Death Is the Cure

by Slade, Nicola

  Oh heavens, now what? Charlotte sighed as she put an arm round Mrs Attwell whose squat, shapeless body was shaken with sobs intermingled with strangled yelps of misery. A suspicion rose in Charlotte’s mind as she caught an unmistakable whiff of alcohol. Had Mrs Attwell been indulging in secret, she wondered? If that were the case, several circumstances became clear – the lady’s occasional uneven gait and florid face. I suppose I can hardly abandon the poor foolish creature in the street and she is in no case to go peacefully to bed. A medicinal measure of brandy is probably called for, she decided. For both of us, that is, even if she is already under the influence.

  ‘Come, Mrs Attwell.’ She spoke in a brisk tone. ‘Let me take you into the dining room where it is quiet and we will pour ourselves a glass of brandy to calm our nerves.’

  ‘How can he speak so to me?’ Mrs Attwell’s hands were tensed into fists but she accompanied Charlotte to the dining-room in quite a docile manner. ‘When everything I have ever done has been for him. Only for him.’ She gulped down the brandy in quite an accustomed manner and held out the glass for more. ‘I have lied for him. I have perjured myself in a court of law and only for him. I have blackened characters and written secret letters – all for him. And I told him long ago that if the need ever arose, I would kill for him.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Unseen by the distraught lady, Charlotte made a face. Oh Lord, she sighed inwardly; here I go again. Why must I assume that it is I who need sort out every predicament? Straighten every tangle? And I’m so tired tonight, heaven knows why; it must be all the dramas I’ve stumbled upon since we arrived in Bath. She opened her eyes wide as Mrs Attwell reached out blindly, evidently demanding that her glass be refilled for a third time. Oh well, Charlotte shrugged, obediently upending the bottle. If she is drunk at least she will sleep tonight and whether she and her son reconcile their differences is tomorrow’s problem. And it is not mine. With a slight shiver she recalled Decimus Attwell’s declaration of his impending marriage and prayed that he had not talked himself into thinking she would fill the position of bride.

  ‘The things I have done for him.’ It was a low mutter and Charlotte steeled herself to sit across the polished mahogany and listen patiently until Mrs Attwell had talked herself out of her gloom, or into a stupor. ‘You have no notion, have you?’ In the angry red face the pale eyes glittered as she rounded on Charlotte. ‘No, neither you nor any other. Nobody could.’ The muttering voice sank low and it was impossible to make out more than an infrequent word until she pulled herself upright and addressed her unwilling audience as if she were at a public parish meeting.

  ‘That man accused me, you know. The American gentleman, or at least – hah! He was certainly no gentleman in his manner to me. He had some cock-and-bull tale about Decimus’s time at Oxford and those nonsensical examinations as well as the other … but he did not have it right, that was a friend of Decimus’s, not my son and besides, who cares for a piece of paper? As for the other rumour I scotched that long ago and those who put it about were soon dealt with. Decimus did not know then and he still has no idea that it was I who rescued his reputation. And how mistaken in any case … ha!’ Her laugh ended in a sob but she wiped her eyes and rambled on. ‘Far from what was implied, here have I been hard put, more than once, to find homes and foster parents for his little – indiscretions. A far cry from what they …’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘He has always been a high-spirited lad,’ she sniffed proudly. ‘But to have him turn upon me like this, and all for the sake of that pasty little drab.…’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Attwell has no thought of Miss Dunwoody in that way,’ Charlotte ventured, hiding a surprised grin as she hastily reappraised the bad-tempered and unprepossessing Mr Attwell. Little indiscretions indeed. It appeared that he was, as Will had once remarked about a notorious Irish priest – bent upon increasing his congregation by his own Herculean exertions. ‘He was merely being polite and offering assistance to a lady who is not able to clamber easily in and out of a carriage. He offered the same assistance to Lady Buckwell. And it was not his idea that Miss Dunwoody should change her seat after the interval. I know that, because I heard her complain that she could not see the dancing properly from her original place, so I pointed out to her the vacant chair beside your son. Indeed it was not from any desire of his that the change took place.’

