by Hilly Mason
“I did it for his money,” she finally said. At least that was partly true, and saying the words out loud made her realize how much she despised herself, and who she had become. She glanced around to see if anyone else was listening, as though people she knew would pop out from around the corner, fingers pointing accusingly at her while the gaoler led her away once again in fetters while the entire world watched.
Joyce said nothing, and continued scrubbing the ground. Was she judging her, just as all of her servants judged her when she almost walked out of Comerford House with her small fortune of clothes and jewels?
Sophia felt the need to defend herself. “I wasn’t always like this, Joyce. I wasn’t always tempted by money.”
She thought of Abby, God rest her soul, telling her all about the lords of England, how the richer she married, the happier she would be. Well, Sophia wasn’t very happy after her parents passed away and she had to leave her home in India, so she was determined to find happiness wherever she could.
And Lord Gibbs, an earl, was one of the richest men in London. How could she say no when he proposed to her? It was the perfect way to get revenge on Abby for stealing Alex away from her!
Sophia closed her eyes, and only saw her cousin’s angry face, mouthing the words: how could you?
“Life is so different for a high-bred woman,” Joyce remarked. Sophia finally dared to look in her eyes. There was no judgment, no malice, just the same kindness that Sophia felt like she didn’t deserve. “I’m not sure if I would be able to stand all of the pressure required to be a lady. At least with being a maid, the job is simple and I don’t have to worry about much. I can just be alone with my thoughts.”
Sophia laughed. “You call this simple?” she said. “This is hard work, and I’m impressed that you do this kind of thing every day.”
Joyce beamed, causing Sophia’s heart to soften just a bit.
Soon after, Miss Baxter came down the stairs and with her hands planted on her hips as she surveyed the room. “Well, looks like you’re earning your keep,” she finally said, pulling her lips in an upward motion that somewhat resembled a smile.
“Miss Baxter,” Joyce wiped the dust off the old apron she had found in one of the closets. “Do you have a washboard and a basin?”
Miss Baxter walked over to her stool that stood by her worktable. A magnifying lens attached to the table hovered below her face. She brought it up to her eye and looked through it, making her eye comically large, like an owl.
“It’s over by the flour bags” she said, pointing. “If ye are goin’ to do the wash, I have a pile of clothes in my room that need to be cleaned.”
Joyce made to go upstairs to retrieve the clothes, but the old woman barked at her to halt.
“Have the lady do it,” she said dourly, pointing a gnarled finger at Sophia. Sophia shuddered under the old woman’s watchful gaze, as though she knew what secrets Sophia kept.
Not trusting the words that would come out of her mouth, Sophia bit her tongue and nodded, ascending the steps to the old woman’s room.
Miss Baxter’s room was much tidier than the storefront. Her bed was neatly made, and a vase of irises graced the table by the window, which let a joyful stream of light in. Books were scattered on the table and on the ground. Sophia glanced at the titles. Some were books about healing various ailments and injuries, but the book that did catch her eye was the one titled The Making of Tonics and Poisons.
Sophia’s body grew cold. Had her husband’s murderer—the gambling lord, whether or not it was Lord St. George—come to this store to buy the lethal dose to slip into his wine?
Sophia decided not to touch the books, and instead bundled the pile of clothes that was at the foot of Miss Baxter’s bed and hastily left the room.
She walked downstairs with the clothes. Joyce, bless her heart, was already outside with a basin of water and the board, scrubbing their blankets in the soapy water. Sophia made to come out to join her, but stopped and turned around to Miss Baxter.
“Erm… Miss Baxter?”
The woman was grinding some herbs with her mortar and pestle. She looked up. “Yeah?”
“Do you, um… sell poison in your apothecary?”
Miss Baxter eyed her suspiciously. “Many of my tonics would be considered poison if the dosage is incorrect,” she replied. She went back to grinding the herbs. “Why, do ye want to poison a lover’s mistress?”
