An Appetite for Violets

by Martine Bailey

  ‘When my lady meet high-ranking fellow she just talk any old thing.’

  I shook my head. I was supposed to be Lady Carinna, wife to Sir Geoffrey, niece to that Mr Quentin Tyrone. I bit into the berry and it was so bitter I spat it out on the dusty road.

  ‘She says she will write to him when we get there. What I’d give to read his reply.’

  Mr Loveday was silent for a while, kicking up the dust with his boots. He turned to me and said softly, ‘If I tell you secret, you not tell others?’

  I looked up fast. ‘What do you mean?’

  In a moment I had it all out of him. That he opened the post then sealed it up again. He told me it was only to practise his reading, but I reckoned it was his way to meddle a little in the affairs of those who bullied him. I glanced back at the carriage, but it was far behind us, the horses straining to climb the twisting hill. I did my best to find out what was written in those letters, but it was like digging coal from the earth with my bare hands. Mostly it seemed, our mistress complained in her letters no differently from how she complained every day to any who would listen.

  ‘And have you looked in any of Mr Pars’ letters?’ I asked breathlessly.

  ‘Mr Pars only write his brother. Mostly I seen him write many many number, but never send in letter.’

  ‘Aye, so have I. They are only his accounts, Mr Loveday. And what of Jesmire?’

  ‘She only write for new position. But no reply, not one time,’ he added, suddenly laughing.

  ‘Mr Loveday,’ I said, ‘would you do me a very great favour and let me see any letters that pass between my lady and this Count Carlo?’

  The lad blew out his cheeks and shook his head slowly. ‘It not allowed, Miss Biddy. Better me my own.’

  ‘Please,’ I begged.

  He looked up, his expression pained. ‘You promise my friend always? You not tell them I open letter?’

  ‘I promise never to tell. On my mother’s life. We servants stick together, eh?’ I touched his arm and glanced at the carriage as it reached the crest of the hill and the horses started trotting towards us. Very softly I whispered, ‘When the right time comes, I’ll see you get away safely.’

  He still hesitated, rubbing his mouth with his fingers. Finally he nodded and grinned. ‘I believe you, Miss Biddy. You only one who make promise that true. I feel my spirit free of bad thinking now. But you be careful, my friend.’

  ‘I’ll do me best. I’ll just go and fetch that key. I’ll have nothing to do with any of them.’

  It just goes to show how wrong you can be.

  * * *

  We reached Turin very late, for my lady complained much about the rocking carriage and made us stop every few miles so she could dose herself and take the fresh air. When we finally got through the city gates, the roads were massed with a great procession of soldiers, all rigged out like Cécile’s husband in frogged blue coats and white knee breeches. The scene was that lively it roused my lady to a giddy mood and she pulled the carriage glass down to see better. ‘Wait! I heard at the inn we might see King Charles Emmanuel survey his troops. He’s grandson to our own King Charles that lost his head. Stop! Damn you, I want to see,’ she said, thumping on the ceiling. The view being poor from the carriage, she then got a fancy to join the crowd and called for Mr Loveday to hand her down. He and Mr Pars made way for her through the townsfolk, and soon afterwards Jesmire tottered after them with Bengo straining on his ribbon. Having the carriage quite to myself, I hung from the door, enjoying the rousing drums and the cheers of the townsfolk.

  The procession had scarcely begun when a great hubbub started up and, to my astonishment, I next saw my mistress had swooned and fallen to the ground. I sprang down and soon met Mr Loveday and Mr Pars struggling to carry her. By the time they reached the carriage, thank God she had started to recover her senses. Yet still she was as pale as a sheet and shiny with sweat. Mr Pars said that it must be the heat, and told Jesmire to dab at her mistress’s face with Cologne water. Only I had the gumption to loosen her stays and fan her face once we got moving again. Even when we got to the inn, my lady was right out of sorts, and had trouble walking without an arm to lean on. She had just the breath to tell Mr Pars to call a physician, which I thought very brave in such a foreign place. So a medical man was sent for, though Mr Pars all the while scoffed that my lady was affecting a fashionable ague, and would no doubt waste a vast amount of money.

