The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  The birds are singing, as if it is an ordinary dawn.

  She can hear the puppy’s pathetic half-whine, half-howl, shut in the bedroom. And she can hear footsteps.

  Someone is mounting the stairs slowly and deliberately.

  She stands, holding the pistol tentatively, afraid to set it to full-cock.

  Her heart thumps – too fast – her head light, spinning.

  She steals to the door, feeling as if her legs might give way beneath her, opening it a chink.

  The footsteps reach the floor below.

  A silent prayer for protection is on her lips.

  The steps reach the final turn of the stairs.

  ‘Stop! Who are you?’ She tries to sound authoritative but her voice quakes.

  ‘It’s Lark.’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ Relief knocks the substance from her, makes her want to sink to the floor.

  Lark appears, spectral and indistinct in the gloom of the unlit staircase.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The lieutenant fired at a fox. It was trying to get in at the hens but he missed it.’

  ‘So, all is well?’ Hope is wondering why Lark seems to look concerned, as if there is something she is not saying. ‘Where’s the lieutenant?’

  ‘Gone back out to “survey the area”, he said.’ She reaches out, fingers fumbling over Hope’s wrist and down to grip her hand. ‘I don’t fully trust that man. I’ve said it before.’

  ‘You have.’ Hope doesn’t want to contradict her, or tell her that she is mistaken, but that is what she thinks. She is wondering if Lark’s dislike of the lieutenant is clouding her judgement.

  They hear him calling then, ‘All clear,’ from the bottom of the stairs.

  Lark helps her release Hester and Rafe from the priest-hole. They emerge, bleary and confused, Hester with Margie’s kitchen knife and Rafe’s bedraggled monkey pressed to her torso like a bridal bouquet.

  The lieutenant is mounting the stairs, his heavy footfall unmistakable. He reaches the landing, noticing the pistol in Hope’s hand with a nod, as if to say she’s done well. She flushes, looking at the floor, her heart slipping like hot wax.

  ‘Just as I thought. Nothing more sinister than a fox out there.’ His own firearm is hanging in his hand. ‘It won’t be back in a hurry.’

  ‘Is it time to go and see if we’ve caught any rabbits?’ Two pink circles of anticipation appear on Rafe’s cheeks beneath the smears of dark under his eyes.

  ‘Leave the lieutenant be.’ Hester is unusually firm with Rafe. ‘I should think he’s exhausted.’ And, turning to the man, she asks, ‘Did it get any of the hens?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ The lieutenant crouches in front of Rafe. ‘I’d be very happy to take you out a little later, young man, but I have to be sure your mother hasn’t decided to go to Ludlow, after all.’ Rafe looks up at her.

  Mention of the Ludlow trip has caused the atmosphere to sharpen, reminding them all that Melis is dead and her body is in the chapel.

  ‘No,’ says Hester. ‘We’re all staying here.’

  ‘You’re certain about that?’ The lieutenant’s expression is off-kilter. ‘You would feel so much better to know that your sister is laid to rest in peace and that prayers have been said for her. Would it help if I were to offer to accompany you?’

  He places his palm to his breast and Hope notices his fingernails are filthy. She can’t help imagining those hands on her. Heat flares beneath her nightdress. She feels exposed, wishes she was laced into her day clothing.

  ‘There will be no Ludlow trip today,’ Hester says, not inviting further discussion.

  All Hope can think of now is what will happen to Melis’s body in the heat, she can’t expel the thought from her head.

  ‘Then I can take you out to the traps in a while.’ The lieutenant ruffles Rafe’s hair.

  ‘Surely you must need to rest, Lieutenant,’ says Hester, exhaustion and impatience infusing her tone. ‘You’ve been out half the night chasing vermin.’

  ‘It was barely an hour, and almost dawn when I was roused.’ Despite what he says, he looks dog-tired, as if he hasn’t slept at all, and Hope imagines him tossing and turning, thinking of her in the night.

  ‘I’d be happy to take him,’ he adds. ‘With your permission, of course.’

  ‘I don’t know that it’s such a good idea.’

