The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  I walk back across the yard with my basket full of eggs. The air is sullen, already dense with heat, though the sun is barely risen. Something invisible rustles and barks deep in the forest, causing me to stop for a moment. An involuntary shudder runs through me. We are like rats in a sack in this place. Anything, anyone – an entire army – could hide unseen among the trees and none of us would know. My gaze is drawn towards the top of the house and there is the lieutenant, waving to me from the balcony. I am reassured to know he is keeping watch and wonder if he, too, has trouble sleeping. The pain of his injured arm must keep him awake.

  It was a terrible mess when I dressed it the previous evening, a putrid reek emanating from it as I removed the bandage. His good arm was well-shaped and muscular, like his chest, but the other hung ghostly white and strangely twisted at the elbow as if the bone had once been shattered and mended badly.

  There was a half-healed wound near the inner side of the joint, raised and suppurating in places with angry bulbous veins spreading out around it. I thought it a wonder he didn’t seem more ill. I’d become suddenly uncomfortable. It had felt too intimate, looking at this strange, sullen man’s undressed body.

  ‘I’m going to make something to draw out the infection.’ I began to gather together what I needed for the poultice.

  He made no attempt to hide his doubt. ‘I’ve had all manner of cures. Nothing seems to have much of an effect.’

  ‘You’ve never tried my bread and milk compress.’

  He made a snort, not quite a laugh. ‘Old maids’ remedy.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was taught to me by Dr Cotton. It’ll ease your pain. Just you wait and see.’

  He enters the kitchen at the same time as me, placing a book and a magnifying-glass on the table. I notice he has shaved and is a good deal tidier than he was on his arrival. He offers to scramble some of the fresh eggs in a pan, saying it was what he used to do when the army was on the move, marching through Europe. ‘We’d take the eggs from the local farms and cook them over an open fire.’

  I watch him crack the shells single-handed. He is surprisingly deft, stirring, adding a little milk, a knob of butter. The eggs are vivid yellow, delicious, and I feel restored.

  ‘Is it you who collects the eggs every day?’ he asks. His implication seems to be that, as the mistress of the house, it is a task I stoop to.

  ‘I enjoy it.’ I can’t help my defensive tone. ‘We all help here.’

  ‘I only ask because, if I am to protect you properly, it is vital I have an idea of where everyone is and what the routines of the place are.’

  ‘Of course. I see.’

  Once we have eaten I change his dressing, peeling away the compress, releasing the stench of rot once more, though it is less pungent than it was. Much of the infection has been drawn out and there is a black fragment of matter on the dressing. He takes his magnifier to inspect it.

  ‘Piece of shot,’ he says.

  ‘No wonder it wouldn’t heal. I’ll make another poultice this evening in case there’s more to bring to the surface.’

  ‘I have to concede to the effectiveness of your remedy. I didn’t believe it would work.’

  I tear a strip of fresh linen and dab salve on the wound, chatting to hide my awkwardness. ‘Thank you for being so kind to Rafe. It’s good for him to be in male company. You’re very good with him. Do you have children of your own, nephews, nieces?’

  A fleeting sorrow passes over his face. ‘No. No children. I had a twin sister who was very dear to me but she was taken by an ague many years ago.’

  The atmosphere has become heavy, so I change the topic. ‘Rafe mentioned you’d offered to take him out and set rabbit traps. But I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for him to leave the grounds.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nods. ‘I understand. Perhaps I could simply teach him how to tie the snares. Would you mind?’

  ‘That’s a very good idea.’ He returns my smile. ‘Rafe told me you like reading.’ I point to the book beside him.

  He nods, his eyes following me as I pick it up. It is a volume of essays by Francis Bacon and falls open to a passage about love, where the corner of the page has been turned down to mark it.

  Surprise must register on my face because he says, ‘Didn’t expect a rough old dog like me to have refined tastes?’

  ‘I suppose I didn’t.’

  ‘Alas, I’m reliant on this for reading now.’ He holds up the magnifying-glass. ‘My far sight is excellent, but close to, all is a blur.’

