Bitter Herbs

by Amandine Moxon

  Mrs Wood stared at her as if she were insane. Then she rose, pulling her dressing gown about her. “What is this nonsense? Why are you crying so? Get out of my way.” So saying, she swept past Annie and mounted the stairs to the servant’s room where she looked astonished to find her son and the apothecary.

  “What is going on, Charles? Annie says that Dilly is poorly. Is that why he is here?” She gestured contemptuously at Mr Trent. “Whatever is the matter with her?”

  Charles Wood swallowed nervously and tried to put his hand on his mother’s arm. “Please, please come along, mother. You must not enter.”

  “What?” Her tone sharpened ever further. “Is it fever? Eh? Are we all in danger?” She swivelled to address Mr Trent directly. He bowed deprecatingly but hastened to assure her that there was no contagion in the house.

  “There is no danger, ma’am. An accident, perhaps. I am afraid that your maid has passed away. Please ma’am, let us go down. I must alert the authorities.”

  “Wait! What are you talking about? Dilly is dead? A healthy little thing like her? She is always eating her head off. Surely not. Let me see her.”

  “There can be no doubt, ma’am. Dead a few hours I should say. There is scarcely any stiffness. Please come away.”

  “No, I must see her.” The old woman pushed past them both and entered the bedchamber, where the fetid smell of vomit and death assailed her nostrils. She rocked back on her heels on the threshold and turned an ashen face to her son. “Then it’s true.”

  “Yes, mother, come away now,” Charles pleaded.

  Mrs Wood seemed suddenly reduced, huddled within her voluminous pale woollen shawl as though she had swiftly aged and shrunk within it, her venom temporarily gone.

  “Yes, yes, my son. This is a dreadful scene. I must sit down.” She passed a hand across her brow and then fumbled in the pocket of her dressing gown for a handkerchief. Frustrated at not finding the desired article, she muttered to herself before retreating to her room, slamming the door behind her. Her son looked after her with hesitation, mingled with some relief at her thus removing herself from the scene and turned back to discuss practicalities with Mr Trent. His mind was racing with worry about how he would break the news to his wife who had kept to her bed throughout the comings and goings.

  * * *

  Edmund and Lord Ashfield were just setting off again from a stop at an inn on the road to London, at the very time that Dr Brookes was conducting a post mortem examination on Dilly’s body in Much Wenlock. The surgeon shook his head sadly when he discovered that not just one but two lives had ended. He believed from the presence of the vial that she was likely to have taken poison. The dilation of her pupils noted by Annie and Mr Trent was assuredly a symptom of this cause of death but there was little else he could find to indicate the type she may have used and the container was empty and odourless. He could only therefore rule out certain types of poison such as prussic acid, as he later deposed to the coroner.

  While the coroner was summing up in Dilly’s case, Edmund and Harriet, all unawares, were in Westminster Abbey, perusing with interest the recently unveiled monument to Sir Humphry Davy, who had died abroad in May. That evening the Wenlockians were ensconced in taverns and at dining tables, discussing the case with avidity just as Edmund was being introduced to John Soane, his quiet good sense and intelligent interest soon winning the irascible architect’s respect as they reminisced together about their respective travels in Italy.

  Chapter 11

  Tired in body, but much refreshed in spirit from the change of scene and the engagement with men of letters which he so seldom had the chance to enjoy, Edmund walked from the Ashfield carriage to his front door with a spring in his step early on Sunday morning, Lord Ashfield having been so obliging as to set off at dawn from their resting place so as to allow Edmund to be home in time to take the church service. Lord Ashfield’s coachman followed with his valise and Edmund greeted Deborah, who had opened the door to him, with a cheerful smile and salutation. He was alarmed to see that she tried to smile wanly, like a fleeting gleam of sun under cloud on a wet day, and that her eyes were red-rimmed, as though with much crying. His thoughts flew to his aunt, always weak, who had taken on extra work that week, or even his mother.

  “Welcome, home, sir. I trust that Miss Bredwardine is in good health.”