“No, nothing of the sort,” Sophia shook her head. “My husband was murdered several months ago, and the coroner declared the cause to be poison. I was just curious if you remember anyone coming in here to purchase something of the like.”
Miss Baxter narrowed her eyes. “Aye, that makes sense. Ye’re Lord Gibbs’ wife, ain’t ye? The story of his death has even spread here to the slums. Makes a great story, don’t it? Havin’ the wife kill the wealthy husband, only to realize he has nothin’ in his name.” She cackled.
“I did not kill him.”
“Aye, I know. Ye’re too afraid to dirty up your nails by doin’ such a thing.” She went back to her work. “I am not gonna tell ye who my clients are, Lady Gibbs. Doin’ so would ruin me. I’m not like yer fancy physician. I supply a service an’ give people what they need, no matter their purpose.”
“Even if you are giving people the means for murder?”
“Does the blacksmith get in trouble if the sword he makes an’ sells is used to kill another man?” Miss Baxter asked. “What is the difference?”
“I still do not think it is moral,” Sophia said.
“And what do ye know of morals, lass?”
Sophia froze as again she was held under the old woman’s discerning gaze. She wanted to look away, but something in her was afraid to.
“Lemme see yer palms, lass.”
“Excuse me?” Sophia recoiled.
“Yer palms. C’mon now. I’m not gonna hurt ye.”
She gulped and held out her hands, palms facing up. The old woman took them in hers. Miss Baxter’s hands were wrinkled and leathery, but had surprising strength, especially when Sophia tried to pull away from her.
“What are you doing?”
“Ye’re worse than a petulant child,” Miss Baxter hissed as she leaned forward, her nose just inches from Sophia’s hands. She was reading her hands like a book, trailing a long, gnarled finger over the lines imbedded into her palms.
“I’m readin’ yer life story,” Miss Baxter finally replied.
Sophia stared at her hands. “How can you read my life story from my hands?”
“If ye study the art long enough, ye’d be able to do it too.”
“Are you a witch then?”
Miss Baxter regarded her calmly. “Revealin’ such a thing could be a death sentence,” she finally said. “Are ye sure ye want to go down that path with me? Do ye really want another soul to feel guilty about after the scairt folk burn me at the stake?”
She quickly drew her hands away before Miss Baxter noticed them shaking.
“Not that people do such a thing nowadays,” the old woman added casually.
“So what was it is it that you found?” Sophia asked dryly. “Will I have ten children or will I remain a barren spinster for my entire life?”
“Oh, ye will not be a spinster,” Miss Baxter said immediately, giving her a toothy grin. “And I see at least one child in yer life.”
Sophia scowled at her. A child? She was very certain she was barren after the amount of times she tried to conceive.
“Is that all?”
“No,” the woman said, her voice now serious. “I saw somethin’ else written in the palms of yer hands. There seems to be a ghost... an apparition, followin’ ye. Somethin’ from yer past is hauntin’ ye, an’ no matter how ye try, ye cannot run from it.”
“I do not believe in spirits,” Sophia said definitely. Not anymore.
“But this may not be a physical spirit, but somethin’ within ye. Ye have demons, lass.”
“I beg your
pardon? I will not let you speak to me like that.”
“I will speak as I wish. But if ye are not willin’ to listen, I’ll save my breath.”
“You are mad.”
Sophia turned her back on the old lady and stormed outside. She went over to where Joyce was cleaning the blankets. She dropped Miss Baxter’s clothes into unceremonious pile.
“Of all the places, why did you choose to stop at an apothecary? She’s more witch than doctor, you know. She just about admitted it to me.”
Joyce looked at her in alarm.
Sophia sighed. “I’m sorry for lashing out so. It’s just… I am led to believe that Miss Baxter sold the poison that killed my husband. But she is not telling me yes or no.”