  She could not be sure that the lady had either heard or taken in the explanation. The grumbling monotone continued until Mrs Attwell sat up again, her face twisted in a sudden drunken smile.

  ‘His father had to buy off the keeper’s son when Decimus was only ten; such a fuss about a leg wound and saying it was temper. Why, it was only gunshot and the boy recovered all but a limp. And what’s a limp, pray?’ She held out her glass and Charlotte hastily looked round for another bottle. ‘The first time I myself rescued him was when he was a mere boy,’ she announced in a slurred voice. ‘My husband said I should have guessed that a lad of Decimus’s age would fall for a pretty face, but he was a child in my eyes still and she a grown woman and a governess. My little high-spirited boy.’ She hiccupped and clapped a genteel hand to her mouth. ‘What was she about? To seduce a lad of fourteen and then to wail and moan and claim he had hit her and forced himself upon her? Well’ – Mrs Attwell’s voice took on a note of congratulation – ‘I helped her employer, my neighbour, to send her to Ireland out of the way so all ended well.’

  ‘What happened to her, Mrs Attwell?’ Charlotte’s own voice was faltering now as she contemplated the fate of the governess.

  ‘What happened?’ Mrs Attwell raised her ravaged face and stared haughtily at Charlotte. ‘How should I know? It was no concern of mine. I believe she was married off to some worthy farmer who gave her brat a name; it was more than she deserved, the scheming hussy.’

  It was too much. Too many violent incidents had begun to take their toll and Charlotte was exhausted, vowing that if she had to hear any more confidences about the high-spirited Decimus – a description that made her shudder in sympathy with his victims – or if she had to speak another word herself she would collapse into hysterics. Stiffly she rose from her chair taking Mrs Attwell by the arm in a gentle but firm grasp, and led her upstairs to her room. There she pushed the older woman on to the half-tester bed and removed her shoes, pulled a blanket over her, then as an afterthought occasioned by the recollection of all that brandy together with the lady’s sudden unaccustomed pallor, found a slop bucket and placed it strategically beside the bed. She hesitated for a moment but, turning to the door, left the room in darkness.

  As she headed for her room Charlotte jumped nearly out of her skin at the sound of sobs. She opened the door to the backstairs and saw a wretched little face looking up at her. One of the young maids was huddled there and when she beheld Charlotte her mouth opened in an O of horror.

  ‘Don’t run away.’ Charlotte’s weariness vanished and she slipped down to sit beside the girl on the top stair. ‘Now then, tell me what is wrong. I’m sure I can help put everything right.’

  The sobs continued for some moments then the sorry tale came spilling out.

  ‘I didn’t mean to take it, ma’am,’ the girl hiccupped, ‘but it was so pretty.’ Charlotte made soothing noises and the little maid carried on, ‘Missus had me strip the bed, that poor gentleman, you know?’ Charlotte gave her an encouraging nod. ‘Well, it was when I emptied out the chest of drawers that I found it, slipped down the back somehow, it was.’

  She let out a subdued wail and her hands writhed together in shame. ‘It was so pretty and I thought nobody would miss it. But now I daren’t keep it for fear Missus finds out, or my mam when I go home.’

  ‘Would you like me to take care of it?’ Charlotte asked kindly, wondering what the ‘pretty thing’ might be. ‘I promise not to tell Mrs Montgomery.’ The suggestion was received with fulsome gratitude and in a very few moments the girl had mopped herself up and gone to bed, leaving Charlotte in possession of a little bundle wrapp
ed in blue velvet.

  It did look dainty, she thought wearily as she reached her own room and untied the cloth to reveal a gold locket that opened upon two miniature portraits, but it was late and she was too tired to examine it tonight so she slipped the pretty trifle into a drawer. Charlotte removed her clothing mechanically, unpinned her hair and replaited it for the night, then splashed her face with water that had long grown cold since the maid had brought in the brass can. Sleepily she climbed into bed and blew out her candle before dropping off into a sound sleep.