  “Yes, thank you, Deborah, she is very well and happy, but is anything amiss? Is anyone ill here?”

  “No, sir, no. There has been something very sad ‘appen in the town while you were away, but your mother will want to tell you. The ladies are in the morning room, sir.” With that, she bobbed and hurried away with his coat and hat as the coachman deposited the valise, received his tip and left with a salute. Edmund was sure he heard his maid stifle a sob as she went.

  Disquieted, he hurried to the morning room where he was relieved to see both his mother and aunt, the latter stitching at the christening gown Harriet had had to leave unfinished, the former writing busily at her escritoire, with, wonder of wonders, the ginger kitten asleep on her lap; both ladies were tranquil and it seemed, in good health. But not in spirits, he saw at once. They both seemed a little low. There had been no easy chatter between them such as he might have expected to interrupt at his entrance and their expressions were pensive. The atmosphere changed in an instant however and both exclaimed with joy as he advanced further into the room. The kitten woke and jumped to the floor, stretching.

  “Edmund my dear, how good to see you. Have you eaten? How did you leave Harriet? Was your journey tiring? How much you must have to tell us!” Mrs Bredwardine was in a bustle at once and rang for refreshments while Aunt Cecily murmured endearments as she helped him off with his coat, touching his arms lightly as she did so, like a cat kneading her paws on her master’s sleeve, in pleasure at his return. He embraced and kissed both women heartily, his worst fears allayed, and started to tell them about the journey and all that he had managed to see in his short sojourn in the capital, while the kitten took possession of his lap and curled up in luxurious contentment.

  The ladies listened with delight, worries temporarily suspended, and solicitously watched Edmund eat a second light breakfast which the kitten was keen to share, with good appetite. Both women felt that all was right with their world again and forbore to speak first of Dilly’s tragedy until Edmund should have finished his account but nonetheless the consciousness of how the sad event might depress his spirits hung unspoken over them. At last, reminded of the unknown unhappy incident by Deborah’s sad countenance as she came in to clear away the tray, Edmund turned to his family and asked what had happened in the town as soon as the maid had shut the door behind her. He observed his aunt’s face fall instantly and his mother purse her lips.

  “There has been a very sad accident occur to someone you know, my son. I regret that your first parish duty other than the Sunday services must be to conduct a funeral, alas. It is arranged for Monday. It is for Emma Jones’ little girl, Dilly.”

  Edmund blenched at this unexpected news. “Dear God, you don’t say so! How did this come about? When did she die?”

  “It was on Tuesday morning that she was found. We did not attend the inquest but Daniel did. We have heard from folks about the town also. A vial was found beside her. The doctor had found that she was carrying a child so everyone in town thought at first that she was ashamed and had committed suicide.” Mrs Bredwardine turned with concern to her sister, who had mewed out loud with distress at this last sentence. “There, there, Cecily. Perhaps you should go to your room. I can tell Edmund all.” At this gentle admonition, Cecily found her own meek voice again.

  “No, no, Sabrina, thank you. I am not such a coward as all that. It pains me beyond belief to hear it spoken of again, but I wish to hear what Edmund thinks, my dear.” She held her hand out in appeal to her nephew who, disengaging the cat gently, went to her side and kissed her, perching on the arm of her chair with his arm about his aunt’s shoulders as if to
sustain her for the rest of the narrative.

  “Go on, mother, please.”

  “Several witnesses attested to Dilly’s being a little slow, you know, and not being so aware of society as to make her unduly ashamed, certainly not enough to make her desperate. Mr Wood represented his family, and he testified that none of them had been aware that she was enceinte so she was not in any immediate danger of being turned out of work. I suppose it though that it may have weighed upon her, knowing that she could not conceal her condition forever. Her poor mother was unequal to the task of appearing at the inquest, but Joe Watson, the watchman, had taken a deposition from her and she told him that she had a suspicion that Dilly was expecting because she was eating so heartily lately and growing stout. She knew Jem Roberts had courted her a little because she had seen him present her daughter with a posy some time ago, one Sunday after church, but Dilly had not mentioned him since and she seemed cross if she, Emma, mentioned it. She had hoped that Dilly might marry him. Jem was called but he said that they had quarrelled and he had not courted her since the Michaelmas fair. He was most emphatic that he had never laid a finger on her so that he could not be the father of her child. He pointed to Frank Marsh as the likely culprit, saying Dilly had spurned him and gone off with Frank the evening of the fair. He had not spoken to her since.

