An Appetite for Violets

by Martine Bailey

  ‘It was here I learned the great games of chance with the best of teachers – Catch-dolt, Tick-tack, Hazard. We even danced for them when the table was cleared, two little creatures jigging to a penny whistle. When I bowed and Carinna curtseyed the roaring near raised the roof.’

  He paused and stroked the rough-hewn table, as if he might conjure those little ghosts. Then he opened a second bottle and poured himself more, while I took only an inch. It didn’t take long for the liquor to loose his tongue again as he stared into the darkness.

  ‘We were brought here from our family’s estate in Ireland. Carinna just remembers Ormond, a perfect thousand acres with a fine stone house. She used to talk of it, how grand it was. It is famous hunting country. It’s where I was born and where I swear I’ll take my last breath. Now my uncle, damn him, has set tenants on it. But I’ll get it back.’

  He fell silent, staring into the fire.

  I asked, ‘How’s that, sir?’

  He looked up quickly. ‘Oh, fortunes pass from hand to hand every day. My luck at the tables will turn. And when it does, we’ll have Ormond again.’

  He drooped again and stared into his glass. Suddenly, from nowhere it seemed, he asked, ‘Have you found out yet, why my sister is leaving England?’ He peered through his falling hair then combed it back with white-knuckled fingers.

  I shook my head. ‘Sir, she don’t confide in me.’

  ‘You would tell me if you knew?’ He smiled uncertainly.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but do you truly not know why your sister is heading for Italy?’

  He grimaced, bemused. ‘Perhaps to escape from her husband?’

  ‘But he is laid up sick in Ireland. She has no need to travel, sir.’

  He gave a little nod, then bit his lower lip. ‘I thought you servants knew everything.’

  ‘It seems not, sir.’

  ‘But you do have the means. To listen at doors. And to search her things.’

  I didn’t move an inch.

  ‘Biddy,’ he said most earnestly. ‘Would it be such a sin to take a little peek? To put my mind at ease?’

  ‘What makes you think I’d do such a thing?’

  ‘Don’t you like me a little?’ He patted my hand and then left his own lying upon it. ‘I feel we are well met. I like you. My sister has done well to find you.’

  Then he fell into another silence. I sat there quite flummoxed, his hand still on mine. I was flattered all right, but thinking of the danger, too.

  ‘It is cold,’ he said blankly, stifling a shiver as if remembering some disaster anew.

  ‘I’ll stoke the fire for you, sir.’

  I rose and found the poker, and the flare of orange warmth roused him. He stood up and slipped an arm loosely about my shoulders. I stiffened with alarm. He tried to pull me closer, closing his eyes and whispering in my ear.

  ‘Would you help me, Biddy?’

  I pulled back away from him, bumping against the table. He grabbed at me from behind as I wriggled away, feeling his arm brush my jiggling breasts.

  ‘No, sir. No!’ He was as frisky as a young colt. But I was strong, and elbowed him hard in his guts. He doubled over. With another yank I was free.

  ‘Don’t be such a tease,’ he gasped. ‘I thought you liked me.’

  I turned to face him, my shift all askew. ‘I liked you better when you did not maul me.’

  ‘Oh Biddy, do be kind. No one will punish you.’ He reached for my hand. ‘I swear I’ll not harm you.’

  ‘Aye, and I’m Queen Dick,’ I snapped, backing into the shadows. I was faster than him, and in three steps had reached the dark doorway of my quarters. He stumbled after me, but in an instant I had the door bolted fast. As I listened to his hammerings, I couldn’t help but laugh to think of him, lordly Kitt Tyrone, coming chasing after me.

  XVI

  Devereaux Court, London

  The Correspondence of Mr Humphrey Pars

  17th December 1772

  PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE

  Devereaux Court

  London

  17th December 1772

  Mr Ozias Pars

  Marsh Cottage

  Saltford

  My dear Ozias,

  Doubtless you will be surprised to find me still languishing in the capital. I assure you the delay is not of my making. My so-called mistress continues to dally and fritter away my master’s fortune on this Frenchified lace or that fur muff – and she is not ashamed to charge bills at five, ten or even twenty guineas for such fripperies.