  ‘I can barely thread a needle without a magnifier.’ I turn to the inside cover of the book, seeing a note scrawled and signed. The words ‘your devoted’ spark my curiosity, but he snatches it back before I can read the rest, stashing it inside his jacket out of sight.

  The door bangs open, startling us, and Hope appears. She is holding Margie’s kitchen knife at arm’s length, as if it will bite.

  ‘You’ve found it. Margie will be pleased. Where was it?’ I become increasingly aware that something is not right. Hope’s expression is taut. ‘What is it, Hope?’

  ‘It was upstairs … in our bed, right inside it.’ Hope sits, dropping the knife onto the table, pushing it away from her. ‘I almost cut myself on it when I was making the bed.’

  At that moment Margie walks in. ‘It’s like a furnace in our rooms.’ She stops, taking in the scene, saying, ‘Goodness me, has somebody died?’ She picks up the knife. ‘You found it! Where was it?’

  When I explain, Margie’s cheerfulness fades. ‘I tell you, things disappear in this place.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how it got there,’ I say.

  But Hope snaps, ‘You know perfectly well who it was.’

  She waits for me to say it but I won’t. Everyone has noticed Melis’s strange brooding mood.

  Melis is not out at the beehives where I expect to find her, or in the barn, and Margie tells me she hasn’t been through the kitchen. I climb the stairs, feeling a pall of tiredness fall over me. The heat is intensifying, sapping me of energy.

  On the middle floor I hear a scratching coming from inside one of the unused rooms. My mind transforms it into something ugly and malevolent. I throw open the door, determined to face this imaginary creature. The cat slips out, curling round my ankles in gratitude for its freedom.

  I laugh at my own silliness, for allowing myself to be unsettled, putting it down to the sleepless nights and the burden of responsibility weighing heavily.

  Melis is in the bedchamber lying on her back, fanning herself with a piece of paper and gazing vacantly at the ceiling. ‘There you are,’ I say. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘I’ve been here all morning.’ She sounds completely herself. But as I near her, I see clusters of raised swellings running up her arm and onto her neck.

  ‘What are these?’ I point to the swellings. ‘They look like stings.’

  She ignores my question, tugging down her sleeves to cover the welts. ‘How old do you think this house is? Do you see how the ceiling sags?’

  ‘Melis?’ I am loath to broach the subject, but I must.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Margie’s knife … did you put it in the bed to make you feel safer? I understand –’

  ‘You think it was me,’ she interjects angrily. ‘Hope has already accused me of this. I suppose it’s what everyone thinks. Mad Melis, the demented sister. That’s what they think, that I’m loose in the head. It’s what you think, too, isn’t it?’ She regards me with simmering indignation.

  ‘I don’t think that.’ I sit on the bed. ‘Really.’

  We are silent for a while.

  ‘I told you. You wouldn’t listen.’ She is perfectly calm now, quite matter-of-fact. ‘There’s something bad in this house. You know it, don’t you, Hessie? You’ve felt it too. I know you have.’

  ‘The danger is out there.’ I point towards the window. ‘We are as safe as we can be here. Being cooped up in this place is bound to set us al
l on edge.’ I sound as if I have more conviction than I do. She has been right before. But only once, I remind myself, only once.

  ‘You never believe me.’ She begins to button her nightdress right up, so the collar covers her neck, and pulls on a pair of white gloves and, in the absence of her beekeeping hat, drapes a length of fine muslin over her head, then leaves the room without a word.

  From the window I can see the men, Rafe with them, mending the fence, while Hope and Lark hobble awkwardly over the yard carrying a heavy churn between them. Margie is hauling a bucket of water up from the well, the winch rasping with each turn. A faint smell of fresh-baked bread wafts up from the kitchen.

  I watch Melis picking her way determinedly past them and across the paddock towards the skeps, looking like a crazed bride. Even from this distance, I can see how they look at her suspiciously as she passes, even Hope.

  Hope

  Days collapse into moments.

  Minutes stretch into hours.

  Hope keeps her eye on the time to prevent it from playing these tricks. She winds the clock in the blue room, ordering the minutes, forcing them to behave. They have been at the lodge for six days already.