  Breakfast next morning was a subdued affair reflecting the general level of exhaustion among the residents after the dissipation of the previous evening. Elaine had greeted Charlotte with a tired smile and a mild complaint about the heat, even at an early hour. ‘I shall be quite content to go and sit quietly in Mr Radnor’s buckets and basins of water to cool down,’ she said. ‘And you look weary too, dearest Char, so I beg you will not dance attendance upon me today.’

  It came as no surprise to Charlotte to discover that Mrs Attwell was not one of the breakfast party, but she was intrigued to witness a stiff encounter between Captain Penbury and The Reverend Decimus Attwell each of whom was eagerly intent upon apology. Captain Penbury carried the day by sheer weight of bluster and an outright refusal to listen to the other man.

  ‘No, sir, I must insist,’ he boomed, holding out a large red hand to the clergyman. ‘I owe you an apology for my behaviour last night and I insist that you shake hands upon it. Hey? Hey? I was overcome by my sentiments towards the lady in question and I completely misunderstood your kind attentions to her. My apologies, sir. My most sincere apologies.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’ Decimus Attwell had clearly been practising the benign but stern expression fitting to a bishop as he shook the ham-like hand, with a slight but gracious smile that sat uneasily upon a face designed for rage and bluster. ‘I must proffer apologies upon my mother’s behalf also. She was not feeling well last night. The heat, you understand, coupled with the excitements of the evening’s entertainment, led her to a misreading of the circumstance. I trust we may say no more about it.’

  Charlotte managed to avoid having to sit next to Mr Attwell at breakfast by the simple expedient of whisking out of his eye-line until he had taken his place. I must choke him off as politely as possible, she resolved, managing a cool half bow as she greeted his eager gaze and moved along the table to a vacant chair beside the gallant captain.

  ‘And how are you feeling this morning, Captain?’ she enquired, as she partook of kedgeree. ‘No further trouble amidships, I do trust?’

  ‘Not at all, thank you kindly for asking, ma’am.’ Captain Penbury leaned closer, his manner confidential. Charlotte was aware of a gimlet glare directed at her from somewhere close by and looked up to observe Melicent Dunwoody presently being seated further down the table. Oh well, wherever I look, she told herself with a philosophical shrug, I shall probably give offence to someone. She blinked as the naval man bent even closer and assumed a slightly embarrassed undertone.

  ‘I believe I heard you mention that you had studied native medicines during your visit to Australia?’

  She nodded, her eyes gleaming at that interpretation of her Antipodean experiences. ‘To a degree, I suppose that is correct. Had you some particular reason for your enquiry, sir?’

  The weatherbeaten countenance assumed an even deeper mahogany hue and he dragged out a large purple silk handkerchief and mopped his manly brow. He nodded and his voice sank even lower, to a booming whisper. ‘The doctors at the Mineral Water Hospital have professed themselves baffled, ma’am, by my latest symptom. Baffled, I say.’ He looked smug till he remembered his ailment. ‘A trifle of skin trouble, you understand. A rash that is causing me some discomfort.’ He harrumphed into his handkerchief again and shot a furtive glance across the table to Miss Dunwoody. ‘I can confide in you, dear lady,’ he hissed. ‘As a widowed lady, that is. Not like an unmarried.…’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Charlotte strove for gravity. ‘I’m afraid that nothing springs to mind, Captain. The only instance I recall is something my stepfather mentioned.’ Her neighbour brightened and bent towards her once more. ‘I believe he observed an aboriginal chief placing a man suffering from a skin disease in a …’ Charlotte too lowered her voice as she glanced round the room. ‘It was a – a heap of cow manure,’ she concluded, hoping her translation was sufficiently genteel. ‘The patient was buried up to his chin and remained there steaming, for about twenty-four hours. Several days later his skin lesions had begun to heal and I believe there was no recurrence of the condition.’ She gazed innocently at him. ‘I confess I don’t feel this is something you should attempt while you are in Bath, Captain.’

  ‘Good God no,’ he looked ludicrously disappointed. ‘Oh well, did your stepfather have any other miracle cures that you know of? The sort that might offer relief to my – er – my trouble amidships?’

