The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to carry something so sharp.’

  ‘He gave it to me because it’s blunt now.’ He demonstrates this by running the tip of his thumb over the blade. I wince inwardly, imagining it cutting through his skin when it doesn’t leave so much as a mark. ‘See? He’s going to teach me how to skin a rabbit.’ I can see his eagerness to learn such things – male things.

  It is true, I baby him. It’s easy to forget my little boy is growing up. I mustn’t hold him back. He will soon be nine and I know of boys sent into apprenticeships at not much older than that. One day I will have to let him go. The realization twists a screw of sadness into me.

  ‘As long as you keep it folded when you’re not using it and take great care.’

  I call Felton, taking him to one side so Rafe is out of earshot. ‘It’s very kind of you to have given Rafe your old penknife but I’d rather he didn’t have sharp objects. He might hurt himself.’ I watch my son lining up the various parts of the dead blackbird on the step.

  ‘I didn’t give him a penknife.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look at him in confusion. ‘But he said …’ My words are left hanging as Melis comes tearing into view from the direction of the hives. Something is wrong. She half climbs, half vaults the paddock gate and trips, falling face first onto the hard ground, but scrambles back up, barely breaking her stride.

  As she nears, I can see the wild look in her eyes but she doesn’t even register my presence as she rushes past. She is covered with scratches and her nose is bleeding, blood soaking into the white linen of her dress in great bright blots, like poppies.

  I try to take hold of her but she flails, running straight through the kitchen. She crosses the hall, stopping momentarily to snap up the latch of the front door, throwing it wide and descending the steps two at a time.

  ‘This is the place.’ She has stopped dead at the bottom, is crouching and slapping the stone step. ‘This is the place. They told me. They showed me.’

  The others have followed us out and are gaping at her. ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell them. ‘I’ll see to this.’ They don’t move but stand agog, all but Hope open-mouthed as Melis unfurls her fist, releasing several bees from her palm.

  Margie gasps in shock. ‘What’s she doing?’

  I take hold of Melis’s shoulders, speaking gently, attempting to reassure her, but she looks right through me and struggles away once more, running first towards the main gate but seeming to change her mind and returning to the front steps where we are all still standing, not knowing what to do.

  She grips her hands tightly about her head, crying, ‘Stop it,’ over and over again before ripping open the buttons of her nightdress, to expose her torso, where her silvery skin is stippled with great angry stings. She seems to calm then, sinking onto the bottom step, saying again, ‘This is the place.’

  I sit beside her and can feel the others creeping closer, can feel their fascination, their repulsion. ‘What is it, sweetheart? What is this place?’

  Melis looks up at me. I remember that look, dread stamped through her eyes, pupils like burn holes. ‘This is the place that will bring my death.’

  I try to take her in my arms but she pushes me off. I am aware of Hope and Margie trying to draw Rafe away, back into the kitchen. ‘We should leave them alone,’ Hope is saying, but Rafe refuses, until the lieutenant squats down and speaks very quietly to him, whereupon he obediently follows the women into the house.

  The lieutenant is still hovering. I ask him to leave us alone but he says, ‘If I might offer a small suggestion.’ His head is tilted kindly and concern is etched plainly over his features. At my wit’s end now, I tell him to continue. ‘It may be a good idea,’ he says, ‘if we keep this door bolted and use only the back entrance. It will mean your sister never need use these steps. They seem to be the cause of her distress. It is easily done and will save her from worry.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I am deeply grateful for such a sensible proposal. He slips tactfully away, and I hear him slide the bolts across and turn the key, securing the doors from the inside.

  Hope

  They sit round the kitchen table in a malignant silence, shaken by the scene on the steps, all but Rafe, who is on the floor playing knuckles, seemingly unperturbed. After some time, Hester appears, leading Melis by the hand. Without a word they pass through the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Margie eventually resumes the kneading she abandoned earlier and Gifford returns to his vegetable garden. They are not the sort to ask questions. For that Hope is thankful.