  * * *

  I did not see the doctor when he came, but being the best with the lingo it was me who was sent to fetch my lady’s medicine that evening. By then it was just before sunset, by which time all the local folk had swaggered out for a stroll. Turin was a mighty city, very modern built with fancy arcades and grand flagged squares. I let myself wander amongst the black-haired girls rolling their hips, and prim families ambling in groups, all of us watched by wrinkled crones scowling from their doorsteps. I listened hard to the chatter in the streets, for I’d been doing my best to practise my Italian with anyone who would talk to me, from our gruff driver to the maids at the inns. It was true that it was not so different from French – where good day had been bonjor it was bonjorno, and it was parnay for bread and carnay for meat.

  At the doctor’s house I was shown into what he called the farmacia. It was a dark, wood-panelled room that held a vast collection of bottles and pots all neatly labelled with queer names. While a servant mixed a concoction for my mistress, I fixed on buying rare ambergris, rosewater, and musk from my household money. Even better, as I lingered at a glass cabinet, my eye lit on an old familiar name: Manus Christi. The confection was not in the shape of Christ’s hand at all, as me and Mrs Garland had once fancied, but a jar of transparent lozenges flecked with gold and crushed pearls. Now that confection was not cheap and I had to offer one of Mr Harbird’s golden guineas to buy a small portion, but it was the greatest of pleasures to post a parcel off to Mrs Garland in England. Our journeying meant I’d not hear from her until we got to the villa, but by then I prayed the cure-all might have eased my friend.

  * * *

  Back at the inn I handed my lady the doctor’s medicine. He had bled her beforehand, and her waxy arm was still bound with a cloth. After her first set of drops she let her head drop back on the pillow and fixed me with dull eyes.

  ‘Lord, this is so unfair. I had so looked forward to the opera.’

  I nodded but did not risk a word, for I was still in a flaming fit at her for setting me up to visit the count. I was queasy too, with fear at not being able to pull it off right.

  ‘In a few weeks we should arrive at the villa, yet you still behave like a country hoyden,’ she said, yawning so wide I could almost see her breakfast. ‘You still know almost nothing of a lady’s behaviour. Do try to pay more attention, Biddy. Look at me. One has to be brazen to survive. I barely had a year at a lady’s academy and then I had to use my looks and my wits. In this world you must take what you need. No one else will fight your battles.’

  Then she fell fast asleep and I was left alone with this task she had set me. ‘A Lady’s Behaviour’, now that chimed like a bell with me. So for long leisurely days while she was laid up in Turin, I studied those parts of The Cook’s Jewel that addressed ‘The Behaviour of a True Lady’. There was much advice on the holding of the tongue, what they called that ‘slippery member that led to vice’. That did at least make me laugh out loud, for the quaint old writer certainly knew nowt of tavern wit if that’s what she called a mere tongue. Then I learned of all a lady must not do: that she must not be a wild girl and laugh out loud, or gape at a well-laden table, or make tomboy jests. Why, that was as much like me as if we were spit from the same mouth, I thought. Then I recollected that was how a gentlewoman must not be, and despaired a little.

  I let my eyes wander to ‘A Ladies’ Guide to Love and Fancy’, and was disgusted to find that our milk-sop lady must always be struck mute in the face of compliments, and stunned to stock stillness by every suitor. There was some good
sense, mind, in advising her to Look Well Before She Likes, for I knew with the wisdom of hindsight that I had not looked too closely at Jem Burdett. The book said a lady should examine the compartments of a man’s heart before she gave herself in marriage, for that was a great step in the Labyrinth of Life. Virtue, Kindness and Companionship in a man were much lauded, which were mighty odd notions to me. I puzzled over ever having heard of such a man in all my life.

  As I read of such ladylike matters in The Cook’s Jewel, I was reminded that St Valentine’s Day had come around. On that very night, after pinning five bay leaves to my pillow and saying the chant to dream of my true love, I settled expectantly in my tiny chamber. To my astonishment, I did have a dream – that I was in a strange house and woke to find myself in the arms of a fellow I knew to be exactly that kind, virtuous and companionable paragon. I could not rightly see my bedfellow, but felt his solid arms tight around my waist as I laid my head very tenderly on his breast. And in the dream I was that happy, it was like I’d found my true home as I listened to his heart beating just beneath my ear. But when I woke and found it was only a figment, I felt so dejected, to find my true love never lived in this hard world. It was a daft thing I know, but I was near to weeping to think that sweet lover lived only in my dreams and I was doomed never to find him.