  My lodgings suit me very ill. My chamber is large but thick with dust, my bed is damp, and the chimney smokes from lack of attention. Mr Quentin Tyrone may be rich, but he is a queer unwholesome creature and I avoid his company. He employs an overseer to tend his business (the importation of eastern stuffs, inherited from his late father) and spends his nights at nanny houses and those oriental hummums where I believe a bath is but a small part of the transaction. He is a rotund, bald specimen, much given to embroidered caps and a stained sort of morning gown in the Chinese style. There is something soft about his manners that a proper man can only abhor. As to the other member of the household, her brother is a shiftless youth with a hangdog expression and high taste in gold coats.

  Of London itself, the crowds and uproar are most incredible and the coal smoke so thick that one’s outpourings of phlegm are quite sooty black. To attend the theatre is to place oneself in a tumult ten times worse than Chester Fair. Oranges are sold at sixpence (each!) and these are used as missiles from one part of the theatre to the next. As to the foppish appearance of the playgoers – like the boy Tyrone, the young men outdo the ladies in glitter and musk. Why, even I was asked at the barbers if I would have my hair frowzled in hot irons!

  Having assiduously avoided the rest of the household by taking my dinner at a respectable chop house (for the fare at Devereaux Court is worse than any Northern poorhouse) I believed I should have no new information to give you on this harlot and her schemes. However, being one day somewhat weary after walking out all morning, I chose to take my tea by the fire in the salon, believing the house to be otherwise deserted. After a rogue of a servant had served me weak tea (without even a slice of bread and butter) I settled down in my chair to draw up a memorandum of my next day’s visits.

  Not long afterwards, I heard voices belonging to Lady Carinna and her uncle from the next room. I shall endeavour to set down verbatim the conversation I had the liberty to overhear:

  ‘But Carinna, are you dealing fair?’ said the uncle in his low-bred wheeze. ‘If you travel anywhere it should be to your husband’s side.’

  ‘I will not go to him. I told you, he refuses to see me.’

  ‘What then is the lure of Italy? Meeting a lover, eh? If so, you must be devilish careful.’

  To which the niece replied in a weary and sarcastic voice, ‘For goodness’ sake Uncle, is that all you think of? And I know to be careful.’

  ‘Then why go?’

  ‘I am unwell, Uncle. Have I not suffered enough in performing this pantomime to finally earn my reward? As if you care! You promised me once that as a married, titled woman I might live freely. And that is what I intend to do.’

  ‘This sickness of yours,’ he said slowly. ‘You ain’t breeding, eh?’

  ‘How I wish I was.’

  ‘Because if you were—’

  ‘I know. All would be settled.’

  ‘You did swear to me, the marriage was consummated?’

  ‘I told you, didn’t I? It is not an event I wish to revisit.’

  The old rogue chuckled. This was met by silence, then her heavy sigh.

  ‘The truth is, Sir Geoffrey and I cannot bear sight of each other. And Uncle dear,’ she said in a most pleading manner, ‘I have followed what you said, to the letter. Whenever have I asked for a favour?’

  ‘I am not easy when matters get tangled. You and your husband parted on ill terms. What if he recovers and makes enquiries?’
r />   ‘Tell him I am abroad for my health.’ She sighed in exasperation. ‘I do not think he will even enquire. I save his face. He can write to me at the villa if he chooses.’

  ‘Yes, the villa. If you said you needed a season in Rome or at Spa I could comprehend it. But it’s a fearfully quiet place.’

  ‘How pleasant that sounds. So, do you have the key?’

  ‘No, it is Carlo who keeps the key. You must call on him to collect it.’

  ‘Surely not? You must have your own key?’

  ‘I have not. You must call upon Carlo. I will write and tell him to expect you. Don’t look like that. Collect it or sleep in a ditch.’

  ‘Well, I will not spend a minute longer in his low foreign company than is necessary.’

  Tyrone laughed. ‘He is a person of quite beautiful manners. I confess it will be a considerable effort for you to rise to his level.’

  ‘He will be another filthy old man, I am sure of it.’

  ‘Confess it, then. You have an assignation,’ he accused in a jocular manner. ‘Carlo will respect that.’