“Maybe you won’t ever find out,” Joyce said thoughtfully, scrubbing the clothes vigorously at the dark purple stains (From wine or a potion? Sophia wondered). “My mother was killed when the carriage she was riding in tipped over. For the longest time my father tried to find who to blame. Was it the stable boy, or the maker of the axles on the wheels? Was it on purpose, or really an accident? He almost drove himself mad trying to find the answer, but he finally came to terms with the fact that even if he found out what had actually happened, it wouldn’t bring my mother back.”
“Joyce, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”
Joyce wiped a few tears away and smiled meekly. “I didn’t mean to carry on so,” she said apologetically.
“It’s quite all right,” Sophia said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t dwell on such things. I suppose it’s best to just keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other, as they say.”
“Aye, that is what I did.”
They continue to wash Miss Baxter’s clothes, Joyce scrubbing them on the washboard, and Sophia hanging them out to dry on the wooden rack. The back of Miss Baxter’s apothecary was covered in plants: from herbs that smelled of mint and thyme, to trees dripping with fruit from an early spring.
“Miss Baxter also said that there are demons in me.” Sophia said casually.
Joyce gasped, dropping the soapy linen into the water.
“She what?”
“She obviously thinks I need to be exorcised.” Sophia shrugged, more bemused than anything at this point. Now that she said it out loud she realized how ridiculous it sounded.
“Well, for your peace of mind, I do not think you are possessed,” Joyce said, picking up the dropped linen. “Miss Baxter is a bit of an eccentric, as you have probably noticed.”
“I appreciate that, Joyce,” Sophia replied, draping the cleaned clothes over a drying rack. “You know, I don’t want to be doing this forever.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t blame you,” Joyce said. She smiled softly. “Are your fingers pruning yet?”
Sophia looked down at her hands. There seemed to be many more lines in it than just a while ago when Miss Baxter was reading her future.
“Yes, unfortunately,” she said distastefully. “They will go back to normal, won’t they?”
“It doesn’t go away, you know. Just wait until your hands start to dry and peel.”
She thought of Miss Baxter’s own palms: hard, calloused, and covered in wrinkles.
“Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked her maid, clenching her hands into fists to hide the lines.
Joyce grinned. “Perhaps.” She continued scrubbing. “We are the same level, you and I, so I can tease you however often I want.”
“I guess that’s allowed,” Sophia said wryly. “I never had a sibling to tease me, so you have a lifetime of catching up to do.” A bird chattered above them as it jumped from tree to tree. “No, I obviously don’t want to stay here. But I do not know of any other option. I have half a heart to go back to Calcutta in the hopes to find some long-lost relative, but I fear that it would just be a mistake, that my home won’t be how I remembered it, and that the city would be changed. I think I would just be searching for memories that only exist in my mind.”
“Say,” Joyce said, her eyes lighting up. “There are usually local advertisements for jobs in the newspaper.”
“What are you implying?”
“Well, you are an educated woman of high birth. And even if you can’t find yourself as head of an estate, maybe you can instead be a governess.” Joyce was practically jumping up and down where she sat with excitement. “Governesses are usually treated much better than servants. Some even have their own living arrangements in the main part of the estate where they work.”
“Really?” A part of her was excited about the prospect of teaching again after she had enjoyed it so much in Calcutta. For a moment she started to feel the old Sophia Clarke come back again, the Sophia she had buried away during her first season when she realized that an adventurous, spirited woman was not a welcoming sight in the ton. Quickly she had realized that in order to fit in and be accepted, she had to strip her own identity.
“I’m not sure if anyone would want to hire me, after all that has happened.”
“Well, you never know until you try,” Joyce said. “I’ll buy a paper today and help you look.”
It didn’t seem like she had any choice in the matter. Joyce was firm in her decision.
“All right…” Sophia whispered.
