“One of the reasons I took a ride this morning in fact was to try to think it all out, away from the atmosphere and unhappiness inside,” Charles went on.
“I suppose each lady is somewhat jealous of the other too?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Charles admitted ruefully, “neither brings out the best in the other and they are both behaving unlike themselves at the moment.”
“I think you know the answer already, Wood, if you will let me speak frankly, as your pastor. Your mother and your wife are never likely to agree well together. I think you are right in wanting to find some larger place for your wife’s sake, and London is probably not that place. Have you ever thought of visiting Bath for a short holiday? Afterwards, perhaps, you might try a removal to somewhere new and attractive, like Leamington Priors (*8), in Warwickshire? A curate friend there has often written to me to sing its praises as a rising spa town. Your wife’s health may be much improved if she could see a little more society than our poor little out-of -the -way town can offer. Where many people meet together for the first time, there is less difficulty in securing a place within that society. You might employ a steady nurse to keep your mother company until she has recovered her health and spirits. You could visit her as often as possible but leave Mrs Charles at home for the greater contentment of both, perhaps. Not all of us can agree together even when we are kin, as the ancient Greeks knew. There is no shame in that.”
Charles smiled, pleased to have unburdened himself and to have received such good advice in return. “Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. “There is much in what you say. In such a place, I might even be able to pick up some commissions for portraits, even if it only be of some gentleman’s horse,” he said, with a touch of his old optimism and good humour. I have been practising since I returned and I have produced some portraits of my family. I believe that I could sell similar works of their own relations to rich men. I would be delighted to show them to you, if have time to spare.”
“I would be equally delighted to view them, but at another time. I would not intrude further while your family is feeling so low and I must pay two further parish visits along this street alone. I would come back another day, with great pleasure, at a time to suit you.”
“Next Tuesday then. My mother will be at Mrs Grey’s and Evie is sure to be feeling better. Pray come and dine and I shall show you my work afterwards.”
“Very well; I will see you here next Tuesday and in church before that. Good day.”
Edmund walked away to complete his parish round, ruminating on all that he had seen and heard within that sad household: both women were ill, he felt sure, because each one was unhappy and felt that Charles was against her. He felt sorry for Charles, that weak young man caught between the Scylla of his mother’s stern and unloving respectability and the Charybdis of the ignominy in which his wife’s ways could cast him, yet loving them both, not just as in duty bound, but with real affection, Edmund was sure.
He was perturbed to see that none of the Wood household except the servants attended church that Sunday.
Chapter 24
Walking between parishioners’ homes on his daily round on the following Tuesday, Edmund encountered Peggy Clarke who curtseyed and asked after the ginger kitten.
“He grows daily, Peggy, thank you.” He smiled at the pretty girl.
“I’m main glad, sir. It’s good to know he’s safe with you. Not long after you took ‘im, there was a poor dog got poisoned in our street as well, though no more cats, at least. Me and Daniel had only been laughing at the dog next door just a day or two before and all. Pincher, he was called. He’d had run off with the butcher’s meat off his cart outside. Mr Owen cursed ‘im up and down and then ran after, puffing away – oh, it was so funny at the time but somebody poisoned ‘im later, Beattie next door said.”
Edmund frowned. “Poisoned, you say? Poor creature. When did it happen?”
“Some time before Christmas. I dunna think Mr Owen did it though. He’s not cruel to his horse or his own dog, though he is a butcher. Pincher was a sweet animal; he was a good ratter and never harmed anybody, so why anyone would want to poison such a useful creature, I don’t know, but there’s some funny folks about, like I said about the cat.”
“Too true, alas. Good day, Peggy”
“Good day, sir”
Edmund was musing on the cruel ways of man when he caught sight of a dark-haired gipsy girl ahead of him, trying to inveigle folk into buying pegs. She was about the age and height of Rosanna and dressed in a green striped skirt and red bodice, just as he had last seen her. Edmund’s spirits rose at the sight of his former pupil, for he had not seen her in an age. He hurried to catch up with her and gently tapped her on the shoulder. The girl swung round but it was not Rosanna, only someone who resembled her from behind and who did have a faint look about her of the beautiful girl he sought.