  A sudden crash of splintered glass reached my ears, followed by Carinna’s shriek. ‘Damn you, look what you have made me do! I can bear no more of this.’

  To my dismay, I heard the rustle of her gown moving directly towards me. Fearing discovery, I dropped my head to my chest and shut my eyes, feigning sleep. I do not believe she even saw me, for I heard her uncle call out ‘Carinna!’ from the drawing room in a tone of admonishment. She was so close to me I heard her huff of breath. She must have been just behind me, my figure hidden only by the large chair.

  ‘I will do as you bid,’ she cried out sourly. Then in a very low whisper, added with vicious feeling, ‘Whoremonger!’

  In a moment she had gone and I was alone. After some time I made mimicry of stretching, and climbed the stairs to my chamber, quite unseen and mightily pleased with this intelligence gleaned from the enemy’s camp.

  Now what make you of that, my tender brother? Perhaps the girl intends a rendezvous with some young buck? It is a villainous affair, so much is certain.

  Alas the candle burns low and tomorrow we leave for the Kentish ports. Her so-called Ladyship has at last settled on leaving, and there is much to attend to. I shall write ere we sail for France.

  Wish me strength and health for the journey ahead,

  I remain always, your diligent brother,

  Humphrey Pars

  XVII

  London to Dover

  Being Christmastide, December 1772

  Biddy Leigh, her journal

  * * *

  Christmas Pie

  Make a standing crust of twenty-four pounds of the finest flour, six pounds butter, half a pound rendered suet and raise in an oval with very thick walls and sturdy bottom. Bone a turkey, a goose, a fowl, a partridge and a pigeon and lay one inside the other along with mace, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Then have a hare ready stewed in joints along with its gravy, woodcocks, more game and whatsoever wild birds you can get. Lay them as close as you can and put at least four pounds of butter in the pie. Make your lid pretty thick and lay on such Christmas shapes as you wish upon it. Rub it all over with yolks of egg and bind it round with paper. It will take four hours baking in a bread oven. When it comes out melt two pounds of butter in the gravy that came from the hare and pour it hot in the pie through the hole.

  Lady Maria Grice, from a most Ancient Receipt given to her by her Grandmama, 1742

  * * *

  My heart sang to leave the city; the horses bowled at a trot all along the smooth turnpike road out of London. As for my lady’s brother Kitt, what would Her Ladyship make of his chasing me? He was a mighty fine fellow in his spangled waistcoat and cambric ruffles. The very scent of the high-life clung to his honeyed voice and city pallor. Not that I’d forgotten Jem at all, it was just that I was riled at there being no news from him in any letters in London. And Kitt Tyrone was the very first man of rank to ever take notice of me. Each time I glanced at my mistress’s face I saw his lordly features outlined there.

  ‘What on earth are you staring at, girl?’ my mistress snapped, breaking into a daydream that might have been written by saucy Eliza Heywood herself.

  ‘Nowt, Me Lady.’

  ‘Indeed. When you address me, Biddy, you must say “My Lady” correctly.’

  I did my best to shape my lips, though they felt like a stiff bladder stretching around a preserve jar.

  ‘Moi Lady.’

  ‘Are you sure you can read?’

  ‘Yes, a’ course I can,’ I said, lifting my chin up. Then I remembered and grumbled, ‘Me Lady.’

  ‘Humph. A liar too,’ muttered Jesmire.

  My lady rifled about the carriage seat, then suddenly thrust a paper in my hand. ‘Go ahead then. Read it.’

  ‘A hat, a coat, a shoe,’ I pronounced carefully, ‘deemed fit to be worn only by a great grand-sire, is no sooner put on by a dictator of fashions—’ I looked up and the mistress urged me on with a flap of her long white fingers ‘—than it is generally adopted from the first lord of the Treasury to the apprentice in Houndsditch.’

  They didn’t laugh at that, for it was right well done. My mistress snatched the paper back.

  ‘So why did you read that so nicely? It was quite comprehensible.’

  I had to think about that. I didn’t want to witter on about how Widow Trotter helped me mimic her own fine speaking voice. I was a natural, she used to say.

