The Penny Heart

by Martine Bailey

  Today I have the whole of a summer’s afternoon before me; and down here in the kitchen, I am indulging a whim to learn to bake.

  ‘Why, it’s what you’d call perfect, ma’am,’ says Sal, my maid-of-all-work, as we unpack my first ever fruit cake from its brown-paper wrapping. It is of modest size, but well fed with brandy, covered with almond paste, and has a top layer of snowy sugar icing as smooth as white glass.

  Sal is another welcome refugee from Mrs Huckle’s. Nan would not come south with me, so I settled an annuity on my unlikely saviour. After expressing a hankering to return to her birthplace in Skipton, she lives there now in a doll-sized almshouse, where I hope she may happily end her days.

  ‘Mama, for me?’ warbles Henry, toddling across the room, his stubby fingers reaching for the cake.

  ‘Tomorrow.’ I playfully bat his fingers away. ‘Here. Try a sugar rose petal.’ He chews tentatively on the sugar paste, then rolls his eyes in mimicry of bliss. In part I have learned to cook because I still cannot trust a stranger’s food to pass Henry’s lips. I do not suspect my servants of ill will, quite the contrary; it is only my belief that we sometimes give our trust too easily. And Henry is the gold-crowned sun of my universe, a giggling infant whose world is a bounty of small miracles. Now he tugs at Sal’s sleeve, bursting to show her his peg-soldier, whittled and painted by the captain, standing guard at the gate to the yard. I nod at her to follow him, and return to the beautification of my cake.

  There had been a method to bake fruit cake amongst the receipts I found in Peg’s quarters at Delafosse; written inside that book of hers titled Mother Eve’s Secrets. For an unthinking moment, I thought I’d found something of worth amongst Peg’s hoard. She had always been a fine pastrycook, her puddings dripping with hot syrup, her desserts as light as sugared clouds, her tea-board a never-ending array of ratafias, cakes, and tarts. As for the rest of our roasts and savouries, Nan told me of those deceptions. Peg had made that frail woman little more than a whipped slave; I still chastise myself for my blindness.

  I turned over a few of Peg’s pages, and yes, there were her glorious desserts, scribed on grease-blotted pages. But there were others too: A Nostrum for Eternal Youth (one halfpenny to make, ask two shillings of each gull), Mother Watson’s Elixir (to be hawked for any remedy), and A Love Potion Generally Fobbed to the Lonely. Over the page was a sinister diagram: A Sure Mesmeric Method to Gain Influence Upon Another, that contained crude drawings of eyes, staring at each other with dotted lines between them. And at the back were potions that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise – A Narcotic for Natural-Seeming Sleep, Use of Sassafras to Confuse the Reason, An Usquebaugh to Provoke the Fever of Lust, A Mighty Strong Venom to Procure a Rapid Death. I dropped the book like a red-hot coal. Then lifting it nimbly in a cloth, for I did not want to touch it, I threw it in the fire. I watched the greasy papers ignite in wild flame, then shrivel to flakes of charcoal. I am indeed fortunate to be alive.

  I blink as I look about my kitchen, driving away memories of the underground labyrinth of Delafosse. My smart iron cooking range throws out a steady, warming heat. Blue and white Willow Pattern china fills the wooden shelves. I have bought freshly printed cookery books, copper moulds, and iron pans, and every new-fangled whisk, mill and jigger.

  Sal and Henry return with a gust of warm garden air and I settle down to create miniature roses from sugarpaste using tiny ivory spatulas and crimpers. I will have no antique tester bed crowning my cake, only a posy of flowers: symbols of beauty and growth, each year new-blossoming. I let Henry paint the broken pieces with spinach juice, while I tint my flowers with cochineal and yellow gum. As a pretty device I paint a ladybird on a rose, and think it finer than Sèvres porcelain.

