Heritage of Shame

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Please,’ she had pleaded, ‘please don’t say anything… promise you won’t.’

  Pictures flashing through her mind showed the man drop his hand from her face, the other tapping the riding crop against a boot with short angry movements, Anne drew close to the hedge as a wagon loaded with threshed corn turned through an opening leading to Bentley Mill.

  ‘That I will not promise,’ he said tersely, ‘but this I do. Never again will you receive a blow in this house, nor in any place where I am present.’

  He kept that promise. A week later she was taken to a room dark with wood, beams and panels accentuating heavy furniture, and there she met the man whose rifle shot had saved her life, Mikhail Yusupov, the father of the man who had spoken so kindly to her. There were explanations on both sides, and at the end of them the older man advised she return to England; Russia, he said, was in turmoil, there was a threat of war with Germany, the army was not only ill equipped for such an event but it was led by incompetents, yet the Tsar refused to accept any such advice. Then Mikhail muttered something about Bolsheviks but his son had swiftly interrupted and the older man had become silent. But only for a few moments.

  The wagon having passed, Anne walked on, her mind filled with the past.

  Mikhail Yusupov had waited a few moments, then, ignoring his son’s quick words of caution, withdrew a prettily inlaid box from a drawer of a tall cabinet.

  ‘You have expressed a desire to return to England’. The words rang so clearly in her brain that Anne halted abruptly, the shuffle of her feet sending a browsing rabbit scampering across a newly mown wheat field.

  ‘Father—’

  The son had tried again but the father answered, ‘This must be, Andrei, let it reach once more the hands of the vile Rasputin, then Russia and maybe the whole world will be—’

  He had stopped there, his blue eyes sharp beneath darkly winged brows. ‘Anne Corby,’ he had spoken calmly though long fingers moved restlessly over the lid of the box, ‘I will pay your passage to England if you will take this box—’

  ‘Mikhail Mikhailovitch,’ Andrei had stepped forward, ‘since when have the Yusupov demanded remuneration for a kindness?’

  The fingers moving agitatedly about the box stilled and the face, handsome behind an elegantly trimmed and pointed beard showing only the faintest streaks of grey, smiled its apology.

  ‘My son is right and I am shamed, forgive a man anxious for his country, Miss Corby, you will be given passage home.’

  It seemed the end of the matter, Andrei touching her arm as his father returned the box to the cabinet, but Anne had brushed the touch aside, addressing the older man in the fashion of his country.

  She walked on following a narrow track running between fields of yellow corn.

  It had taken every ounce of her courage but she lifted her head to stare into those ice-blue eyes.

  ‘Mikhail Mikhailovitch Yusupov.’ He had turned quickly at that, a hint of appreciation shadowing his mouth. ‘I thank you for your further offer of assistance and I gladly accept, hut only on the condition that I carry that box with me.’

  ‘You would make conditions, little English girl!’

  The brows had fallen together. Anne seemed to feel again the tremor which had trickled along her spine. The man had absolute power in his own house, he could have her disposed of and who would there be to think anything of it, except perhaps Andrei.

  Swallowing hard she faced the older man, her reply firm as the stone foundation of the house. ‘Sir, even a little English girl has her pride.’

  What did the box contain? To this day she had not seen. Pausing beside tall stone pillars, Anne glanced at a mellow red brick house visible at the end of a long drive. She knew only that Mikhail Yusupov had implored she take extreme care of whatever was wrapped in black velvet and given into her keeping the day of her departure. Andrei had insisted he be the one to accompany her to the harbour at Anapa, several times impressing upon her the need to speak to no one of what she carried with her. He had seemed afraid – if that strong face could show fear – afraid of whatever nestled in that small piece of velvet even being exposed to the light of day.

  ‘Anne,’ he had whispered as she stepped onto the gangplank. ‘It is not too late… my father should never have asked you to carry so terrible a responsibility. Return the package to me and I—’

  ‘No!’ she answered quickly. ‘I gave my word and I will keep it.’