  They called in Frank Marsh and he said that he had met Dilly on several occasions and admitted that he might be the father. He did not know until that day that she was carrying a child. They say he was very subdued, not his usual ebullient self.” Mrs Bredwardine paused wearily, as if tired of the burden of relating such a sad story. Cecily wiped her eyes surreptitiously and Sabrina squared her shoulders to resume her task.

  “The doctor was not sure what the poison might be but he suspected deadly nightshade or as he called it, belladonna. Mr Richards, the coroner asked if it were ever used end a baby’s life in the womb, but he said the drug did not have that use, but was useful for stomach upsets, to be used cautiously, as well as being a poison, so he surmised it may have an accident, that she, being a little slow, might have chosen the wrong herbs to use or inadvertently overdosed herself. Otherwise he felt it might have been intended self-slaughter. Only the apothecary ever attended the Woods’ servants, but Mr Trent had not been called before the morning of her death for any reason, though the Woods’ maid Annie deposed that Dilly had complained of feeling sick in the mornings lately and that furthermore they had had an intimate conversation just a short time before her death, in which Dilly had shown herself at first ignorant about expecting a child but that, when alerted to the likelihood, she did not seem in any wise desperate about her plight.”

  ”The coroner did speculate that she might have been seeking to kill the child but not herself and that she died by accident. No one in the house or her mother had seen her boil up any concoction but there seemed no doubt that the poison was self-administered and that no one else was involved. Annie had testified that she had been her usual cheerful self when the servants separated at bedtime and that she had not been unduly perturbed lately. I don’t think anyone could bear to think of that silly little girl killing herself or her baby by intention and in the end the verdict was ‘death by misadventure’.”

  Edmund thanked his mother gravely for her information.

  “This is dreadful news. I had not thought to come home to such a tragedy. I wish I had been here to offer testimony. You remember that I saw her recently – she sent for me to see her the night of the Ashfields’ dinner?” He could not reveal the full extent of that conversation without deep embarrassment, but he went on, “I am sure she was not thinking of anything but her baby’s well-being. She did confess to me that she was with child but she seemed not to think her situation so very grave. She talked of giving the child to her mother to look after while she sought another job elsewhere or she thought she might marry.” The remembrance of Dilly’s startling ploy with regard to himself recurred to him with full force and he blushed. “She was not very set on marrying the baby’s father but she agreed to tell him of the child. It seems she did not do so. But I would swear that she was not desperate that night. Could she have turned so later? If Frank had spurned her, I suppose it might be so, but I truly do not think so.” Edmund got up and started to pace the room a little, battling with his thoughts.

  “I am sorry indeed, my son, to greet you with such ill news on your return. We undertook, on your behalf, that you would conduct the funeral. We have sent some provisions to Emma Jones, my dear. Cecily was good enough to take them to her, accompanied by Deborah, and promised her that you would undertake the service tomorrow. I hope we did right.”

  “Quite right. Thank you both for your care in this matter. I had better see Emma this afternoon. How distressing this has been for everyone! I imagine the town is still gossiping hard?”

  “Oh yes, my dear, all sorts of nonsense flying about. But I think the verdict was the right one. I never could see any harm in little Dilly Jones, may she rest in peace.”

  “Amen. I will go out to visit Emma now, mother, Aunt Cecily. Pray excuse me, my dears. I have just enough time before the service.”