“I beg your pardon,” said Edmund to the girl who looked ready to flee, but at this courteous address she waited to see what the handsome curate might want. “I thought you were Rosanna Smith– the last time I saw her, she had a very similar set of clothes. My name is Bredwardine and I taught her to read. I was hoping for news of my old pupil and how she does.”
“Oh ahh, Rosanna is my cousin, sir. I had these from ‘er. She’s grown a bit.”
“Ah, then is she well?”
“Very well, sir. I knows your name. Rosie allus speaks very fondly of you. She is like to marry soon.”
“Really? She cannot be more than fifteen now, I think.”
“We gipsies marry young, sir. It’s our custom.”
“I have not seen her family in this area this year. I have missed her. I hope she still reads?”
“Bless you sir, you cannot stop her! She is always reading anything she can lay hers hands on, and teaching the young ones. Some of the men don’t like it, but Veldina, our grandmother, tells them it is the times, and does us good to know what is happening in the world.”
“I remember your grandmother as a very wise woman. Please pass on my regards when next you see her and to Rosanna and her father too. When are they likely to return to these parts?”
“Oh,” the girl said evasively, “probably not for another year. They have found work in Gloucestershire this year and they thrive there.” The gipsies were not likely to return to Wenlock for some time, for well-hidden reasons of their own.
“What is your name, my dear?”
“Richenda , sir”
“God bless you, Richenda. Good day to you.”
Edmund gave her a halfpenny and she curtseyed and passed on, pausing only to look back at him at the street corner.
“’Andsome he is and ‘andsome he does,” she laughed to herself as she watched his straight figure walk down the street. “No wonder Rosie likes ‘im so.”
Edward recalled this encounter later that evening as he walked towards the Woods’ house, and reflected what a subject the bonny Rosanna would make for a portrait painter. On his arrival, the elder Mrs Wood was reported by her son to be well but absent at Mrs Grey’s weekly tea-drinking and whist party. Mrs Wood the younger greeted Edmund very pleasantly. She looked much more vivacious and blooming than the last time he had seen her, no doubt because the yoke of the old lady’s restrictive presence had been lifted for the evening. Edmund, having been admitted by Jessie, was relieved to see Annie serving at dinner, which was a good one, proof that the household was still able to function normally. Mrs Charles, part of whose bloom might be ascribed to artifice but not at least on this occasion to the carafe of gin, had taken special care over her toilette: apart from the rouge, she had softened some of her more usually vulgar effects: her hair was neatly dressed and her dress was more modest than usual. Edmund attributed this restraint to the respect usually paid to his cloth but he was touched to learn shortly that this was not the only reason.
“Good evening, Reverend. It is very kind of you to honour us tonight,” she said. “Charles has been so animated a
ll day at the prospect of showing you his work.”
“He does me too much, honour, Mrs Wood. I am a poor audience for an artist. I wish for his sake that I were instead a rich patron of the arts and could do him some good in that way.”
“Perhaps not, sir, but you are known as a man of taste and discernment, which two qualities are rare commodities in this town,” said Mrs Charles, causing Edmund to blush. Both he and her husband perhaps felt that her observation was too disparaging about the place they both called home and so Edmund changed the subject by enquiring after her health.
“Much mended, sir, since I saw you last. I hope you will pardon me for my outburst that day. It is so good of you to come tonight. Did you know that you are our first proper dinner guest? I have had so few visits since my first week in Wenlock.” This sad fact was true. A few dutiful visits to the new bride had been paid by the friends, scanty enough in numbers, of the elder Mrs Wood, but word of mouth of the unsuitability of Mrs Charles for the dignity of her position had soon been bandied about and she had quickly been ostracised by the matrons of the town. Edmund felt a stab of sympathy for the former barmaid so out of her element. She had sought to be, if not a lady, at least a respectable wife, but had met with no success. He thought of the contrast in Mrs Mason’s popularity and her host of visitors after her wedding. Seeking a source of honest compliment, he turned his attention to the arrangement of the table and the food then being served and was able to offer sincere praise, which gave the young wife much pleasure, for it was the first time she had planned a dinner herself in her marital home.