  She tightens the laces on the front of her dress and tells herself firmly that Melis is losing her mind, that when she looked Hope in the eye earlier and told her there was something bad in the house, she didn’t know what she was saying. Hester had told her to take no notice, reminded her that Melis was convinced Orchard Cottage would burn down with Rafe in it and that hadn’t happened.

  It didn’t happen, it didn’t happen, she repeats silently, with each tick of the clock.

  She can hear her two older sisters on the balcony, with their sewing, chatting playfully. ‘Look at this. You can’t even see where it was torn,’ she hears Melis say. She couldn’t sound saner. If anything, it is Hope who feels she is becoming detached from her common sense.

  She picks up the basket of laundry on the landing. It creaks against her hip as she descends the stairs, rushing past the middle floors. The idea of those empty rooms, dark and looming and oppressive, sets off her imagination again.

  She settles on the kitchen step at the washtub and sets to scrubbing at the laundry until her hands are raw. The lye stinks and burns her eyes.

  ‘You’re a hard worker, Hope,’ comments the lieutenant, as he passes with Rafe. They settle on the other side of the yard in the shade of the barn. She can hear Rafe chatting happily, like a sparrow, so much better now he has the company of a man. The lieutenant is showing him how to make rabbit snares, endlessly patient as he demonstrates again and again how to tie a slipknot – ‘This end over, that end under’ – good-naturedly unpicking the twine when Rafe tangles it and becomes exasperated.

  She finds herself gazing at the man, wet linen hanging forgotten from her fist. His hands are large and capable. He catches her staring. She looks away sharply, her skin bristling, heat flushing over her face and under her arms. But she has seen him looking at her, too, on more than one occasion. Desire makes itself known inside her, patting in her chest and prodding at her belly.

  He couldn’t be less like Worley, with his smooth, feminine hands, the carefully barbered beard. Thinking of Worley makes her insides tangle with shame. He is her only measure for desire but she knows she desires this rugged man more.

  Lark steps past her. ‘Is that you, Hope?’ When she responds, Lark reaches out a hand. It wavers in space, finally meeting Hope’s shoulder and she levers herself down to sit beside her.

  They fall into easy conversation, Hope finding it a relief to have someone to talk to, with Melis so unpredictable and Hester treating her like a child. She finds herself confessing the details of what had happened between her and Marmaduke Worley.

  ‘I truly believed we loved each other, fool that I was.’

  ‘Not a fool.’ There is not even a splinter of judgement in Lark’s tone. ‘It sounds to me as if he knew exactly what he was up to. I’m sure he was very convincing. What a vile creature to seek to harm someone as lovely as you.’

  ‘Lovely? Not really.’ Hope is embarrassed by the compliment.

  ‘I mean it.’

  Hope changes the subject. ‘Don’t you ever get lonely living here?’

  Lark seems to ponder for a time. Then: ‘I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose you don’t miss what you don’t know. But I like having you here.’ She leans in slightly against Hope and they fall into an easy silence, punctuated by the rhythmic scrub of linen against washboard.

  Hope can hear the lieutenant describing to Rafe the best place to set a snare.

  ‘What do you think of him?’ Hope asks quietly, so she can’t be overheard.

  ‘I don’t know. He seems …’ Lark presses her hands together, whispering, ‘I don’t think I trust him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hope feels personally affronted. ‘What makes you not trust him? He’s so patient with Rafe.’ How would Lark know anything about anyone, she asks herself, since she knows so little of the world? She is regretting her previous confession.

  ‘Just a feeling.’

  Hope would like to say that if we all went on feelings we wouldn’t get very far. ‘Well, I like him.’ She can’t prevent herself from sounding defensive.

  ‘I can tell.’ There is a tone in Lark’s voice that makes Hope conclude she might be jealous of the attention the lieutenant has paid to her, that Lark might want him for herself. That would explain why she thinks badly of him. ‘I’m not usually wrong about people.’ She holds Hope’s forearm. ‘What if he’s another Worley?’