  ‘Come.’ Lark breaks through her thoughts, tugging her outside to sit on the fence. ‘Listen to the forest birds,’ she says. ‘It will soothe you.’ To Hope it is a chaos of noise but Lark is able to tease out threads of barely audible sound, identifying each singer.

  She tells Hope to close her eyes, that she will hear better. ‘When you dull one sense the others spring to life.’

  It is true. After a while, Hope finds she can distinguish individual distant strands of song. She begins to understand that so much lies beyond the ordinary scope of her senses – so much untapped wonder.

  ‘Hear that?’ Lark is pointing to the three poplars by the gates, from which Hope can hear a distinctive plangent melody, a few phrases, then silence, as if the bird has forgotten the words of its own song. Lark whistles back, mimicking it almost exactly. It responds as if in conversation with her. ‘Stormcock,’ she says. ‘Its flesh is said to be a cure for madness.’

  The lieutenant interrupts them, asking if he might have a private word with Hope. Something like disapproval passes over Lark’s expression as Hope assents. He guides her to the well that is set in a quiet place away from the house. She looks in. The water far below is a winking eye. They sit side by side on the edge. Aware of the deep void behind her, she feels safe with the gentle pressure of his palm at the small of her back.

  It is some time before he speaks. ‘Have you seen your sister behave in such a way before?’ He seems agitated, tapping his foot, jigging his leg.

  She explains about Melis’s visions, how distressing they can be for her. ‘She believes she can see the future.’

  He says nothing for a while, plucks a stalk from a nearby sage bush, pulling off its leaves and shredding them. It gives off a pungent scent, like fresh-dug earth after rain. ‘Can she?’ He looks at her, his brow puckered with concern. He seems so very worried about Melis, his compassion making Hope like him all the more.

  ‘She never has.’ A little of the tension seems to fall from him. ‘But …’

  She can feel the heat of his body close to hers, almost touching. ‘Sometimes I think …’ She pauses.

  ‘Sometimes you think what?’ His voice is so gentle.

  ‘I know it sounds senseless, but I do wonder if she has a gift. She says there is something bad in this house.’ Hope dares snatch a look at his eye, then casts her gaze back to her hands. ‘I sometimes think I believe her when she says there’s something evil here.’

  Instead of ridiculing her, he says softly, ‘Your sister is sick. You mustn’t let her stories run away with you. Don’t worry about anything. We shall take care of Melis.’ He smooths his hand up and down Hope’s back. ‘Make sure no harm befalls her.’

  ‘I’m so thankful you are here to look after us,’ Hope says, leaning in to his touch, daring to imagine what it might be like to kiss him.

  But then she remembers Hester’s mention of his sweetheart.

  ‘I’d better go in. I may be needed.’ She stands abruptly, shrugging him off.

  ‘Wait!’ She turns. ‘You haven’t told your sister about the letters, have you?’

  ‘No … I gave my word.’ It upsets her to think he doesn’t trust her. She has nursed their secret for two days.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says, with a smile.

  Our secret, she thinks.

  Hester

  In the bedroom I undress Melis and wash away the blood and dirt. I untangle her hair
carefully, anointing the bee stings and scratches with a salve. She is as biddable as a child, doing exactly what I ask. Once in her clean shift she curls up on the bed and closes her eyes.

  I sit with her, shaken by the episode. I haven’t seen her so bad in a long time and am afraid this might be the precursor to worse.

  To distract myself I write to Ambrose. Surely someone will make the day’s trip to Ludlow and be able to send my letter before long. The Giffords must have to go there to sell their produce. I think of the eggs amassing in the cellar and the great wheels of cheese maturing beside them.

  I ask after Bette’s health, and inform Ambrose of the lieutenant’s safe arrival, what a great reassurance he has proved to be. I am impatient to know if he is on his way here, as he promised, whether he has managed to make my case with George. As I write it, I am struck once more by the unlikelihood of George ever seeing reason, making me thankful for the letters. Signing my name, I realize what folly it would be to send such a missive. I screw it into a ball, noticing, with a stab of regret, that the wax figure Rafe gave me has melted in the sun on the windowsill, its form completely lost.