  ‘They are not me own words, Me Lady. When I read something from a paper I can say it like a schoolmistress, all prim and proper.’

  Lady Carinna leaned back, a pucker showing between her eyebrows.

  ‘So if I wrote down your speech like the lines of a play you could recite them correctly?’

  ‘I should expect so, Me Lady.’

  And so an hour passed in a sort of game, where lines were written out for me on the back of an old almanac and I made them sound all proper. It weren’t too bad a scheme, neither, for I surprised them both with my quickness. As the light failed outside, I announced in a perfect London drawl, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. Dinner will be served in the drawing room.’

  Jesmire was mighty peeved to hear me read so marvellous well. Then the notion hit me – Jesmire believed my mistress was schooling me to take her place. As if I would ever give up the glories of the kitchen for a life of needles and hairpins! So all the while, as the old trot muttered into the pages of her London gazette, I crowed that my mistress was right pleased with all I ever did. I never stopped to wonder if I’d be safer keeping well out of her way.

  * * *

  Next thing, we all caught killing colds, so henceforth we wheezed and dripped our way to Dover. You would have thought my lady was dying from the way she complained of the potholes that jolted the carriage and the sick headaches she endured. Mr Pars was in a temper too, cursing the landlords who imposed tremendous charges on those who could take no other way to the ports. Just outside Dover we stopped at an inn and I snatched a taste of dainty fried fish named smelts, and some herrings served with their tails in their mouths. Afterwards, me and Mr Loveday went out to take a view of the ocean. The wind was blowing so strong it whistled through my teeth and the sea was horrible; a vast plain of water ceaselessly moiling like a simmering pot. At last my head cold had cleared enough to taste the sea on my tongue; it had a strange salted vegetable tang.

  We both stared at the murky horizon where there was no sign at all of those famed shores of France. Then Mr Loveday nudged me and pointed to two figures fighting the wind far down at the end of the beach. I squinted, and the shapes of them were very like Mr Pars and my lady – yet that would have been a rum thing, if those two ever took a stroll together. The two of them seemed to be quarrelling like cat and dog, the lady in her flapping cloak raising her arms in a fury. Every few steps the man shook his head and halted to speak words that couldn’t reach us. After a few minutes he stumped off and disappeared. The woman stood alone on t
he strand, watching the grey waves chase at her skirts. It was too far to be sure, but I would have wagered it was my lady, for her grey cloak was of the same shade, though she wore the hood up to cover her face.

  ‘If it is them, why would they come out here instead of talking by the parlour fire?’ I asked Mr Loveday as we hurried back to the inn.

  My friend pulled his thin coat tight around his elbows, slouching low with his head down. He said something I couldn’t quite hear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘—the wind, too hard catch—’

  I followed his hunched back and thought no more of it.

  * * *

  Mr Pars’ intention was to find an inn at Dover and from there buy passage on the packet boat to France. But every inn we called on was bursting with travellers, all holed up till the wind would change and the boats could sail. To make matters worse, we were now but two days from Christmas. I got to see the confectioners’ shops, and all the iced glories of Twelfth Cakes and sugared fruits in every square of windowpane.

  On each return from his enquiries Mr Pars wore a hangdog face and shook his head. At the York Hotel we took our supper not knowing where we might bed down. It was a noisy, ramshackle place, and the gale whistled through the shutters in an endless moan. Our party was upstairs in the parlour, while me and Loveday drank rotgut beer in a room below. I was sick of traipsing the earth and longed for the old Mawton range and a dish of tea with my toes up on the fender.

  It was old Pars who saved us, for he made the acquaintance of a Mr Harbird, a gentleman of Dover who offered my lady lodgings at his own house until the boats should leave. So at nearly midnight we followed Mr Harbird’s groom up a pitchy lane, all yawning loudly and blessing the gentleman for his Christmas spirit.

  * * *

  The next day we all woke up at Waldershore House, a large, grey stone manor with gabled roofs and barley twist chimneypots. There was none of the new-fangled whitework there, only oak linenfold panels and faded rugs hung on the walls against the cold. Mr Loveday told me Lady Carinna didn’t care for such an old ruin as she called it, but I thought it a spanking improvement on those tumbledown inns.