  * * *

  Once we set off again we were all out of sorts. The post houses delayed us with worn-out horses, the roads ran over tricky mountain passes, the hired groomsmen were sponging rogues. My mistress halted to see the famous Hanging Tower at Pisa, which was quite comical in its sinking style, but then lost her silver brush and would not return for it, so harried was she to reach her journey’s end. As for Mr Pars, he was growing ever stranger in his manner. For a start, there was his brainfever over money. Every night he’d lock himself in his chamber and try to resurrect his blessed System of Economy. Then next day he’d bicker with me over a few coppers spent on a cold chicken or boiled eggs.

  He summoned me one night after supper. His room was like an accompting house, filled with sheaves of bills in tottering piles, a well-thumbed abacus on his desk, and all of it smeared with pipe-ash. He glared up from his papers.

  ‘I have had my eye on you, Biddy Leigh. And I see how familiar you are with your mistress.’ His eyeballs had a yellowish cast and his breath a sour reek. I had read in The Cook’s Jewel that the calming benefits of tobacco were wasted on those with a choleric nature. Looking at him, I feared a gut-stone or worse might be on its way.

  ‘’Tis not me provoking it, Mr Pars. I only do as I’m told.’

  ‘Enough!’ He slapped his desk so the papers shook. ‘You’re quick with a pert answer, aren’t you girl? You must always have the last word.’

  I tried to think of an answer, but all would give me the last word again. So I hung my head for a bit and waited to see what else was coming.

  ‘It is apparent to me that you encourage your mistress’s confidences with all your infantile jests.’

  Infantile jests! I was getting that dishclout feeling again, feeling ever so used.

  ‘And I will not have her schooling you to talk like your betters. You are a kitchen maid, do you understand?’

  Under-cook, I thought.

  ‘Yes, Mr Pars.’

  Lord, it was like standing before a schoolmaster, pretending I was sorry.

  ‘You are under my care and I worry ceaselessly about you – that you will be ruined by her grasping ways. Does that surprise you Biddy? That I alone can see it?’

  His expression was mighty earnest, but I thought it was himself he needed to worry about.

  I wanted to tell him I had to do as I was bid. That any day now, when he found out the impersonation she planned, he was going to burst with furious black bile.

  ‘Yes, Mr Pars. Sir. But if you only—’

  ‘There is no “but if”, Biddy. Do you understand? I already know what wickedness surrounds us. I see it every day.’

  I bit my lip. Sometimes I thought I’d like to tell him all about it, old Pars. But he picked up his paper and waved me towards the door.

  * * *

  Jesmire also guessed some scheme was afoot. We lumbered on through Tuscany, though my lady was so queasy that we moved scarcely faster, as Mrs Garland would say, than a pudding would creep. At every inn, whenever our mistress was out of sight, I found Jesmire watching me like a beady-eyed lizard. One night, as I was carrying some proper English tea up to my lady she blocked me on the stairs.

  ‘What’s that? I have already given my lady her comfrey tea,’ she carped. ‘I suppose you mean to drink that yourself? We all see how you are always in the tea caddy.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ I said. I was sick and tired of the woman. Small things around me were always going wrong; breakfast rolls fell in the cinder pan and new lain eggs were cracked. It was something of nothing, but I had my suspicions and they were all directed at her.

  ‘I know what you are up to,’ she hissed, standing a foot above me on the stair.

  She wore that toadying I-know-all smile that so provoked me.

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘You are working your way into her esteem,’ she said primly. ‘Me and Mr Pars both watch your every move.’

  ‘Then you will see I am innocent.’

  ‘You?’ she hooted. ‘I see your low-born tricks, how you try to be her friend. There is some plot afoot, I know it.’