Edmund noted with approval that Evie and Charles took water with their wine on this occasion and the meal passed off pleasantly enough. At its conclusion, Charles rose from the table and conducted his guest to the lightest room in the house, converted by him into his studio, despite his mother’s grumblings over his lack of a serious profession. Sketches were heaped on a large table and some three or four unframed portraits hung from the picture rails on hooks. None of them were complete, but all showed considerable promise. His sitters were all domestic: his mother, two studies of Evie and one, Edmund was pleased to note, of Annie. He studied all of them carefully in turn. The most complete study of Evie repaid close scrutiny and showed the youth and beauty, unblurred by drink, which must have first captured Charles’ heart. The likeness of Annie caught her perfectly and one could sense that the sitter was burning to get back to her work, which was no doubt piling up behind the back of the oblivious young master. Edmund turned to the study of Mrs Amos Wood which was a strong delineation of age and character, but he stiffened suddenly as he leaned in closer to admire the little still life collection of glass, catching the sun on a table at the subject’s elbow. A green goblet, an orange half-peeled, a wine bottle and a group of small vials were displayed there, worked on with love and capturing an effect of glinting light often found in the old Dutch masters. At least three of the vials were of the same pattern as the one Dilly had been clutching in her small white hand after her death.
Chapter 25
Edmund straightened up slowly and turned to Charles, pointing to the glass in the picture.
“Tell me, Wood, that display of glass which you have so masterfully rendered, is it something your mother actually has in her room or is it an artistic composition out of your own head?”
“What? Oh, that. Yes, it’s hers. She has a little set of those bottles in her room. She boils up all sorts of concoctions in her room these days, tonics for her health and what not.”
Edmund considered where this might lead. He put aside his mounting excitement at this discovery and turned all his attention to a serious and considered criticism of the pictures which he could do with honesty, praising and encouraging Charles’ discernible talent, until the young man’s ears turned pink with pleasure at receiving such balm, for he had dared to show his work to very few since leaving his master in London. Conscious too that he should not spoil an evening of pleasure for Mrs Charles, Edmund returned with her husband to the drawing room for another hour and a half over coffee and brandy before he took his departure, leaving the young couple with possibly their happiest moment since coming to Wenlock.
His mother and aunt had retired to bed when he entered his own home but Harri was still up, using his Argand lamp to see more clearly as she stitched some smocking onto a baby’s garment intended for the parish box, to be lent to any indigent mothers as need be.
“I hope you do not mind my borrowing your lamp, Edmund, dear, but I just wanted to finish this and the light is so much brighter than my last three inches of candle.”
“Of course not, my dear. Use it whenever you like,” he said, bestowing a brotherly kiss on the top of her bowed head.
“Did you have a successful evening?” she asked, smiling back at him.
“Yes, I did, I think. I passed a pleasant time for the first part at least, and I was impressed by the quality of Wood’s work, certainly.”
“But?” Harri knew her brother too well to miss the nuances of his speech. “There is something you have omitted, I think?”
“Harri, you remember hearing of the passing of poor Dilly Jones, of course?”
“Oh, yes, poor little thing. It happened when we were away in London. It was horrible. Do you think of it much still, Edmund?”
“I do, Harri. Deborah and Daniel have asked for my help and to be frank, I have never been quite easy in my mind about it, perhaps because I was not there at the inquest or perhaps because I had a strange encounter with her shortly before her death.”
Harri looked at him questioningly. He proceeded to give her an account of that evening of Dilly’s proposal, but omitting some details, to spare his own and his sister’s blushes. Harri gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
“But how very peculiar,” she exclaimed. “Why on earth possessed her to approach you so boldly? She can hardly have exchanged more than a few words with you, at most, after church.”