  Features drawn with anxiety, he had raked the bustling dock with a keen glance before taking her hands in his. ‘Then hide it well, Anne,’ he said hurriedly, ‘for with that package goes the peace of nations.’

  Walking towards the house Laban Hurley had given direction to, Anne watched the anxious face of Andrei Yusupov slip slowly from her mind’s eye.

  ‘Hide it well.’

  She had done as asked. In the tiny cabin assigned to her she had removed one shoulder pad of her jacket. Carefully cutting it across she had placed the small velvet covered object between the two halves before sewing them together and stitching the pad back inside the jacket, replacing the lining with tiny, almost invisible stitches. She had reasoned that neither passenger nor crew of the ship would see anything strange in her wearing a coat while on deck and when not on deck she kept strictly to her cabin. In that way the package entrusted to her had been always with her. Even Unity and Laban had not been told of it. Unhappy as it made her to keep anything hidden from them she had felt bound by her promise to the Yusupovs. The Hurleys knew only that in the past the Russians had known the owner of Bentley Grange and had asked Anne to deliver to him a message of friendship.

  … the peace of nations…

  Her steps on the drive the only sound, Anne shivered.

  Whatever lay still hidden in her jacket, it was far more than a message of friendship.

  8

  Anne Corby had given birth to a son! Clara Mather’s pinched mouth tightened. There had been no name spoken, no word of just who it was had given birth but the talk of a child having been delivered in the Hurley household was all over the town and she didn’t need more than one guess as to the identity of the mother; and that guess wouldn’t be Unity Hurley!

  Setting her basket on a well scrubbed table she marched from the kitchen without a word to the daily woman. Clara could afford a live in servant, perhaps two or three but who could say where inquisitive noses were poked when a body’s back was turned.

  A son! She stalked about the gleaming sitting room, a finger tracing every surface, hard, bead like eyes searching each corner for the faintest smear of dust. Clara Mather did not pay four shillings a week to be left with dust! Jacob’s girl had a son… It had been bad enough to be faced with her return, but now… Quick sharp movements, not unusual with Clara, were accentuated by the agitation bubbling inside her. There had been the possibility of stillbirth, of the child being born dead… but fate had not been so kind, it was alive and that meant Quenton could lose everything. A child, even a bastard child, could inherit if a Will so decreed.

  Had Jacob’s daughter written a Will? It stopped Clara in mid-step her dust searching stare hanging in space. Had she drawn up a document claiming her rights and would that document have been written so that those same rights would be passed to her child? The girl was bound to have papers, her own certificate of birth, her parents’ marriage lines. Viola Bedworth had always been most conscientious, and more so after marrying Jacob; that being so she had taken all things of that nature with her when he had dragged them off on his own fool’s errand.

  Papers! Clara’s hands snapped to her side. They were of great importance in the eyes of the law, they could prove many things and accomplish many acts, such as taking away what she had spent years in building up, or giving Butcroft House and Glebe Metalworks to a wench or her son. Yes, papers were of vital importance, they carried a deal of power.

  Fingers folding into her skirts, her tight mouth screwed against her teeth, Clara made for the privacy of he
r bedroom.

  Papers carried a deal of power, but not the power to restore life to the dead!

  *

  She would wait. Clara walked across a bedroom which echoed her no nonsense way of life. She had changed this room almost immediately her brother had left Butcroft House, throwing out pretty lace edged bedcovers and wide frilled pillowcases. Fol-de-rols were for the empty headed and no one could label Clara Mather empty headed.

  Pulling aside a plain, beige coloured drape she stared down the length of the wide garden, her eye resting on a blaze of tall, brilliant blue flowers. Yes, she would wait. What she had to do must have no observer and she herself must do all things as normal. She ought not to have stormed to this room as she had, that in itself was liable to raise questions in that woman’s mind, and questions – of any sort – were the last thing she wanted. She must think of a reason, a logical cause of sweeping out of the kitchen. Releasing the curtain she let it fall into place. As she turned a smile touched her tight mouth when her eye caught the one picture she allowed to adorn the empty walls; the gleaming crimson of a painted sunset seemed to speak to her. Of course. The smile remaining, she crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. It was the perfect solution!

