by Rhys Bowen
I have been to see Mrs T. on several occasions now. She claims my tonic is doing her good, but she still has no energy and her skin is still so frightfully pale, as if she has no blood flowing through her veins. And she shows so little interest in anything. I have tried reading the newspaper to her, talking about fashions and food, but I get no flicker of response. I suggested that she see a doctor, but she claims she has seen countless doctors who have yet to find anything wrong with her. The last one advised brisk walks in the fresh air and suggested she would be more healthy if she had children. The poor woman broke down in distress as she told me this. Apparently, she is incapable of having a normal physical relationship with her husband, who has endured this patiently over ten years. It seems to me more and more that the problems are emotional, not physical. She is afraid of everything, and thus excludes herself from most of what life has to offer.
More entries followed:
It was a gorgeous spring day, and I offered to take Mrs T. to see the daffodils that are blooming in profusion on a nearby hillside. She claimed the wind was too chilly for her. I wish I knew what to do to break her out of this cycle. It is clear she welcomes my visits, but I think that I am her only caller.
Mr T. and I had a lively discussion on the way home about the Irish question. Words became quite heated, and he apologized as we pulled up in front of the cottage. I told him I enjoyed a good debate and invited him in for a cup of tea. He examined my small herbal laboratory I have set up in the former scullery and was impressed.
Emily read on. Susan said nothing, but Emily could tell that a connection was growing between herself and Mr T.
A strange and wonderful but also frightening event happened today. I can hardly bear to write down the words, but I want to remember every detail, lest I forget it. We were driving back to the cottage as usual. Mrs T. seemed a little worse on account of the spate of bad weather, which affects her head, giving her constant headaches. I agreed to try the remedy for headaches I have read but have yet to make. It involves wood betony, skullcap and the bark of the willow, which conveniently grows beside our rushing stream.
Anyway, on the way home, the heavens opened and we were drenched within seconds. Then there was a flash of lightning and almost simultaneously a great crash of thunder. The poor little mare took off, running away with us at full tilt. Mr T. tried in vain to stop her, but to no avail. We came down a steep hill with a narrow bridge going over the stream at the bottom. I thought we should surely tip over at any moment, and I clung to Mr T. and the side of the trap as it lurched from side to side.
Without warning, a large branch came down across the road in front of us. It was an act of God. The horse reared and stopped dead in its tracks. We were safe. Mr T. jumped down and calmed the terrified animal. Then he climbed up beside me again.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Olgilvy. Are you unharmed?” Mr T. asked me.
“A little shaken, I must confess.” I started to laugh nervously. “I thought I enjoyed speed, but that was a little too fast for my taste.”
“My dear girl, you are a marvel,” he said. “Any other woman would have had a fit of the vapours by now.”
“I am not prone to vapours, Mr T.,” I said, still laughing.
“No, of course you aren’t. You are . . . just perfect.” Then he took my chin in his hand, drew me towards him and kissed me. And I am sorry to say that, in the heat of the moment, I returned his kiss. Afterwards, we were both overcome with guilt and swore that this should not happen again.
Emily looked up from the book. Poor Susan, she thought. She had found a man who was right for her, and yet their love could never be. And the second thought that came to her was that Robbie and she had made love in a similar storm. It seemed as if their entire lives were progressing along parallel lines. She read the next entry.
I lay awake in turmoil all night, so bitterly ashamed of myself that I had betrayed the woman who had come to trust me. I realized then what I had refused to admit to myself before: that a connection had been growing between Mr T. and myself. And I could not blame him for that reckless moment. He was a healthy man who had been denied the intimacy a husband can expect. And I had to admit that I was also attracted to his lively mind and his rugged appearance. I had thought that I could never love another man after Finlay. How ironic that the man I could love is married to someone else. At least this proves that the heart can heal.
By morning, I had come to a decision. I should have to break off all contact with Maria T., lest I be tempted again. I would write her a note, telling her that I had been neglecting my duties as a schoolmistress and could no longer find the time to visit her personally. I would send over supplies of her tonic, if she felt it was doing any good, and wish her a speedy recovery.
It was with a heavy heart that I put that letter in the pillar box. I was never to see him again.
Emily closed the diary, feeling tears welling in her eyes. Susan had nobly renounced her own chance at happiness. But now she was curious. Did Susan then remain the spinster schoolmistress for the rest of her days, living a solitary life like Mr Patterson? And what happened to Maria T.? She flicked through the pages of the journal. There were not many more entries, and then sheets of plain paper. So either Susan had abandoned writing her journal soon after or she had bought herself another book and started afresh. Perhaps she had moved on to a new life and had found happiness elsewhere . . . Emily realized she couldn’t stop reading now.
It has been a month since I last visited Maria T. Her husband came to see me, saying that his wife was in a terrible state after having received my letter, and he begged me to reconsider. I told him the truth—that I acknowledged an attraction between us and that we should not put ourselves in the way of temptation again. I could tell he was bitterly disappointed, and he clearly looked forward to my visits as much as his wife did. But he is also an honourable man. “I have grown immensely fond of you,” he agreed. “I find myself thinking about you, going over every detail of our last moments together. But as you point out, I am married to another. I took her for better or worse, and I must abide by my promise.”