  At ten o’clock tomorrow, I will marry John Francis at St Mark’s Church, across the square. As Sal and I rehearse our plans for the day, pleasurable anticipation bubbles inside me like fizzing wine. We will return from church for this bride cake in the parlour, then take a simple wedding breakfast of hot buttered rolls, ham, cold chicken, and fruit, on the silver in the dining room. Nan has sent me a Yorkshire Game Pie, so crusted with wedding figures of wheatsheafs and blossoms it truly looks too good to eat. We have invited few guests, for I want no great show, and instead will have bread and beef sent to feed the poor. And at two o’clock, we will leave with Henry for a much anticipated holiday by the sea, at Sandhills, on the southern coast. John Francis has promised Henry he may try sea-bathing, while I have bought stocks of cerulean blue and burnt umber to attempt to catch the sea and sky in watercolour. I have no vast trousseau, but have indulged myself in a robe of embroidered silk, and a Spanish hat, with the brim fashionably tipped and garnished with ribbons.

  It is a year now since John Francis tapped my arm in a crowd at the Royal Academy Exhibition of Paintings. I was at first grateful merely to find a friend, being still mistrustful of strangers and spending every evening alone once Henry was in bed. On closer acquaintance, I found John was not at all romantically melancholic and is certainly no Renaissance angel in looks. Instead, his clear and honest eyes, his firm opinions and hidden ardour suit me just as well as when I was sixteen and we roamed the moors above Greaves. He is down-to-earth and sensible, a shrewd sea merchant in these embattled times, and a tender and eager lover. It took many weeks before I could confess to him that Michael had died. When I did, John reached for me and wrapped me so tightly in his arms that a great dam-burst of emotions overwhelmed me. I wept into his shirt as he stroked my hair and murmured that he loved me. Michael had trained me to tiptoe around his moods, as though my bare feet circled shards of glass. I am still astonished to speak freely and not be punished by sharp retorts; rather I am listened to with attention and respect.

  John and I spoke often of marriage, for before God I am a widow and he a bachelor. There are crowded London parishes where our banns might be read by a careless clerk, who would never question the word of two respectable persons. But without proof of Michael’s death I still dreaded the Croxons one day observing us on the street and demanding I give an account of Michael and his whereabouts.

  ‘I shall tell the Justices the truth, that Michael died,’ I said. It was John who made myriad objections – that I might be held to account for concealing a murder, and that my life might be blighted by scandal. ‘And think of Henry,’ he said soberly. ‘Spare him from one day learning of his father’s transgressions.’ There was a further reason too, one that I often repeated to myself. How could I allow Nan to be tried for murder? What, in fact, is justice? I had always believed that justice should follow the most rigid rules, but now I concede it is a cumbersome tool; it can destroy more than it protects.

  Even unmarried, I was nevertheless the happiest I had been in all my life. For I knew that loving John Francis would not destroy me; I am still my true self, only stronger, and in our private moments ineffably more tender.

  Then, last year, the captain knocked at the parlour door and swept off his cap, a worried expression pinching his cheery face.

  ‘I am afraid I have discovered this, Mrs Frankland.’ He handed me a recent copy of The London Times:

  CORONER’S INQUEST: MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY OF THREE PERSONS FOUND DEAD IN LAKE

  On Saturday night an inquest was held at the George public-house, Earlby, Yorkshire, before Montague Sheldon Esq, coroner for the District of Halifax, respecting the death of three persons found at 2 o’clock on Wednesday afternoon at Whitelow Pastures whilst the lake was being drained.

  ‘Should I leave, ma’am?’ The captain raised his white eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I whispered, and covered my mouth as if I feared to utter a word; as if my life was at that moment being set upon weighing scales. I knew at once that these quiet days living under a fictitious name were stolen time. The next few minutes would decide whether my future held misery or happiness. I devoured the newsprint rapidly:

  The coroner began by stating that the three bodies were in such a wretched state
of decomposition that they had been reduced to skeletons, which greatly hampered his inquiries. In an attempt to understand this most cruel and mysterious affair, the coroner called forth a number of witnesses.