  ‘I med the tea as usual, mum.’ The daily help looked up as Clara re-entered the kitchen. ‘Will you be wantin’ that there basket emptied?’

  Though it was usual for her to refuse, Clara nodded assent as she poured tea into a plain white china cup. Let the woman empty the basket, let her see it contained nothing but meat and vegetables.

  Waiting until the foodstuffs had been placed in their various places, Clara let a short breath labour in her throat and one hand touch her corseted stomach.

  ‘Be you alright, mum? You don’t seem yourself.’

  It had worked! Clara kept her elation well hidden beneath a frown of pain.

  ‘Coming from the Bull Stake—’ her hand moved soothingly over her stomach, ‘I was taken with a monthly. I thought to have finished with the wretched business. I had to go straight upstairs to wash and put on some protection—’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to tell me… be a curse to women, be that. Every month the same and when it be over you finds yourself like as not to have summat worse to cope with.’ The woman shook her head dolefully. ‘It be a woman’s lot… half a dozen monthly showings and then another babby in the belly! But at least you ain’t got that to worry over, not with you being a widder woman.’

  ‘That is the one mercy of widowhood.’ Clara spooned honey into her tea.

  ‘And these be a mercy when a body be in pain.’ Delving into a drab cloth bag always placed within sight whenever she came to the house the cleaning woman produced a slim rectangular packet of thin white paper, its black lettering forming the logo ‘Seidlitz Powder’. Handing it to Clara she nodded encouragingly. ‘They be right good, swallow that then get yourself a lie on the bed for half an hour and you’ll feel a ton better.’

  Insisting the woman take the one penny cost of the medicine, Clara waited until she had left then flung the packet into the fire. The woman had swallowed the reason for that earlier slip of behaviour and the inevitable gossip of ‘her up at Butcroft still seeing her monthlies’ would do no harm.

  Working quickly she washed teacup and pot, returning each to its place, then glanced at the clock ticking quietly on the mantel. It wanted several hours before Quenton would return.

  Her glance travelling beyond the window caught the brilliance of the tall blue flower. Wolfsbane. It had served once before, now it would serve again, but not fresh gathered.

  Moving quickly she almost ran to her room, there collecting the flowers and leaves she had dried and hidden; the packet which held them was glued to the underside of the lowest drawer of a tall chest compiled of six. Placing it in her pocket she turned next to the wardrobe. The mourning suit she had worn at her husband’s funeral, and which had ever since been covered by a linen clothes bag, hung at the back behind the few gowns she had allowed herself to buy over the years. Taking it out, she lay it across the bed. If her plan was successful she would be wearing the suit again… quite soon.

  Reaching beneath the linen cover, her fingers quickly found the ruched satin muff and in its secret inner pocket the tiny bottle. Holding it in her hand she stared at the dark green reeded glass, watching the light gleam from it in a hundred glistening emerald points. It might be called beautiful… but it would hold death!

  Having put the suit back in the wardrobe, she returned to the kitchen. Taking a ceramic basin from the dresser and setting it on the table she placed the bottle beside it, then emptied the packet of dried leaves and flowers into the basin. The use of dried leaf and flower produced a potion many times stronger than was made using the fresh variety, and she wanted a lethal concoction.

  Reaching for the kettle simmering on the hob of the shining black leaded grate, she paused. There may be no second chance, this might prove a case of win or lose… and she would not lose!

  Snatching up the basin, she carried it to the dining room. Quenton had acquired the habit of a glass of brandy after his evening meal, and easing the stopper from the square cut crystal decanter she poured a little of the golden liquid over the dried flowers. Alcohol dissolved all the chemical properties of the plant rendering a solution far more effective than water alone. Back in the kitchen she bruised the plant material allowing the brandy to soak well into it. When she was sure every drop had been absorbed she tipped the sodden mixture into a sieve, using the back of a wooden spoon to press every drop of liquid from it. But that was not enough; the tiniest bit of leaf or petal left in the juice was a risk she could not take.

