hall rose above us, its windows shining rose-gold in the setting sun. For a delirious moment, it looked as if it had sprung to life while I was absent, housing magnificent revelries; illuminated by thousands of burning candles.

  ‘It is so beautiful,’ I murmured. Michael held me closer and, pulling my hair aside, dropped his lips on the back of my neck like a benediction. Whatever happens, I will never forget this moment, I told myself – the muffled hoofs in the snow, the pink-gold windows, the thrill where Michael’s lips had kissed me. But the glorious reflection was short-lived; the sun dropped in a moment, and the mass of windows were snuffed out and blinded. Before us stood the Hall as I knew it, black and sombre below its mantle of snow.

  At the great entrance door Michael dismounted and helped me down. The air was preternaturally quiet, save for the ringing jingle of the horse’s harness.

  ‘I have missed you,’ Michael said, his breath hot against my cheek. A voice whispered in my head that he must be lying. Yet to surrender was irresistible. His words were everything I wanted to hear. I leaned on his arm and we went inside.

  ‘Look.’ He threw open the drawing-room door; it was utterly transformed. Gone was the mournful decay; in its place was a vision of luxury: papered walls, brocade divans, a fireplace of marble, a ruby carpet. ‘How is all this possible?’ I asked, sinking into a chair beside Michael, who still gripped my hand.

  ‘I looked at the plans and knew I was wrong to deny you. I insisted it must all be made ready for your return. Delahunty worked his men day and night.’

  I had barely a moment to think how this changed my affairs – that I could no longer cherish hopes of my townhouse – before Peg ran into the room, so overjoyed to see me that I swear tears shone in her eyes. ‘See here, Mrs Croxon,’ she cried, pointing out the various wonders, one by one.

  One matter alone jarred. ‘Did the plans not call for bronze wallpaper?’ I asked. ‘This is green.’ I inspected it closely. ‘It is quite a contrary shade, next to the red.’

  ‘It looks splendid to me,’ said Peg.

  ‘And to me,’ echoed Michael.

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ I said, not wanting to break the spell. For that was how it felt – as if my home was at last the Castle Amorous of my daydreams, and Michael, my Sad Knight.

  Michael and I ate in the dining room. This room was also tricked out in the finest style, the new ceiling gilded and the walls papered sapphirine blue. Peg’s food matched in every way the grand surroundings. It was a procession of my favourites: trout with almonds, roast chicken, quince tart, orange custards. Michael produced a bottle of champagne and, despite my tiredness, I grew lively in a vinous haze.

  The food was eaten. Michael pushed the green decanter of Usquebaugh away and reached his hand to me across the table. ‘I have missed you. Come here.’

  In a moment I was in his arms, warm but agitated. He cupped my face in his hands and whispered, ‘Your absence was a harsh lesson. I thought you might leave me.’

  I kept my eyes lowered. I couldn’t lie to him.

  His fingers lifted my face up to his; he was trembling very slightly. Then he said what I had wanted to hear ever since we were first married. ‘Shall we go to your chamber?’

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  I followed Michael upstairs, so full of trepidation I was scarcely able to feel the boards beneath my feet. Inside my chamber a fire burned low and the great curtained bed loomed large. I stood awkwardly while Michael took off his coat. In his shirtsleeves he turned to me and said, ‘Take that off,’ indicating my gown. It had been my belief, from hints in sentimental novels, that a man liked to undress a woman. Instead, Michael kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed in his shirt and breeches and waited, his arm thrown across his eyes, obscuring his expression. I undressed, unknotting the laces of my gown with horrible difficulty. Then I lay down beside him in my thin shift; my old bed seeming suddenly a vast and foreign kingdom. To preserve my modesty, Michael snuffed out the candle. In the dim firelight he moved towards me and caressed me roughly, running strong hands over my arms, breasts, stomach. From the dark I heard him whisper harshly, ‘Have I made you angry?’ I didn’t reply. Then, ‘I’ve behaved so badly. I cannot help myself.’ Too surprised to answer, I flinched as next he grasped my wrist, encircling it painfully, pushing it backwards against the pillow.

  ‘Stop,’ I protested. As he suddenly let go of my hand, it accidentally sprang back and hit his face. Breathing heavily, he reached down with his other hand and wrenched my shift up to my waist, then parted my legs with a jerk of his knee. In a moment his weight, strong, moving, urging, was upon me. I gave a cry of pain as Michael took me, his head buried in my shoulder, muffled in a sort of agony. The act was brutal, but I confess it gave me pleasure of a nature I had never known before. The delicate bubble that had held my nerves in check, burst in crests and waves of satisfaction. Not only was my body aching for such release, but my mind exulted in it. On this bed he had coupled with that other woman. Now at last I had Michael within me, flesh and muscle, deep as lock and key, binding him to me for ever.

  20

  Delafosse Hall

  November 1792

  ∼ To Cook Winkles, Cockles and Suchlike ∼

  Pile up your bounty upon a flat rock and set a fire upon it. The shells will open when done enough.

  Mary Jebb’s way to cook without a pot or pan

  Without a sound Peg made her way downstairs, feeling mighty low in spirits. After dinner she had set off upstairs after her master and mistress, as noiseless as a house-cracker on the prowl. Tiptoeing past Mrs Croxon’s closed door, she heard the creak of the bed. She darted into her mistress’s dressing room. The fireplace shared a chimney with her mistress’s chamber, so she knelt in front of it, listening hard.

  Another creak, and was that a whimper from Mrs Croxon? Come on, Michael Croxon, she urged; show yourself a man. And the mistress had certainly looked come-at-able tonight, for some York hairdresser had curled her hair in an elegant tumble; and as for that wide-brimmed hat with the fur, she couldn’t wait to give that a try-out. Why, she was quite the Town-Miss these days, judging from her letter home from York. His Nibs had been frantic that she might not come home at all.

  Mumblings and groans reached her from the black depths of the fireplace. It must be Mrs Croxon’s first time, of
course. Who cared if she got a stinging between her skinny legs? Peg stared into the sooty grate as the remembrance of the true reason she had left Aunt Charlotte flared up fiercely from the past. It was a matter she generally tried to forget, that Charlie had been more than her first sweetheart, he had been her saviour. She had been about fourteen when Aunt Charlotte told her that a doctor gentleman wanted to examine her, but it was nothing to fret over; he just liked to cuddle a girl and give her a silver sixpence. A silver sixpence, and nothing to skrike about.

  The gentleman had been a sweating hog, who panted mouldy breath all over her till she felt quite sick. She tried to hold her breath, but the pounding of his tailpiece inside her had gone on and on till she thought it would never end. She had got her sixpence, but even then she knew she’d been gulled. Thirty thieving guineas Aunt Charlotte had got for her maidenhead. Thirty pound, twenty-nine shillings and sixpence – that was how much Aunt Charlotte had fleeced her for. So much for the honour of a roguess.

  ‘I ain’t doing that again. You want it, you do it,’ she’d yelled into Auntie’s face. ‘I’m not going to be one of them worn-out slip-slops like them upstairs.’

  ‘Well, how you going to keep yourself then? Ma Brimstone don’t take lodgers what don’t pay.’ She pulled a grumpy face. ‘I knew you’d be trouble. You got looks enough to make a living just from laying on your back—’

  ‘I’m not daft. Them girls can’t never leave here, can they, with what Ma Brimstone charges ’em for lodging and silks and all? They’re up to their eyes in debt, and the bully boys’ll catch ’em if they try to run for it.’