  ‘He’s not. I know he’s not.’ Hope wonders how many people Lark has even met but doesn’t want to make her feel challenged by asking. ‘I wouldn’t be taken for a fool twice.’

  Lark doesn’t reply, just makes a small sigh.

  Hester comes out to call for the lieutenant. ‘How is your arm after yesterday’s treatment?’

  ‘It’s much better,’ he calls back.

  ‘One more dressing and it’ll be as good as new.’

  It will not be ‘as good as new’, thinks Hope. She has seen the wound and it is clear that he will never regain the full use of that arm. It ignites a raw sympathy in her and, if she is honest, it makes her like him more. If he has a flaw, it makes her past misdemeanour matter less.

  ‘Hope, would you nip downstairs and get me …’ Hester lists the ingredients for her compress.

  It is blessedly cool in the cellar and the tang of old fruit and ripe cheese hangs in the air. A dim light spills from her candle into the gloom and a little more from the open door at the top of the steps. Her eyes take some time to adjust, so she waits, leaning back against the damp wall, for the chill to seep through her dress to her skin. Unlike Hester and Melis, who go about in little more than their linen shifts, Hope continues to dress properly. She doesn’t approve. In only six days they have practically become savages, so Heaven only knows what they will look like in ten. Like that man who lives in the woods.

  She picks up an apple from the trestle where they are stacked. It is waxy and wrinkled beneath her fingers, like a grandmother’s skin. She moves to the shelves, where the produce is stored, carefully parcelled in oilcloth or preserved in jars.

  A sudden thud sounds, as the door at the top slams shut. She gasps loudly, dropping the candle, which sputters and dies. She is pressed into the dark, her imagination igniting. ‘It’s just the wind. It’s just the wind,’ she repeats to herself aloud. But in the back of her mind she knows that the weather is thick and hot without even the slightest gust of a breeze.

  Arms outstretched, she inches her way back to where she thinks the steps lie, but she cannot tell where she is in space. Something brushes over her face, catching in her hair. She cries out and scrambles with her hands, meeting feathers, realizing it is only a brace of pigeons suspended from a beam.

  As she steps away from the birds, something falls, scattering objects across the floor.

  Did she knock a
gainst it?

  She doesn’t know.

  Flailing in thin air, her bearings altogether lost now, she drops to her hands and knees, grateful for the solid floor beneath her, feeling her way across it. Fallen things at her fingertips are turned monstrous in her mind. She tells herself they are nothing more than onions and turnips but she picks one up and it is neither of those things. It is soft and chilled and slimy. Flinging it away, she crawls blindly until her hands meet the wall and feels her way along it, eventually coming to the stone slab of the bottom step. Shaking as she clambers to the top, she shoves the latch up but it will not budge.

  She bangs desperately, shouting for help.

  After what seems an age of panic, the bolt clicks and the door swings open. Light gushes in and the large shape of Margie is cast dark in the frame.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Hope cannot find her voice to reply. ‘You need to clip the door back, see,’ Margie is saying, as she slots a long hook into an eye on the wall. ‘The hinges are skewed, so it’s prone to slamming and the latch sticks.’ She casts her gaze to Hope’s empty hands. ‘You’ve not brought anything up, daft girl.’

  The ordinary scene in the kitchen doesn’t match with her simmering alarm. The lieutenant and Melis are playing slapjack at the table with Rafe, who giggles triumphantly as he smacks his hand over the pile of cards, and Hester is preparing the charcoal burner to make the compress. Margie announces briskly that she will fetch the ingredients.

  She returns only moments later. ‘You might’ve told me you’d knocked over one of the trestles. I could have tripped on it and broke my neck.’

  ‘But I didn’t.’ Hope’s voice is a croak. ‘I didn’t touch the trestle.’ She can’t remember whether she might have brushed against it or not. Her mind is all a muddle.

  Margie’s hand claps to her chest. ‘The house is making mischief again.’ She seems thrilled, laughing, as if it is all a great caper. Hope wants to shake sense into her, force her to see it is not a laughing matter if a house has a mind of its own.