  I glanced through these particulars, gleaning from them that a terrified labourer had unearthed:

  . . . something white and fearsome crouched in the mud. Upon a general search of the area, three bodily remains had been uncovered and carried to the George, along with a number of unidentified objects found with them. Upon the coroner’s direction, these were cleaned by a Mr Enderson, a local numismatist of some renown. The items were displayed by the coroner and, though affected by their long immersion, were described with care:

  ‘a gold pocket watch bearing inside it the inscription Michael George Croxon, 4th April 1783 and stopped at a quarter to seven o’clock.’

  ‘No,’ I whispered. Not for almost three long years had I thought of that pocket watch; a gift to Michael from his parents upon his coming-of-age.

  I rose and poured myself a tot of spirits from John’s decanter. Quaffing it so fast it burned my throat, I continued reading the account as fast as I could:

  . . . about 19 shillings in loose change of silver and copper, a knife with a bone handle about 10 inches in length, a silver crucifix on a chain, and a set of keys upon an iron chatelaine inscribed EJH, entangled fast with the chain of the gold pocket watch. Also a disc of copper pierced as if to be worn, but despite Mr Enderson’s attempts to remove an amount of verdigris, time had entirely eroded the inscription upon its face.

  Next my eye was caught by an ominous word – ‘Delafosse’.

  Elias Claybourn Esq stated that he was the present owner of the land at Whitelow. In April 1795, following a case at law, he had inherited Riverslea Hall, which bounded Whitelow Pastures. He had then purchased Whitelow Pastures from Mr Thomas Crossfield, Farmer, and also Delafosse Hall and its park. Thereafter he had demolished Delafosse Hall with a view to building a modern country residence for his own retirement. Mr Claybourn attested that he had no acquaintance with Mr Michael Croxon, but understood he had been a tenant of Delafosse Hall some years earlier.

  So there it was – the whole tale was surfacing as if from a stagnant pond – the tale of Michael and the Hall. Next was the surgeon’s report:

  Surgeon Ralph Coleman attested that he had examined the remains of the three persons and ascertained the following: the first body was of a male, of about 5 feet 8 inches. The second was a female of about 5 feet 6 inches. The third unknown female was about 5 feet tall and from an examination of the pelvic bones, bore evidence of having given birth to an infant. A silver crucifix upon a chain was discovered about her neck.

  I turned the page and saw another name. Peter Croxon. They had called Peter as a witness – my fate hung in my brother-in-law’s hands. With a pang I recollected with what coolness we had parted, the day he had visited me at the summerhouse.

  Peter Arthur Croxon, gentleman, of Bleasedale Hall, stated that he was the younger brother of the deceased, who was thirty years of age when last seen alive, and had been a tenant at Delafosse Hall in 1792. Mr Michael Croxon had become the owner of Whitelow Pastures through marriage to Miss Grace Moore of Greaves . . .

  So there at last – my name stood boldly in print in a newspaper. My heart racketed horribly at the sight.

  . . . and had been intent upon building a cotton mill upon the land. He further stated that following a nocturnal arson attack upon the site of the mill, his brother had fallen into low spirits and become discouraged. The witness had last seen the deceased in November 1792, when they had quarrelled, the deceased being the victim of a melancholic disposition. The witness confirmed that the deceased was the eldest son of a reputable family from Greaves, Lancashire, but to their immense subsequent regret, the Croxon family had ceased relations with him at that time.

  Upon questioning from the coroner, the witness confirmed that the gold pocket watch was certainly his brother’s, given to him as a gift by his parents. He did not believe either of the two female bodies to be Mrs Grace Croxon, the wife of the deceased. It was common knowledge that Mrs Croxon had suffered ill health and left the neighbourhood to convalesce. The witness confirmed that on his last visit to Delafosse Hall, Mrs Croxon had already vacated the property and had written to him of her safe arrival on the south coast. Sadly they were no longer in contact after such a length of time, but he could assure the coroner as a gentleman, that he had no reason to believe Mrs Croxon to have been in any respect involved in this affair.