  ‘But, Mother,’ Rafe turns a gorgeous beam on Hester, ‘if we don’t get the rabbits today, they will rot in the heat, or that fox will eat them. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?’

  Hope knows Hester will relent and so she does, on the proviso that they have an hour’s rest first. She wishes Hester would be firmer with the boy, make it clear that ‘no’ means no.

  ‘Can I persuade you to join us?’ the lieutenant asks Hester. ‘It might do you good to get out of here for a while. A change of scene.’

  Hope is prodded by a small finger of jealousy. She would like to be the one to go out with them, and when Hester refuses curtly, despite another attempt by the lieutenant to convince her, Hope is disappointed that he doesn’t suggest she go instead.

  In their room Hester slumps onto the bed. ‘Goodness knows why the lieutenant thinks I’d want to go out at the crack of dawn to fetch in dead rabbits when my sister is …’ She is furious, all her grief turned to rage, and bangs her fist against the bedpost, wincing.

  Hope puts an arm around her but she shrugs it off, saying, ‘I wish Ambrose would get here.’

  Hope feels the burn of more tears and watches Rafe remove his soot-smeared nightshirt to lean over the basin and splash water onto his face. His shoulder blades are like the nubs of wings. She gets up, taking a clean shirt from the linen press, sliding it over his head and pulling back the covers for him to climb into bed. ‘I’ll never be able to sleep,’ he complains. ‘It’s too light.’

  Hester is filthy, her hair tangled into spikes. Her eyes look dead. Anyone would be forgiven if they mistook her for a lunatic.

  Hope feels suddenly unsure of herself. Hester has always been so strong, has always held them all together, but now she doesn’t even look as if she can hold herself together.

  Hope passes her a laundered shift. She looks at it in momentary puzzlement, as if she’s never seen such a thing before in her life. Pouring some fresh water into the basin, Hope wets a cloth, squeezing it out, giving it to her sister, then sets to work on the knots in her hair with a comb.

  They don’t speak and, in the silence, Hope finds a measure of reassurance in the faint sound of the clock in the other room, its regularity making it seem as if everything is in the right order, although she senses that nothing is.

  Rafe sighs, his eyelids drooping. The two sisters lie on the bed, wide awake, contemplating the ceiling. The whole house is sagging, like an old woman’s flesh.

  Hester points towards the bulge. ‘Do you think it’s got worse since we’ve been here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ They stare at the swollen plaster. A beam creaks. Something rustles and whirs behind the walls, as if the house is whispering to itself. ‘I sometimes wonder if this house won’t eat us all alive.’ Hope’s voice is monotone, as if she has borrowed it from someone else.

  ‘Don’t go putting the frights on yourself. Things are bad enough without you imagining things too.’ Hester sits up, makes sure Rafe is asleep, then looks straight at Hope. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’ Her voice holds a shard of ice.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The letters are not in the priest-hole. You’re the only person who knows I hid them in there.’

  Hope feels as if someone has snipped a thread deep inside her and she is unspooling. With everything that has happened she had forgotten about the letters. It seems an age ago, yet it was only the day before yesterday.

  ‘Where are they, Hope?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The lie makes her burn. ‘Melis kept saying there was something bad in this house –’

  ‘Don
’t take me for an idiot.’ They are talking quietly so as not to wake Rafe but Hester sounds abrasive even at a whisper. ‘Melis had lost her mind … God rest her soul.’ Her sister is shaking her head and Hope feels there is something she is not saying.

  ‘But the knife. The dresser last night – falling like it did. The balcony.’

  Hester’s stare is as hard as a hammer blow. ‘There is nothing bad in this house, unless you count young girls who are unable to tell the truth.’

  Hope begins to cry. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, Hessie.’ Between waves of sobbing she recounts what she knows about the letters.

  ‘You gave him my letters?’ Hester’s arm twitches, lifting slightly, causing Hope to cower, waiting for a slap that doesn’t come. ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’ Hester is only just managing to contain her anger.