  Though I stared at her like she was fresh from Bedlam, what could I say? In a few weeks’ time they would see for a fact that I was indeed my lady’s puppet, dancing to her pantomime tune.

  * * *

  Finally, the dread day came and we got to Montechino, a short drive from the count’s estate. My lady took one look at the busy inn beside the posting house and barked through the window that Mr Pars must find us lodging outside town. The house we found was dank and cobwebbed, and the landlady a filthy beetle-browed creature. Yet we took it, for it was private and large and no other guests were likely to call. I prayed only that this whole masquerade might be finished quickly, and was glad when my mistress told me she had written to the count without delay. I watched Mr Loveday disappear with his letter, trotting on a grey mare down the winding road between fields of corn. The sun, the blossom, the springtime, all the glories of Italy – all of it reproached me now.

  It was after sunset when Mr Loveday returned. He had agreed to meet me in the yard, where he whistled me over to a tumbledown shed. He thrust the letter in my hands and I fumbled it open. To my dismay that count fellow had neither fallen in a fit nor suddenly dropped dead and did indeed await my arrival.

  ‘“My dearest Carinna,”’ I read out loud, ‘“I am enchanted to find you are in the environs of my humble estate. My dearest girl, I have long cherished the opportunity of our meeting, for your affectionate uncle spoke often of your charms. Carinna, dear, pray do not for one moment think to retire to your uncle’s villa that has been so long neglected. At any time of day or night I will joyfully welcome you to the more luxurious comforts of my own estate. I entreat you, put me at ease and lodge here with me until my servants have made the villa more comfortable for a lady of your noble rank and title. Pray call upon me at two o’clock tomorrow. I anticipate the hour with ever increasing pleasure. Your affectionate friend, Carlo.”’

  It was worse than I ever could have guessed. The man was more fluent at English than any of us, and most especially me. And flowery! God’s garlands, he could string a letter together that stank of roses. My guts heaved.

  ‘I cannot do it,’ I said, clasping my hand over my mouth. Then I turned to my friend. ‘Shall we make a run for the port of Leghorn, Mr Loveday? I have kept back a golden guinea for bribes.’

  ‘But where we go?’ The poor lad looked terrified. ‘Maybe murder-men catch me and hang my neck.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can go home to your island. And I could go—’ I racked my brainbox and shrugged. ‘Back to Paris? Or the colonies? I could cook. If we spl
it up they might not follow us.’

  He gripped my hand tight and I looked into his open face.

  ‘Or you get key tomorrow. Then we choose right day to get away. This fellow sound like mouth never stop talking. You just nod head and take key. You better lady than her, Biddy. You better actress than Covent Garden. I whisper your ear if you do wrong thing.’

  * * *

  My lady sent for me at eight the next morning, mighty early for her. I’d tossed and turned all night and only slept since the birds sang their dawn chorus. She was still in her bed, her face sleep-swelled but alert.

  ‘Hot water, Jesmire,’ she commanded. ‘I want to talk to Biddy.’

  I dared not even look at the old maid as she skittered out in a fury.

  ‘I have heard from the count,’ said my lady, wafting the letter, quite unaware that the seal had been slit and then mended. ‘You must leave a little after one o’clock. Elegantly late would be best.’

  ‘My Lady, should I know what he says?’ It did give me some small pleasure to test her honesty.

  ‘There is nothing of consequence.’ She yawned nervously and scooped Bengo up against her milk-fat breasts. ‘Now you must not let him push you about. It appears my uncle has neglected to send word and have his place made ready. But if the count wants you to stay with him, for example, tell him you are too fatigued for company.’

  ‘Fatigued.’ I tested the word.

  ‘Because you aren’t staying with him, are you?’

  ‘Not on my soul, Mistress. He can go to hell.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Only try it with a little more civility.’

  ‘Your Excellency, I pray I am too fatigued—’ Just then Jesmire clattered in and my lady grew distracted in giving her directions.

  ‘What’s that for, My Lady?’ I asked, seeing a great jug of hot water. She told me I must have my hair and person washed. Now I was not at all happy about that, for everyone knows washing lets in contagion, especially washing of the head.

  ‘And I need my brain working sharp,’ I protested. ‘And I washed it three month ago, mind.’