  Melis stirs, sitting up, seeming almost herself again.

  ‘Feeling better?’ I ask.

  She offers a bright smile. ‘What do you mean?’ It is as if she has completely forgotten what happened a mere half-hour ago, as if the incident never was. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that Rafe?’

  ‘So it is.’ I can hear him calling me from down in the yard.

  ‘Mother, Aunt Melis, come and see what I can do.’

  ‘I expect he wants us to watch him fencing again,’ she says. ‘He was so pleased with himself yesterday.’ She rises from the bed. I am still astounded that nothing of the earlier distress remains in her disposition. ‘He’s happier since the lieutenant arrived, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve noticed that too.’ I am glad I haven’t imagined it.

  She shoves her feet into a pair of my slippers and, not caring that they are too big, scuffs across the landing towards the blue room.

  I follow her.

  Rafe’s voice rises up to us through the open balcony doors. ‘Come and watch me.’

  Hope

  Hope can hear the lieutenant outside ask Rafe if he’d like a fencing lesson before it becomes too hot. ‘You won’t improve if you don’t practise.’

  She makes for the stairs, thinking she will be able to watch them from the balcony. Nearing the top, she hears her sisters talking as they cross the landing, Melis seeming quite recovered.

  Hope follows them into the blue room.

  Rafe is calling from below.

  Melis steps onto the balcony, leaning out over the balustrade to wave at her nephew.

  Hester is behind her when an ominous crack slices through the air.

  Melis emits a terrible hollow shriek.

  Hope rushes towards the balcony door, panic jittering through her, to see Melis hanging tight to the balustrade, which has broken away, swinging down, attached only from a corner.

  She screams too now, her voice shrill.

  Hester is clinging to the vine that crawls up the wall as the balcony jolts, tilting like a ship in a storm. Grabbing the windowsill, Hope tries to reach Melis, who is suspended in mid-air, feet thrashing.

  ‘Hold on.’ Hope inches forward, afraid to lose her own grip, but it is no good. Another crack snaps through the air.

  ‘Help her, for God’s sake!’ cries Hester, who is flailing, trying to gain a foothold on the planks, which are listing beneath her, on the brink of collapse.

  ‘I can’t reach!’ There is nothing Hope can do but watch helplessly as the balustrade breaks away, taking Melis with it.

  She falls silently, her dress opening like a bell.

  A whump sounds as she hits the ground.

  ‘Keep hold!’ Hope shouts, turning to Hester now, but the vine is detaching from the wall as she loses her grip, first one hand, her other arm at full length, tips of fingers slipping.

  Rigid with fear, Hope reaches out into space, managing, miraculously, to grab Hester’s collar, clasping it tight in her fist.

  But the seam gives, Hester falling a little further as each stitch snaps, her scream becoming a long howl.

  With a sudden lurch, the ripping stops where a few stitches have been over-sewn. Hope remembers mending that seam.

  Hester hangs on those few threads.

  And Hope, finding some vestige of superhuman strength, hauls her back into the room, just as the wooden struts beneath her feet explode onto the stone steps below.

  They collapse inside, onto the floor, clinging to each other, racked with shock, the breath knocked out of them.

  ‘Melis!’ cries Hester, coming to her senses, scrambling to her feet, pulling Hope up with her. They fly down the stairs. At the door, Hester pushes and heaves at the vast slab of oak, forgetting it is locked. Hope pulls her aside, sliding the bolts, turning the key, hauling it open just as the remains of the balcony crash down, plank by plank.

  Then silence.

  Melis lies on the steps, half covered with debris, her body twisted out of shape. Felton runs to crouch over her. A slipper is lying a yard away in the dust. It is one of Hester’s.

  With a lurch of dread, Hope realizes her sister has fallen on exactly the step that caused her so much distress barely an hour ago. The place she said would bring her death. The knowledge paralyses her, her limbs suddenly heavy, the skin on her neck and arms chilling, a void opening inside, the only sound the puppy making a terrible high-pitched barking, as it careers back and forth manically.