  All Hope can think about is how pleased she had been to have a secret to share with the lieutenant. She had thought of no one but herself. Guilt grips her sharply, like cramp.

  ‘I was trying to help you. The lieutenant said he would burn them, that Ambrose had ordered it, but I didn’t see him do it. He may still have them.’ Doubt rings through her voice.

  ‘It doesn’t seem likely, given he was set on destroying them. You’d better hope that Ambrose has some other … some other …’ All the colour has fallen from Hester’s face and she can’t get her words out. ‘He was aware of the importance of those letters.’ She covers her face with her hands and, after a few moments, lifts her head and meets Hope’s gaze with a seething look. ‘I don’t believe Ambrose would have given such an order.’

  ‘The lieutenant said they were dangerous. Even you told me they were dangerous.’ All Hope knows is that, once again, she has let her weakness for a man visit misfortune on her sister. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s no use being sorry now.’ Hester stands and marches out of the room.

  Hester

  Felton is sitting at the table writing in his journal, which he slams shut, turning, half standing. ‘Is there something …?’

  ‘What in the name of God do you think you were doing taking my letters?’ I had planned to remain calm but can’t hide the force of my rage. ‘Did you burn them, as Hope says you did?’

  ‘I regret to say they are destroyed, yes.’

  ‘Regret,’ I spit. ‘Regret will not unburn my letters, Lieutenant.’ I am jabbing at the air with my finger. ‘I want an explanation.’

  ‘It was wrong of me not to inform you. But I was acting on Dr Cotton’s order.’

  ‘If Dr Cotton ordered you to eat a poisonous mushroom, would you do so?’ Disdain gushes out of me. ‘Whether you were acting on his orders or not, you should have come to me. They were my papers, not his, not yours. Mine.’

  ‘With all respect, my first priority here is the safety of you and your son, and those letters put you in too great a risk.’

  I try to calm myself. I know nothing of this man. Suspicion begins to creep through me. ‘Dr Cotton would never have ordered you to do such a thing and keep me in the dark.’

  He hangs his head, like a disobedient child. ‘It was my own decision to say nothing to you. I believed I was doing the right thing, thought it would prevent you from worrying, but now I see that it was an error of judgement.’

  I arrange and rearrange my thoughts, holding him with a silent glare. With the letters gone I have lost my most potent weapon. The thought makes me flounder.

  He continues, wringing his hands now, like a supplicant. ‘Dr Cotton explained to me that he had begun discussions with the duke of the utmost delicacy, and that if the letters fell into the wrong hands everything might be jeopardized –’

  ‘I don’t believe you! He would have wanted me to know this. He would have written to tell me.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t believe either, in your place, but it is the truth – upon my soul it is.’ He looks at me from under his brows, like a dog. ‘He said he didn’t want you to get your hopes up at this early stage.’

  Through my tangled mind I concede that that is just the kind of thing Ambrose would say and this man has had ample opportunity to make away with Rafe, if that was his intention. I begin to sense myself treading on more solid ground, my anger and suspicions slowly abating. The thought of negotiations having begun with George is a flicker of light in the gloom.

  I fumble for the chain around my neck, running my fingers down to find the enamelled ring: Veritas nunquam perit. There is no doubt that this is Ambrose’s ring, delivered to me by this rueful man. It is the one solid fact I have to hang on to. ‘Very well.’ He visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping. ‘But remember this, Lieutenant. Under this roof, you do as I say. Is that clear?’

  Hope

  Hope can hear Hester shouting at the lieutenant as she tidies the bedroom. She has never seen her sister in such a rage and feels steeped in shame for being the cause of it. She gathers all the clothes that are scattered about the place, carefully folding them. Then she empties the pot, rinsing it, sweeps the dead insects off the windowsill and clears up a fall of powdered plaster in the corner.

  Noticing a small stain on the hem of her skirt, she rubs the fabric together vigorously until just the ghost of the mark is left, hardly discernible. She sluices her armpits with water and clothes herself, fastening her dress as tightly as possible, so tight it hurts to breathe, as if the garment alone will hold her together, then tugs her hair into place, with pins that dig into her scalp. She puts on her shoes and stockings and takes a clean overskirt, tying it around her, stroking her palms over the neat squares where it was folded.