When he got up to leave, he took my hands in his. “May I kiss you one last time?” he asked.
I couldn’t speak, but nodded. I felt the jolt of desire as his lips fastened on to mine. When we broke apart, we stood there, holding hands, looking into each other’s faces as if trying to remember every detail. Then he said, “You should go away from here. You deserve a good life amongst bright and lively people. You deserve to make a good marriage and be happy and have children around you.”
I felt like saying, “So do you, but you will not have what you want,” but I wisely kept silent. “You should go,” I said. “People will talk if they see you lingering too long in my cottage.”
He smiled then. His whole face lit up when he smiled. “I love you,” he said simply. Then he walked away.
There were only three more entries. So she took his advice and moved away, Emily thought. She found happiness elsewhere. She turned the page. There was something different about the writing. Until then, the penmanship had been perfect. Now it seemed scratchy and jagged, and there was a blot on the page.
Today, I had a visit from two policemen, who came with terrible, shocking news. Maria T. has died. I was asked a lot of questions pertaining to the tonic I prescribed for her. I showed them the recipe and pointed out that the ingredients were all simple herbs, quite harmless. I thought they went away satisfied, but I was left very shaken. They can’t have thought . . .
November 21, 1858
The policemen returned, and with them was a man from Scotland Yard in London. It seemed that tests had been done on Maria’s body, and they had found traces of arsenic. More questions were asked about the tonic. Then they moved on to my relationship with Mr T. I replied haughtily that there was no relationship with Mr T. He merely drove me to and from his house. One of the policemen was grinning in a most unnerving way. It seemed I had been seen kissi
ng Mr T. “Locked in a passionate embrace,” was how he put it.
“And what better way to get rid of an inconvenient wife than with a tonic that was supposed to cure her,” he said.
I replied most indignantly that I had done nothing wrong. The passionate embrace they had mentioned was nothing more than a friendly hug from a man who wished to cheer me up. As for the tonic, I showed them the recipe.
“And how easy to add a little arsenic to it,” the policeman said. “You are to remain here until further notice. Do not think of running away, because that would only make it worse for you.”
I am all a-tremble. I cannot think where or why Maria T. obtained arsenic. I can only think that she planned to end her own life, and mixed the arsenic with the tonic to swallow it. Or . . . and my blood now runs cold . . . she had realized the truth that her husband and I were falling in love. She decided to end her own life and punish the two of us at the same time. I saw how that was all too possible. But then a third thought, most disturbing of all, came to me. Surely it wasn’t possible that Mr T. had administered the arsenic to his wife so that he could be together with me? This I could not believe. He was a man of honour, I would swear to it.
But whatever the circumstances, the outlook is bleak for me. I am so tempted to write to my father and beg for his help. He is a man of influence, but far away in the north of England. And he may be of the opinion that anything that befalls me since disobeying him and eloping with an unsuitable man is my own fault, and I must face the consequences. But he would not let his only daughter hang, would he?
As I write the word “hang,” I feel a chill running down my spine. Is my life to be ended because of a vengeful woman? A woman whose mental state was clearly not stable?
And there was one more entry.
To anyone who reads this: I am innocent. Will nobody come to my aid? The black carriage has drawn up outside. They have come with a warrant for my arrest . . . on a charge of the wilful murder of Maria Tinsley. May God have mercy on my soul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Emily could not sleep that night. She still felt guilty that she had read Susan’s diary, and yet the last page showed that Susan wanted it to be read. She wanted someone to come to her rescue. But who could have done so? Mr T. would presumably also have been a suspect regarding his wife’s death. He could not have vouched for Susan’s innocence. Then the awful truth struck her. The villagers had said there were two murders. One was the woman whom Lady Charlton thought had not died, but had run off with a gypsy. And the other . . . the witch who was hanged.
“It’s my own fault,” she said out loud. “I should never have read her diary. Now I’ll never be able to get her out of my mind.”
The next morning, she looked at her notes and the dried herbs on the table. I should stop this nonsense right away, she thought. Maybe the villagers are right and the cottage is cursed. She dressed hurriedly, wrapped a shawl around herself and went outside. Then she wielded the pruning shears and cut back all the plants in her little garden until there were just bare stalks showing. “No more,” she said. She didn’t know why she had been so attracted by the stupid notion of taking over as the herb wife, the wise woman. And the notion that she was somehow fated to come here and fulfil the role now terrified her. Those women had all met bad ends. That was what they said in the village. She was tempted to take Lady Charlton up on her offer and move into the big house right away, but the thought of Mrs Trelawney shadowing her, looking at her with those spiteful little eyes, was not appealing.
