Looking up from my writing, my attention was drawn to a prosperous-looking couple conversing nearby. They were both dressed in exceeding high fashion for Earlby but it was their warmth of manner towards each other that impressed me. As they shared a little quip, the gentleman set a swift kiss on his wife’s cheek and she returned a private smile.
Once the gentleman had left, it was inevitable that the lady and I should notice each other. With a nod and a pleasant smile, she said, ‘How do you do? I am Mrs Barthwaite of Monkroyd.’
‘Mrs Croxon of Delafosse,’ I said, standing to shake her hand. ‘I am delighted to meet you.’
At the sound of my name Mrs Barthwaite’s round and gentle eyes fixed on me in fascination. ‘You are Michael’s wife? How pleased I am to see you up and about at last. We are well met, indeed.’
I was a little wrong-footed by this, but said lightly, ‘Oh, I am generally up and about.’
‘Mr Barthwaite and Mr Croxon generally hunt together. I am afraid your husband is guilty of keeping you all to himself. Michael told us you were unwell. These husbands, they will mollycoddle us, won’t they, dear? Now I see what good health you are blessed with, you must join us at Monkroyd. We ladies meet, you understand, while the gentlemen hunt. We bring our workboxes, but it is all sham. Mostly we have a little gossip and a few games of cards and break into my husband’s wines. It is pleasant enough in these dark days. Would you care to join us at Monkroyd, dear?’
It was foolish of me, but as she conversed in such a spirit of friendship, I blinked and faltered. ‘Why, I should love to,’ I said at last. ‘When do you next meet?’
‘I believe it is the tenth of January. I shall send you a note. Only I must reproach you, Mrs Croxon, for we ladies have sent you our cards in the past; we presumed you didn’t care for company?’
‘I have been ill.’
‘There you are then. Mr Croxon was no doubt behaving as a new husband will. Make hay, my dear, while it lasts. Let him spoil you. He has told us all about the improvements he has made for you. Mr Delahunty, he reports, did a good, though expensive job. I should very much like to see your new apartments, my dear.’
‘I should like to show them,’ I replied, ignoring the slight both to my own pocket and expertise. Just then, an irksome thought struck me. ‘The ladies who meet at Monkroyd. Might I know them?’
She reeled off a list of names: Lady this, Mrs that – no one I had heard of.
‘Not Miss Claybourn?’
‘Miss Claybourn of Riverslea? She used to come along, some time ago. But she has rather – fallen by the wayside, didn’t you know?’
I nodded as if I did know, though in fact her words chilled me. I had once heard a sermon that used the very same parable to speak of a certain class of unfortunate women.
Mr Barthwaite just then knocked at the window, making comical signals that all was ready outside. We stood, and my new acquaintance said, ‘You must call me Nell, all my friends do.’ I invited her to call me Grace, and we shook hands very jovially and wished each other a Merry Christmas. She even smiled at my mud-spattered redingote and said, ‘Now that is a sensible costume for this weather. We must dine at the Queades today; hence all this rigmarole.’
I returned home in far brighter spirits than I had set off, eager to tell Michael of our mutual friends. As I trotted the pony back up the drive, a silver crescent of a moon hung low above the black filigree of trees. Already the afternoon light was fading, and a pink streak burned low on the horizon. Now winter was entrenched, the Hall was stripped bare of leaves, the canopy no more than a spidery network of branches. Below that lay the naked walls of my home, cracked and scabrous. My last thoughts before I reached the house were that my letter to Peter still lay unposted in my pocket, and that before Nell Barthwaite came visiting we must make some repairs to the facade of Delafosse Hall.
Running me to earth upstairs, Peg asked, ‘Where have you been, mistress?’
‘Out,’ I said shortly.
‘I have been worried about you; that is all. And I’m ready to serve the dinner downstairs.’
‘And what of my husband? He disappeared this morning. Has he turned up yet?’
‘I heard him in the dining room. I’ve been up to my eyes. So where do you suppose he got to?’
‘I truly have no idea. Here, would you tie the back of this gown?’
‘What, your best white taffeta?’
‘When else am I to wear this finery, if not at Christmas?’