  ‘Only one, and I suspect that might kill you, Captain, so you must promise not to try it,’ she told him firmly. ‘I don’t know if this was something Will encountered in Australia or in England before he … before he travelled abroad. Apparently a patient who was believed to have misplaced some internal organ was taken to a barn where his clothes were removed. He was then hung by his feet from a cross beam and the healer beat him with stinging nettles. In his frantic efforts to twist and turn away from the pain the abdominal obstruction shifted and he was cured.’

  She bit her lip at the broad crestfallen face turned towards her. Poor man, she thought guiltily; he’s in pain and I shouldn’t tease him about it, but I do trust, most fervently, that he will refrain from giving me chapter and verse about this rash of his, and most particularly its location.

  Mercifully the captain left off his quest for medical advice and disconsolately addressed his bowl of gruel so she was able to turn to her other neighbour, Mrs Montgomery, who was seated as usual at the head of the table.

  ‘I must thank you again, Mrs Montgomery,’ Charlotte said, with an ingratiating smile, ‘for arranging such a pleasant evening’s entertainment last night. I do trust that you also enjoyed the treat?’

  She received a polite nod in reply and tried not to become distracted by the bobbing grey-blonde puffs and curls at either side of the lady’s face as they bounced in time to her response. There was no warmth in the glance her hostess directed towards her and Charlotte wondered if her own antipathy was returned. She persevered; mutual dislike must not prove a barrier to discovering the truth about her mother’s birth.

  ‘Had you visited Bath at an earlier time, Mrs Montgomery?’ she asked, summoning up a smile. ‘Perhaps that was why you decided to open up Waterloo House to your fortunate guests.’

  No doubt about it, Mrs Montgomery was far from delighted to be thus engaged in such a conversation. Charlotte received a pale and distinctly hostile stare, accompanied by a furrowing of the brow and a pursing of the lips.

  ‘No, I had not been here before,’ she said brusquely. ‘I came here because I inherited the house from a connection of my husband.’

  And that was that. Charlotte acknowledged her dismissal with a polite smile and watched under her lashes as Mrs Montgomery, turning pointedly to Mr Chettle who was seated at her other hand, addressed him graciously in low tones, manifestly designed to indicate to Charlotte that she was not included in the conversation.

  Oh dear, Charlotte bit her lip. She really does not like me, does she? Or is it that she does not wish to discuss her past? After all, if she does indeed turn out to be the lady formerly known as Mrs Wellesley, the last thing she is going to want is to have someone asking questions about such an irregular time in her history.

  With a furrowed brow Charlotte returned to her room, but heard the chime of the hall clock so instead of examining the young maid’s ‘pretty little locket’, she tucked it, on an impulse, into her reticule and headed for Elaine Knightley’s room where, breakfast being over, the maid had d
ressed her mistress and settled her in an easy chair beside the window where she was frowning over a letter.

  ‘Dear Charlotte.’ Smiling as always Elaine put down the brief note and held out her hand to the younger girl. ‘How were they all at breakfast? Recovered from the gaieties of last night’s outing I trust?’ She listened to Charlotte’s tale of poor Captain Penbury and the nautical delicacy with which he was wont to describe his various complaints but Charlotte could tell that her mind was otherwise occupied. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Elaine exclaimed, looking contrite. ‘But I’m in a quandary. Here is a note from Kit to tell me that the bailiff is now recovering, the harvest is being brought in splendidly, in record time, because of the delightful weather, and that he proposes to take a leave of absence and come on a visit to Bath the day after tomorrow.’

  Charlotte looked at her friend in astonishment. ‘But that … that’s good news, isn’t it? Why, then, do you look so perturbed?’

  ‘I don’t want Kit to come here,’ sighed Elaine, then she hastened to explain. ‘Oh, don’t look so worried, Char. In other circumstances I should wish for nothing better but in spite of what he writes here I know he should not really contemplate leaving the place. He has certainly never done so before; we always make a point of remaining at the hall until the harvest is home and all the tenants satisfied. I know perfectly well that he is only doing this because of me and I don’t want him to. Besides, I know only too well that he’ll start haranguing young Mr Radnor about my treatment and wanting me to undertake more and more of it, and generally bustling around like a … like a.…’