She remained skeptical that anyone would want to hire her. She sure wouldn’t want an accused murderer around her own children, if she had any. Nonetheless, once the two of them were finished with their chores, and after a dismal meal of cold meat and the same stale bread from breakfast, they acquired a pen and paper from Miss Baxter and began to write correspondences to several governess job listings in the newspaper Joyce had purchased from a newsboy down the block.
“How about the McNabs’ estate in York?” Joyce asked, pointing to an advertisement to tutor their five-year-old daughter.
“York?” Sophia said, mockingly appalled. “Why not continue on up to the Highlands if we’re going that far north?”
“You want to work in Scotland?”
“Of course not. I have no desire to be that far from London.”
“I’m joking, of course. I know you don’t want to be too far from the city.” Joyce continued scanning the paper. “All right, then. How about the Griswald’s estate? They live just south of London.”
“Ugh, no,” Sophia said quickly, her face coloring. “They have said some awful things about me.”
“Like what?”
“Well, they called me a Cousin Betty once.”
Joyce looked at her blankly.
“It’s another term for a lady of the night,” Sophia explained. “A traveling prostitute. I suppose they likened me to one after observing me as I flirted with men at parties. I stopped inviting them to my own parties after hearing that, and from what I’ve been told they were not so happy about it.”
“So, that is a no for the Griswald’s?” Joyce asked, raising a brow.
“A most certain no.”
Joyce sighed as she crossed the listing off with her pen.
“You’re going to have to help me out here.”
“Fine,” Sophia looked over her shoulder at the paper. “There; that is a name I do not recognize. Let’s apply there.”
Joyce squinted down as she read the fine print.
“That’s basically in Wales, y’know.”
“I guess I can’t be choosy. Let’s apply to all of them. One of them is bound to not know of my history.”
However, during the following week, she received nothing but rejection letters, some stating in polite terms that she would not be a good fit for their children, other letters accusing her outright of being a murderer and that she should kindly burn in Hell. Sophia took pleasure in burning these letters up in the fireplace instead. How could they say such things when those people didn’t even know her!
Ah, but how often did I judge a person just by what I’ve heard through gossip? she thought. That had been one of her favorite pastimes at social gatherings.
She was getting a taste of her own poi
son, it seemed.
“We’ve received another letter, Sophia!” Joyce said about a week later, as Sophia was closing up the apothecary shop.
“Go ahead and read it,” Sophia said, laying out their blankets. After all of those rejections, she wasn’t too thrilled to hear about any more. She lied down on top of the blankets and closed her eyes. Her head was pounding and she feared she was becoming sick. Miss Baxter had given her warm elderberry wine to sip to ward off the symptoms, but it seemed like her body was losing the battle. With each moment that went by, she felt worse.
However, she had a job to do. She had quickly got into the routine of being Miss Baxter’s housekeeper and started to understand what Joyce had said before about how cleaning could be relaxing in its simplicity. It felt strange to just cease her duties because of some sniffles.
“What does it say?”
Joyce opened the seal and scanned the letter. Very quickly, Sophia noticed, her eyes fell.
“Yes, another rejection,” Joyce said, folding the letter back up and avoiding her gaze.
“What else did it say, Joyce?” Sophia demanded.
“It’s nothing.”
“Please, hand the letter over.”
Joyce sighed, but complied.
Sophia scanned the letter and bit back a gasp. “A hedge whore?” she read, nodding to herself. “Well, that’s a new one, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, Sophia.”
“Never mind then,” Sophia said, feeding the letter to the flames. A decent-sized pile of ash had formed with the past letters she had burned. “We’ll just add that to the list of insults. It’s a very colorful list, is it not?”
Joyce lied down next to her and they both stared up at the ceiling. Under the dim lighting of their single candle, Sophia watched as a spider traversed across the plank boards underneath where Miss Baxter snored.
“What if I change my name?” Sophia said, sitting up. “Not legally, of course, as that would take far too long. Just for these application letters, I could change my name to something else. Perhaps then things would be different.”