As Peg helped me into the tight sleeves and fastened the broad black belt with a cameo, I could not stop myself from chattering of my encounter at the George. ‘The Barthwaites are most agreeable, Peg. And I did enjoy my spell of independence. I even sampled the George’s Yule cake, which was most delicious. I believe I have made a great step forward.’
I caught a glimpse of her scowling in the pier glass. ‘Oh, Peg – don’t feel slighted. Your baking is far better than the George’s.’
She returned a pinch-lipped smile.
‘Fetch my jewel case, would you?’
As she presented it, she said, ‘So Mr Croxon has been putting it about that you have been ill all this time. Is that not strange?’
‘It is. But just for one day, I want to forget about all this subterfuge. Michael and I have agreed to try to enjoy Christmas together.’
‘I see.’ She nodded, looking down. ‘Well, I must tend to the dinner. I don’t want all that fine food spoiling. I recollect now, Mr Croxon is making a bowl of punch for you to raise a toast.’
‘A moment, Peg. I’ll wear my cameo bracelet. It is time I wore my wedding gifts.’ I held out my wrist, but I thought her mightily preoccupied, for instead of the cameo she unclasped my everyday agate bracelet.
‘Not that one. Dear me, the heat has overcome you.’
Once the bracelet was in place, I said, ‘Go then, I shall be down in a moment.’ I forgave her any pertness, for she was that proverbial symbol of hard labour: a cook at Christmas. Inspecting myself in the pier glass, I was not too disheartened; the tight-waisted gowns I had bought in York suited me far better than the trousseau the Croxons had bought for my wedding. But I felt bone-cold that day, especially after my spell in the smoky fug of the George. I pulled on a quilted petticoat beneath my gauzy gown, and slipped on my velvet pelisse with the gold braiding. Over it all I draped my cashmere shawl, thinking I was not quite as elegant as Mrs Barthwaite – but then, perhaps she did not suffer as I did from the stone cold of the Hall.
In the dining room, Michael had spread out all the makings of a celebration punch: lemons, brandy, nutmeg, rum and tea. Still feeling cheery, I wished him a Merry Christmas. He nodded, but was preoccupied with his spoons and measures.
‘Where were you this morning?’ I asked, summoning my pleasantest smile. Seeing him, I had a sudden, forceful premonition that he had spent the morning with his lover, enjoying a Christmas tête-à-tête. My suspicion was reinforced by Nell Barthwaite’s opinion, still echoing in my ears, of Miss Claybourn’s having ‘fallen by the wayside’.
‘I went for an early ride. It was a glorious morning.’
Clumsily, he dropped the knife with which he was paring a lemon. It was quite a mess he was making along the sideboard. Or was it my new ebullience that seemed to drain Michael of his composure? I told him of the George, my letter from Anne, and my happy meeting with the Barthwaites. The import of Peter’s letter, on the other hand, I would postpone until the punch bowl was well drained.
‘Oh, that gossip Nell Barthwaite. Don’t waste your time on her.’
‘I believe I will,’ I said firmly. ‘I am tired of my own company.’
He continued to draw out his preparations for our Christmas toast, so I looked about the room. All my hard work had come to fruition that day: the new fireplace housed a mighty Yule log that warmed the room, casting reflections across the crystal and silver. I admired the forest green of the brocaded furniture, and the holly gathered in red ribbons hung about the walls. I d
ecided that whatever temper Michael might be in, I would not let him spoil our first Christmas.
The new damask cloth was spread with a fine repast: Peg’s own Yule cakes looked even daintier than those I had already sampled. A great wheel of cheese had pride of place, beside magnificent pies of game and fruit. On a great round platter was a salamagundy salad as fresh as a bouquet of flowers; concentric rings of every delight: eggs, chicken, ham, beetroot, anchovies, and orange.
I glanced back at Michael. I can picture even now the wide Chinese bowl and ladle, and the glass jug of water with which he diluted my own portion. He lifted the ladle to his lips, tasted it, added another spoonful of sugar, and proclaimed the punch good and strong. The clock chimed the hour. I can say in all certainty that I was brittle but cheerful at two o’clock on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.