As she re-entered the cottage through the back door, she heard a letter land on the front doormat. Shadow rushed to examine it, decided it wasn’t edible and walked away again. Emily picked it up and saw the armed forces postage stamp on it. From Clarissa!
My dear, dear friend,
I was so shocked and sorry to read your sad news. And even more shocked at the callous and cruel behaviour of your parents. To reject their only daughter like that when you were in such dire need of love and nurturing. Well, rest assured that I shall not turn you away in your hour of need. As soon as I come home—and it should be only a matter of weeks now, they are saying—I aim to find a job nursing in a proper hospital. I may have to do some studying or an apprenticeship, but I feel that I am well qualified, and they would be lucky to get me! (You see, I never did lack confidence, did I?)
And when I am settled, I shall rent a little house nearby, and you shall come to live with me, and together we will raise little Humphrey or Hortense or whatever you choose to call him/her. Won’t that be fun? An adoring auntie on hand!
Emily put down the letter, as she felt herself about to cry. Finally, a door had opened for her—someone did care about her. She could look forward to plans for her future. She did not have to stay in this place. She was surprised at the swift pang of regret that she felt. She liked it here. She enjoyed the company of Lady Charlton and the women in the village. At least, she had liked it here, until she had discovered the truth about Susan Olgilvy.
“No more herbal nonsense,” she said out loud, making the cat look up from washing himself in front of the fire. She went out to check on her newly planted vegetables, making sure the rabbits had not found a way under the bird netting, then she went on up to the house. Lady Charlton had just come downstairs after breakfast in bed and looked surprised to see her.
“To what do we owe this honour?” she said.
Emily smiled. “I think I’ve done all I can in the kitchen garden. I’ve come to see if you want to work on that cataloguing you spoke about.”
The old woman’s face broke into a smile. “Splendid. Let’s get started, shall we? Should we tackle the library or the artefacts first?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Then I think the library presents an easier task. At least we can work our way along shelves. Let me find paper in my husband’s study . . .” Emily followed her along the hallway. She noticed the house felt cold and damp apart from in that one sitting room.
“Are you sure you want to do this now?” she asked. “It’s awfully cold for you. May I bring you a shawl?”
“My dear, I am made of sterner stuff,” the old lady said. “One does not live on the edge of Dartmoor for over thirty years without acquiring some resilience. Anyway, you can go and ask Mrs Trelawney to light the fire in the library for us.”
Emily went off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Light the fire in the library?” Mrs Trelawney demanded. “What next? Does she think coal grows on trees?”
“No, but she thinks wood does,” Emily replied, grinning.
Daisy chuckled. Mrs Trelawney frowned. “That’s as maybe. Don’t blame me if she catches cold. Daisy, you’d better get that fire lit as quick as possible.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Trelawney. I’ll do it,” Daisy said, getting up from her seat at the kitchen table where she had been peeling potatoes.
Emily went to find Lady Charlton. She was standing in a dark room that was shrouded in dust sheets, staring at a portrait on the wall. It showed a handsome man in military uniform.
“Your son?” Emily asked.
“My husband. He was a good-looking fellow, was he not? I still miss him every day, as I’m sure you miss your brave lieutenant.”
“Yes,” Emily said.
“Well, let’s not stand here dilly-dallying. Let’s get to work.” Lady Charlton opened a desk drawer and took out sheets of paper. She handed them to Emily, then picked up a fountain pen. “My husband’s pride and joy, this pen,” she said. “Such a sensible invention. No more blots.”
Daisy was already on her hands and knees in front of the fireplace in the library when they entered. “I’ll soon have it going, Lady Charlton,” she called out.
“What an amenable creature she is,” Lady Charlton commented as Daisy left, the fire crackling away.
Emily drew up a plan of the library and numbered the shelves, and then they started on the books: title, author, publisher, year pub
lished and brief synopsis. Emily put some of them back on their shelves with regret. “If I had this library, I’d never leave it,” she said.
“I have told you that you are welcome to borrow any book at any time,” the old lady replied.
“You’re most kind. I don’t seem to have had much time for reading, but now I intend to start. A good book at bedtime every night.”
“Do you like Jane Austen?”
“Oh yes, very much. But I don’t think I’ve read them all.”
“Have you read Northanger Abbey?” Lady Charlton handed it to her. “It is one of my favourites. So funny. So insightful about devious young ladies. An absolute spoof on gothic novels. You’d enjoy it.”
Emily smiled as she put the book to one side.
“But won’t this spoil our cataloguing if I have removed a book?” she asked, teasing now.
“Jane Austen is from my personal collection, not my husband’s, who found them too silly. They would not be for sale.”
They worked all morning, had luncheon, then worked until it started getting dark. They had an early dinner, then Emily went back to the cottage, clutching Northanger Abbey. She had just started on it when there was a knock at her door. Alice stood there, with Maud behind her.
“Let us in. It’s starting to rain,” Alice complained. She came inside. Maud hesitated before following her.
“Nice little place you’ve got here,” Maud said. “Warm and cosy.”