  * * *

  Within minutes, Edmund was at the poor cottage Emma Jones shared with other tenants, listening to her sob her heart out as she told him what she knew. She lifted a face grey and hollow-eyed with sorrow and rocked back and forth, clasping her hands across her midriff, as though protecting an unborn child. “Oh, sir, sir, my poor little wench. She was my last. They’ve all gone before me. I still canna believe it. I know ‘er was a bit soft but I thought she was safe at Mrs Wood’s. They are calling her such nasty names, some of ‘em, but she never meant no ‘arm, no ‘arm to anybody. My poor, poor girl.”

  Edmund let her cry her fill, his arm around her, her head on his chest. Emma had been very poor since her man had been killed in an accident in his work at the Farley quarry but he knew that Deborah and Daniel and their mother had helped support their aunt a little. Her room was neatly kept but the walls were damp, the fire meagre and the window rattled in a wind.

  “They are saying she made away with herself, or that she was trying to kill the babe, but ‘er never ‘ud have tried to do anything like that, sir, I am sure of it. She was not like that. Who knew her better than her own mother? She would have come home to me if she had been desperate. We would have found a way to manage, somehow. Dilly could sew, and I could scrub, and my sisters would have helped and…and…” Emma abandoned herself to weeping once more, unable to restrain herself.

  Edmund spoke. “The coroner was satisfied in the end that Dilly did not destroy herself; her character has no stain on it in the public record, Emma, at least.”

  Emma looked up again. “Aah, sir, but it dunna stop nasty tongues wagging. Some says that she tried to get rid of the babby, but that inna true neither. She wouldn’t have known how to begin, if she had ever wanted to.”

  “No, when she confessed her condition to me, her thoughts never took that path, I am sure.” Edmund spoke to comfort, and to rehearse his own thoughts about the matter. It seemed likely that the verdict reached by the jurors at the inquest was the most reasonable explanation. Did the silly child brew herself some deadly concoction, all unknowing, in order to stop her morning nausea? He wondered which herbs grew in the Woods’ garden. However if it were belladonna, as the doctor had surmised, surely every child is taught to avoid its gleaming black berries early on?

  “Emma, Dilly did know to avoid harmful herbs like deadly nightshade, did she not?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. She was a bit slow and simple, but she wasn’t daft. I taught her as a little ‘un.”

  * * *

  After dinner, when he had presented his mother and aunt with the small gifts that he had brought back for them from London, he left their exclamations of delight behind to go to the George and Dragon, where he hoped to meet Richard Madeley, an old and trusted friend, who had been present at the inquest, and who often enjoyed a pint o
r two with another friend, Nathaniel Weston, head man at the quarry at Shadwell.

  He was in luck: they were tucked in their usual corner of the snug, and welcomed him heartily.

  “The doctor said that Dilly must have thrashed about in her death throes, but no one heard her, tucked away in the attic, poor little wench. Dr Brookes surmised that the poison might have been belladonna: the girl’s pupils were so dilated but there was little other sign within her stomach of any of the poisons that leave a stronger mark upon the frame. He also said that it was known that sometimes belladonna poisoning robbed the victim of her voice, so if she did try to call out, she couldn’t have made much sound, and under heavy blankets, she wouldn’t have made much noise, such a little thing as she were.” He sighed. His own daughter Sarah, the secret love of Edmund’s heart, was the apple of his eye and it grieved him to think of the fate of Sam Jones’ girl. Sam had worked for him before going to the quarry where he met the accident that ended his life.

  “The coroner did ask the doctor if it might be possible that she had been trying to rid herself of the child, and had died accidentally in so doing, and the doctor agreed that it was a possibility, but he was more set on the theory of suicide, I believe, but as there was no note, no indication that she was low in spirits, no signs that people could interpret even with hindsight, so the jury did not feel it could be proved beyond reasonable doubt. No one wanted to blacken her name so, I believe.”

  Edmund returned home that night with a great deal to think about.

  Chapter 12

  It was the day after Dilly’s funeral and Daniel coughed nervously as he knocked and then entered the study at Edmund’s bidding. Edmund was surprised to see that Deborah was with him, uncharacteristically looking down and shuffling her feet.

  Edmund gave them both an encouraging smile, though he was fleetingly concerned that they might both be seeking to give notice.