‘Here we are.’ Michael’s hands shook a little as he placed two punch glasses down on the table. Wondering again if he had just that morning visited Miss Claybourn, I teased my husband. ‘You are trembling. Is your life so stimulating that you need strong punch so early in the day?’
‘Not at all.’ Yet he looked so uneasy that I thought, yes, I have caught you out.
It was then, just as we both lifted our glasses, that a knock rapped on the door. It opened a few inches and Peg called urgently, ‘Mrs Croxon, I must speak to you this minute.’
‘What is it, Peg?’
‘Please, Mrs Croxon. A word alone.’
I rolled my eyes heavenward. Michael grunted with impatience. ‘Devil take you, you drab,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘What is it now?’
‘A most urgent domestic matter for Mrs Croxon,’ she hissed back.
I set down my punch glass and followed her into the servery next door. Once alone she grasped my sleeve and stared at me as if she had trouble shaping her next words.
‘What is it?’ I whispered.
‘I were just downstairs, mistress. And I saw that blue bottle, you know, that ratsbane, that arsenic. It had been opened up and used. So I asked the others what had been going on. I were thinking maybe Nan had made a start on the black beetles. But you won’t believe it, mistress. Bess saw the master come down for the makings of the punch, and he took the ratsbane and – Lord help you, mistress, I think he’s put it in your drink.’
I backed away from her so she no longer touched me. ‘No, Peg. That is plain ridiculous. Michael has been tasting it at every step. I watched him pour both our glasses from the same bowl. How could he poison my drink?’
‘Mistress,’ she said hoarsely, ‘it’s not in the punch. It’s in the jug of water.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said, with less confidence.
‘I swear on my mother’s heart.’ She touched her breast and looked at me very profoundly. Great God, I thought, she may be telling the truth.
‘Bess is waiting outside. Ask her if you won’t believe me.’
Peg opened the door and ushered the maid in. Bess was uneasy outside the kitchen, twisting the edge of her sackcloth apron in chapped hands. I asked her to tell me carefully what she had seen.
‘I were tending the fire when master come down t’kitchen,’ she said in a slow-witted tone.
‘What did he take? Answer carefully now.’
Her bovine eyes darted about the room and then settled on the ceiling as she spoke with some effort. ‘Some lemons and a nutmeg.’
‘And anything else?’ I prompted.
She grimaced with effort. ‘When I were seeing t’meat I seen him pocket that blue bottle. That one wi’ a skull on it.’
I dismissed her and leaned towards Peg, my words barely audible. ‘What should I do?’
‘Switch the glasses around. Give him a dose of his own medicine,’ she said coldly. ‘He deserves it.’
I shook my head in a daze. She leaned very close and whispered hotly against my cheek, ‘Listen to me. If I’m mistaken, it makes no difference. But if I’m not, he’ll get only what is due to him.’
‘I cannot.’ I looked in anguish at the servery wall and thought of Michael a few feet behind it. The door sprang open and Michael himself appeared. Peg and I jumped apart like startled rabbits.
‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Am I to celebrate Christmas alone? Damn you, woman, get downstairs and leave us be.’ He pointed at the stairs, and, with her head bent low in mortification, Peg left us.
Everything was happening with such speed, I could not absolutely take it in. Michael grasped my arm and led me back into the dining room, once again seeming jovial and eager to begin our celebrations. Irresistibly, my eye was drawn to the two glasses standing very close to each other on the table. But it was impossible that I could pick up my glass and drink from it. Nor had I time to switch the two glasses around.
‘A toast to us and to our prosperous future,’ Michael said heartily. ‘And to many a Merry Christmas to come at Delafosse.’ He raised his glass. Yet still he seemed awkward. I could not move.
‘Come along. What is ailing everyone today? Can you not even join me in a toast to our future?’ I fancied there was a whine of desperation to his voice.
My hand reached obediently for the glass, but my nerves rebelled. If Peg were correct, I might be ending my life. My fingers fumbled over the slippery surface, and the glass tumbled to the floor; the punch spilled out, brownish-red across my new carpet.
‘The Devil take it, woman. Damn – damn it!’
I bent down to make ineffectual movements with a napkin.
‘Oh, leave it. What do we have servants for?’ He kicked the glass away in disgust. ‘I’ll mix you another.’