  I jumped up, unable to contain my gratitude. Peter had perjured himself to protect me. How I regretted my suspicious nature and ill will to him. Peter had proved a true friend. And Peter, I noted in passing, had indeed claimed Bleasedale Hall and married Miss Brighouse. I read on:

  Upon further questioning about the two unknown women, Mr Peter Croxon said that it was speculation, but he did believe his brother had formed an irregular attachment to his housekeeper, but could not remember her name. The witness confirmed that his brother’s housekeeper did wear such an iron chatelaine at her waist, but the initials EJH meant nothing to him. With regard to the identity of the second unknown female, he had no notion whatsoever who she might be.

  Only one more column of newsprint remained, and I read it greedily.

  These were all the material points of evidence which Mr Sheldon summed up with great precision and perspicuity, deducing that the probability was that the deceased male was Mr Michael George Croxon, formerly of Delafosse Hall. It was however unfortunate that the two unknown females could not be identified.

  The coroner affirmed that a dramatic feature of the case was the presence of the large kitchen knife in the vicinity of the bodies. However, given the long period of immersion and loss of flesh, all the usual tests of cause of death by surgeon’s examination were fruitless. It was at this late date impossible to say if the knife had played a part in the death of any of these unfortunate persons. Certainly none of the three appeared to have been robbed, as money and valuable goods were still found beside their persons.

  In summing up the coroner said that there had been much speculation about this mysterious and dreadful tragedy, but that it was not his job to repeat scurrilous rumour against agitators and radicals; only to sum up the facts. One most unfortunate aspect was the erosion of the inscription on the copper disc, for it might well have provided a means of identity. He was therefore forced to advise the jury that the evidence was so slight that it was impossible to give a certain verdict of the cause of death of any of the deceased. In this light the jury gave a unanimous verdict of 1. Michael George Croxon – Death by Misadventure 2. First Female Unknown – Death by Misadventure 3. Second Female Unknown – Death by Misadventure. Accordingly the coroner issued his warrant for the burial of the bodies in a Christian manner.

  I finished reading with a giddy sense of freedom. I would forever be grateful to Peter. A more vindictive man might have insisted I be found, and made to give my testimony on oath. I sat a long while, marvelling at what I’d read.

  Someone knocked gently at the door. It was the captain, looking very anxious.

  ‘What do you say, Captain? You have had more time than I to digest the meaning of all this.’

  He set his hand to his chin and mused. ‘The Devil only knows what murderous exchange took place between your husband and your servant.’ He looked at me with a scrutinising gaze and I nodded, affecting agreement. ‘My opinion is that he threatened her with recapture, and they argued – there was a tussle and both fell in the water. Or perhaps it was an unholy pact to end both their lives? As for the other woman, I reckon she was entirely unconnected.’

  ‘How clever you are,’ I said.

  ‘Howsoever it fell out, it’s certainly for the best. Those three souls can now receive a Christian burial. And you, if you do not mind my saying so, are free to do as you will. Though it might be a good time,’ he added with a sly grin, ‘to consider a change of name.’r />
  *

  Only later that night, alone, dreaming of black water flooding my eyes, my nose, my throat, was I haunted by a particular phrase. I got up and scoured the newspaper again. It confirmed that Michael’s watch chain had become tangled fast with Peg’s chatelaine – again, I heard Michael’s terrible scream. Michael had not taken his own life. Even in death Peg had seized upon him in revenge.

  And also there in print were the initials engraved on the chatelaine by its unfortunate owner – EJH, whose thimble had been torn from its hook during God knew what struggle underground in the dark.

  In my parlour are hung the best of my portraits, prettily framed and suspended from blue ribbons. The portrait I made of John Francis when a youth is much admired, as are sketches of Henry as he grows older, embellished with locks of hair fixed in curls under glass. Beside them are Mother and Anne, making a well-loved collection.

  There are other pictures I keep out of sight: those of Michael and Peg are packed away in a trunk. Anne’s sampler is there too, for though her needlework deserves to be displayed, its celebration of my marriage to Michael does not. As for my painting of Delafosse Hall at dusk, I think it the strangest painting I ever made. I used to ask myself: who is that woman who stares from the window? A figment, or perhaps a symbol of my former loneliness?