  Taking a fine linen bag from a drawer of the dresser, she strained the liquid through it into a glass jug. Again and again she repeated the process until the liquid was clear as the glass itself. Clara lifted the jug, holding it at eye level as she inspected the crystal clear contents. There was such a small amount, but a few drops were all it would take!

  And the colour and taste of the tincture… but what about the smell of alcohol? A brief smile touched the hard mouth. Most of the alcohol was held in the mass of leaves and flowers which had absorbed it, that would be thrown away; she needed only the few drops of extract whose colour would dissipate completely when added to other drinks. Stirring a spoonful of honey into the liquid Clara watched them combine; honey and a few hours exposure to the air would eliminate the faint odour of alcohol, then added to milk or tea it would not be detected at all.

  The jug, now covered with a crotcheted cloth, glass beads tinkling against its sides, caught the crimson rays of the setting sun; so like the picture on her bedroom wall. Red as the blood she had pretended was leaving her body. Flinging the empty packet and wooden spoon into the fire she took the basin into the yard, smashing it against the cobbles, throwing the pieces into the rubbish heap. It would seem she had dropped it while cooking and cleared the remains from the kitchen. The jug would follow once the contents had been transferred to the bottle.

  That tiny bottle – Clara allowed herself the rare luxury of yet one more smile – that beautiful, deadly little bottle.

  *

  ‘You!’

  Glancing at the wisp of a girl, her chestnut hair drawn back from a small heart shaped face, the pale skin emphasising eyes which seemed too big for it, Sir Corbett Foley could not empty his voice of disbelief.

  ‘You have a message for me?’

  Fingers pressed together, Anne tried to still nerves stretched to breaking point. She had been tempted to turn away, to run back along that corn edged track, disappear into the emptiness of heath. But she had persevered, coming nearer and nearer this large, two storey building with its brick chimneys and tall, wide arched windows, coming nearer the spectres of the past. The servants had been pleasant enough, the cook inviting her to a chair in the kitchen while the butler had taken her request to the master, yet in their eyes she had seen the tell tale traces. Like the owner of Bentley Grange they to
o did not believe she could be the conveyor of any message, much less one to no less a dignitary than Sir Corbett Foley.

  ‘Yes.’ She swallowed hard but the ‘sir’ remained stuck in her throat.

  ‘And who are you?’ Eyebrows like silver caterpillars crept closer together.

  Memory’s gates flung suddenly wide, disclosing a small girl dressed in pale lemon organdie trimmed with a yellow sash and bows, ribbons of the same colour scooping up shining chestnut coloured ringlets, her green eyes wide with alarm as she ran to hide her face in her mother’s skirts while a tall man with a dark goatee beard and metal grey eyes smiled an apology for startling her. He could be startling still. Anne jumped as a silver topped Malacca cane thumped the floor of the book lined library.

  ‘Answer me, girl. I don’t have all day to waste!’

  Clearly as impatient as she remembered him he rang the small silver bell set near his high, winged leather chair.

  ‘My – my name—’ She coughed, forcing the obstruction that was sheer nerves to leave her throat. She had faced much more daunting situations in her short life and she would face this one. ‘My name is Anne Corby.’

  ‘Am I supposed to know you?’

  It was sharp, rattling like rifle shots over snowbound steppes and Anne’s fingers tightened.

  ‘No.’ She lifted her head, her gaze steady on one which did not flicker. ‘No, Sir Corbett, I do not expect you to remember me but my parents often enjoyed the pleasure of your company both in their own home and here at Bentley Grange.’

  ‘Parents?’ The silver caterpillars moved to join, the eyes beneath them narrowing to a concentrated stare.

  ‘Jacob Corby and his wife, Viola.’

  ‘Corby!’ The cane thudded again, the silver brows rising. ‘Jacob Corby… that would be Butcroft House, would it not? Viola… beautiful woman… beautiful… get out, man… get out!’ he barked impatiently at the butler who had answered the summons of the bell. ‘Yes, Viola… a wife for any man to be proud of… and you,’ he peered closer, ‘are you the tot I frightened with my loud voice – are you Corby’s daughter?’