‘No. Not for me. My stomach—’
‘Now you wish me to toast Christmas alone? I am sick to the death of this. You will join me, Grace.’
By now my heart was banging against my ribs. Perhaps I should, as Peg had urged, exchange our two glasses. Michael’s still lay untasted on the table. In a sort of trance I watched him fill my own glass from the punchbowl.
‘No water for me,’ I said in a strangled tone.
‘You always have water. Or you turn foolish.’ He picked up the jug that held the invisible poison and poured a good measure into my glass. I was now frantic, casting about the room for some distraction, something to draw Michael’s attention from the punch. Then suddenly, I remembered my Christmas gift, still sitting in my pocket. ‘I have a Christmas tradition too,’ I lied. ‘And that is to give my loved ones a gift before the toast.’
He frowned. ‘A gift? But I will give you yours at New Year.’
‘Well, my family do things differently. I will give you yours now. Come along.’ I took out the little bundle wrapped in silk. ‘Close your eyes, my darling.’
Reluctantly he stood stock-still and closed his eyes. I spun him around so his back was to the table. It was the work of a second to switch the two glasses about, so the watered punch stood at his setting and the untainted glass at mine. A terrible pressure was pounding in my temples, but I took out the buckle and fastened it into the linen at his breast. He opened his eyes, looked down at the diamond, and walked to the mirror. ‘How charming!’ he said to his reflection. Then he ruined everything by returning to the table and obscuring my view of it. When he turned around he held a glass in each hand. I looked from one to the other; no longer able to tell which was mine.
‘Here.’ He offered me the glass in his right hand. Was the straw-coloured punch in that glass paler than the other? I looked at the other. No, that was paler still – or was it?
‘For God’s sake, Grace – take it.’
He was trying to confound me. I reached across him to the left-hand glass. ‘You have mixed them up,’ I said. ‘This one is mine.’ Before he could remonstrate, I raised my unwatered glass.
‘To Christmas!’ I said very quickly.
Michael hesitated, then slowly lifted his glass too. We both drank, in a state of acute tension.
I knew at once that my punch tasted just as it should. Michael took a long draug
ht, and his usual satisfied expression returned. We both sat down and sipped our punch in silence while Michael absentmindedly picked from the platter of salad. I exulted that Peg was wrong. I wondered for a few moments if Peg could in fact be the origin of all our troubles? The food spread before us was magnificent, but something she had said stuck in my mind. Had I truly heard her wish her master dead?
‘Some game pie?’ I sliced a beautiful Yorkshire Pie, filled with concentric pink and brown meats held in a lavishly ornamented crust.
Michael didn’t reply, only pulled his face at his half-empty punch glass. ‘Too sour, don’t you think – perhaps too much lemon?’
I shook my head. ‘No, it seemed perfectly sweet.’
He raised a napkin to his mouth. ‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled. He began to cough loudly, then began hacking more strenuously. At the height of his gasping, he suddenly slumped, crashing forward onto his plate of salad, sending orange and ham flying onto the linen. A guttural choking sound emerged from his throat. The horror of it was, he was still trying to control himself; trying, bizarrely, to apologise. Did a part of me still wonder if he was acting, even then? A moment later all doubts fled. With terrifying suddenness, the scene lurched from celebration to nightmare. As Michael coughed, a stream of crimson blood issued from his mouth across the pristine table. I screamed and ran to the bell. After frantically summoning Peg I looked back at him. He had toppled to the floor, banging against the furniture. More blood, gobbets of it, ran down his chin onto his clothes. Lying prone before the fireplace, his legs cramped up against his stomach, he vomited another stream of blood. Horribly, he tried to speak.
I knelt beside him, appalled by the livid crimson around his mouth. I grasped a napkin and tried to blot his lips, but only succeeded in smearing the stuff, spreading it about. His expression was hard as his eyes rolled up to fix on my face. ‘What,’ he said in a wheezing parody of his true voice, ‘have you done to me?’
Running footsteps approached. Peg rushed into the room and stopped in her tracks. She reached for a chair to support herself. ‘Oh, mistress, what have you done?’
A Taste for Nightshade Page 30