  Felton

  The stupid girl is frozen on the steps watching blankly as Felton and Hester try to move the injured woman into a more comfortable position. She shrieks with pain. It is apparent that several of her bones are broken at the very least.

  He rages at himself inwardly for the failure of his plan.

  ‘Opium tincture!’ says Hester, turning to him. ‘You have some, haven’t you? Is it in your room? Hope, fetch the lieutenant’s tincture. Where is it exactly?’

  ‘Let me –’ Felton makes to stand. He doesn’t want the girl in his room.

  ‘She can go.’ Hester has his wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong. ‘I need you here.’

  ‘It’s a small brown phial, on the shelf.’

  Hope scurries into the house.

  Hester is impressively calm, quietly talking to Melis, who seems to be slipping into and out of consciousness. It is manifestly clear to Felton that she will not survive. She must have internal injuries. It’s a wonder she is alive at all. It’s more a wonder that the other woman is unscathed.

  Rafe is sitting on the steps, his face in his hands, shoulders quaking. Felton calls him over to help lift some of the broken timbers that have fallen onto Melis’s body. The boy comes obediently. Felton is surprised to note that the child is dry-eyed. Shock makes people behave strangely. He’s seen enough stricken soldiers to know that – men laughing hysterically to see their legs blown off or mewling like infants at the unexpected crack of gun salute. Rafe stoops to take one end of a plank, waiting, mouth tight, for Felton to count to three before they heave it away.

  Margie bowls round the side of the house, her father hobbling behind. ‘Oh, my good Lord!’ She stops in her tracks, both hands over her face, eyes wide and round and horrified. ‘This is exactly where –’ She doesn’t need to say it, they are all thinking it. Felton has been trying not to think about it. Melis had predicted this. God only knows what other revelations she is liable to envisage and whisper to her sister before she dies.

  His thoughts want to spiral out of control, but he reins them in. He must keep a clear head if he is to complete this mission. Still doubt niggles at him. How could she have known?

  He realizes Margie is talking to him, telling him she will make a bed in the hall for Melis, asking if there is anything else they can do. He enlists Gifford’s help with the careful shifting of the rest of the timbers t
o clear a path up the steps.

  ‘Riddled with worm, this wood, all of it,’ Felton remarks. ‘It’s a wonder the structure held together at all.’

  ‘If it weren’t for the vine …’ Gifford stops a moment, looking up to where the creeper has half fallen away from the front of the building and hangs, creating a suspended arch of green.

  ‘She’s bleeding from her ear!’ Rafe is staring at his aunt, seeming fascinated by the trickle of bright red. Hester rips off her sleeve to staunch the flow.

  Glancing to the injured woman, her face knotted with pain, Felton is struck by some disturbing trick of the mind in which his sister is lying distraught on the steps. He shakes his head to free himself of the vision but his mind is erupting with painful memories of the last occasion he saw Bridget alive.

  It was the end of that idyllic summer at Playford. George had departed for court on the previous day and Felton was leaving to join an army in the Adriatic. He had found Bridget alone in the garden, weeping desperately. Taking her in his arms, he felt the heave of her tears. She blew her nose noisily on his big handkerchief and he noticed a painful-looking, bruised swelling on her wrist.

  ‘What’s that?’ He’d pointed to the mark.

  She snatched her arm back. ‘It’s nothing. I was taking a jar from the high shelf and it fell on me.’

  ‘But what’s the matter? What’s the cause of all these tears?’

  ‘Nothing. I can’t …’ She met him with a look of distraction. Her eyes were red and swollen with dark smudges beneath.

  ‘The knock on your wrist may be nothing but this is clearly not “nothing”. You can tell me. We have no secrets.’ That wasn’t quite true: he had never found a way to confess to her about the dead boy in France. She would have been appalled to learn that.

  She had expelled a jagged sigh and, after some persuasion, opened up. ‘I can’t bear the idea of you going into such danger. So much death.’ She sounded like an actor reciting lines, as if to engage with her sadness might set her off again. ‘I’m so afraid for you.’ She had his arm tightly gripped in her fist, her knuckles ridged and white. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’