  The room is pristine. Only the bed is unmade, with Rafe sleeping peacefully, his long lashes lying against his pale cheeks, like spiders. She carefully arranges the covers without disturbing him, looking around for something else to organize.

  No amount of tidying will stop the dread spreading through her.

  A door slams and she hears footsteps marching down the stairs, followed by a gentle tap at the door. She opens it to find the lieutenant.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ he says. ‘I hope I didn’t visit trouble on you by asking you to keep a secret from your sister.’ He is smiling that gap-toothed smile of his. ‘It was wrong of me.’

  Hope shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  He reaches out his hand and strokes a finger over her cheek, taking a step closer until their faces are mere inches apart. She is suddenly hot and is glad she laced her dress so firmly for she fears bursting out of it.

  ‘Is it time to go out to the traps?’ They spring apart, both turning to see Rafe wide awake.

  The lieutenant laughs. ‘Get dressed, young man, and we’ll go.’

  Once they have gone, she lingers a while, reluctant to go down and confront Hester. Eventually the scent of fresh-baked bread wafting up proves impossible to resist and she leaves the room, descending the stairs, forming an apology for her sister.

  Something grabs her eye on the middle landing.

  The door to the room where the dresser had fallen last night is ajar and she thinks something is moving inside, a shadow in the corner of her eye.

  Instinct tells her to run but she finds herself drawn inexorably, one foot in front of the other, as if she has no choice, towards the door.

  The hinge squeaks as she opens it slightly.

  She steps over the threshold, breath held.

  Thin shafts of light, from the cracks around the shutters, cut across the floor, illuminating the dust. Everything is as it was the previous night, the dresser fallen forward, its dust cover flung to its side, like a spill of milk. Her eyes follow the scatter of pewter dishes and cups.

  She jumps back then, releasing a cry.

  The cat is motionless on its side, pink mouth open enough for her to see its sharp yellow fangs.

  Around its neck is a snare.

  It is dead.

  Hester

  I can hear Rafe in the yard preparing to go, asking the lieutenant a litany of questions. Sitting at the table
I inspect today’s eggs for cracks. There are few this morning: last night’s disturbance has upset the hens. Gifford is searching for his shovel, poking his head around the door to ask us if we are sure we haven’t seen it. Margie pulls a loaf from the bread oven, sending a glorious aroma through the kitchen. Lark is whistling, just outside, where she is peeling potatoes.

  Everything seems normal. But nothing is normal. The letters are burned. Melis is dead. I keep expecting her to come into the room and sit down. Then I remember, and grief hammers another nail through me. I cannot bring myself to think of what the heat is doing to her remains. I tell myself that her pain is gone, that she has escaped into the air and drifts through the house unencumbered.

  Before the disturbance last night I had dreamed of Melis, so vividly it was like a visitation. Hessie, Hessie, it’s me. She sat beside me on the bed. I could feel the weight of her, could touch her, could feel the warmth of her breath in my ear as she spoke. No more George. You know what that means, don’t you, Hessie? I felt the sharp nudge of her elbow against my ribs. Means you will be free.

  Despite everything, I have never wished George dead. It seems too insurmountable a sin, and if I cannot know in my heart of hearts that I am good – a good person, a moral person, the person who looks after others – then who am I?

  You think there is a reward for goodness, she had said. I have always believed that, but for all my trying to be good, the punishments have far outweighed the rewards. I consider whether I would be one of those rejoicing in the streets were Melis’s deathbed vision to come to pass. I feel a thrill as I imagine it. Perhaps I am not as good as I have always believed myself to be.

  Someone has left a few stems of lavender on the side. I take one, crushing the bud, bringing it to my nose, hoping it will soothe my agitated thoughts. As I am sliding it through a buttonhole in my shift, Hope enters the room. She is shaking, gabbling something about the cat in a voice as serrated as a hacksaw. ‘We can’t stay. We can’t stay here.’