“I think she had learned of another person who had advanced socially by persuading a man of honour that she carried his child,” Edmund said carefully, knowing that Harri could follow his hints without having to name the persons concerned. “She thought perhaps to do the same. She simply did not love Frank Marsh enough in her heart to be happy with him; her notions of love were too romantic and she built her dreams on a more whimsical solution, I believe. She always seemed to be a dreamer, a little out of step with the bustling world. She saw things differently from most of us. She did not feel particular shame at her misdeeds with Frank, for example, and God knows he was the instigator and the worst perpetrator, being the more knowing. She was a true innocent, in her lack of consciousness of sin. Alas, it made her an easy victim.”
Harriet did not reply but carried on with her sewing for a time.
“Do you, as a woman, find her conduct indefensible, Harri?” he asked.
“No, Edmund. God forgive I should judge any other woman harshly unless I had been in her shoes, but I was thinking of the babe and the life she could have brought it into. It might only have ever known shame and misery or it could have been a blessing to support her in later life. Who knows? Only the Almighty. If you believe her innocent of self-destruction and a wish to destroy the baby, I am sure you are right. What do you think might have happened?”
Edmund recounted to his sister the sighting of the strange ghostly figure by Mrs Bytheway, and the finding of the bottle in her garden later by Daniel, and finally the depiction of the same glass vessels in Charles’ portrait of his mother.
“There must be some (possibly fatal) connection there. Had there been poison in that bottle in the garden? Why did the woman threw it away? A fear of discovery perhaps, some servant or family member about to enter the room and so it frightened her into disposing of evidence. Why though, did she retrieve it later? Perhaps again the same fear of discovery or of a connection being made, by someone in the house, for instance. The coincidence is too great to ignore but who is at f
ault? Has Mrs Charles, in her cups, repented bitterly of her confidences to the girl and tried to silence her forever? From the details of the inquest in the papers, she did not appear in court to give any testimony as she kept to her room throughout the discovery of the body. Does that not seem strange?”
“She may have been in a drunken sleep, too deep to wake, or too timorous to stir.”
“True, but the figure in Mrs Bytheway’s garden was female and had a white shawl, which belongs to Mrs Charles, according to the servants. They were complaining of the state of it when I entered. Evie Wood admitted that she probably put her head out of doors for air, but not going fully outside. And yet..and yet…she seems only a mildly vain, silly woman, with, I hope a loving heart. She spoke of Dilly with real feeling, I would swear. Could her inebriation lead her so far astray, into horror? I can hardly bear to think of it.”
“However the bottles are kept in Mrs Amos Wood’s room”, Harri reminded him. “Are you sure it is the younger Mrs Wood who could be at fault? She is a stranger amongst us and we know less of her, it is true. Certainly she had a possible motivation for wanting to get of Dilly permanently, from what you say, and I can see none for Mrs Amos, but if anyone could contemplate murder with cold calculation within that house it is most likely to be the old lady, who seldom has a good word for anyone, and who dislikes animals intensely, from what I have heard. After all, I am almost certain that Mrs Amos has a light-coloured woollen shawl too. I have seen her about town in it, I believe. We should not rule her out too soon.”
“You are right, Harri,” Edmund exclaimed. “I recall now having seen her wearing something made of a very light blue wool.”
“Well, there you are. She may have picked up her daughter-in-law’s shawl in mistake for her own. She might even want to spite the girl by ruining it – who knows? Even if there were only one shawl, who can safely say which woman wore it in Mrs Bytheway’s garden? I have been thinking, Edmund. Could you ask Annie what sort of herbs Mrs Wood gathers and what store does she keep in her room? Perhaps you could even ask her or one of the other servants there to procure one of the vials from the old lady’s room to see if it contains the belladonna toxin, at a venture? If it were found to contain that poison, or we could find some ingredients that might contribute to a poisonous compound, then we might see our way more clearly. I am sure that Dr Peplow,” she paused, for she could not mention the doctor’s name without a blush, “I am sure that Dr Peplow for instance, could assist in a rigorous chemical analysis for belladonna.”
Bitter Herbs Page 15
