An Appetite for Violets (22 page)

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 split 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.’

‘You need your pretty hair distracting him from your filthy mouth,’ replied my lady from her bed.

But she had not yet dealt with Jesmire, who had been wittering under her breath, and stamping her little feet as she passed back and forth to fill the tub.

‘Get on with it, Jesmire. Wash the girl,’ commanded Lady Carinna.

‘I will do no such thing. I may catch something off her.’

‘Get started, Biddy. Jesmire, stay here.’

I went off and eyed the tub in the dressing room. I didn’t care to risk my health by letting miasmas into my skin so I dipped a cloth and started to rub my arms. It felt chilly and unpleasant; I was sure the distempers were passing into me. In the other room I could hear my lady telling Jesmire she might walk home to England so far as she cared. I stopped washing then, so rubbing my arm was as far as I’d got when Jesmire huffed into the room.

‘You. Get in that tub,’ she snapped. And she pushed me in, surprisingly hard.

Now it was my turn to complain. ‘I’ll bloody die,’ I shrieked. Honest, it was that hot I felt like a scalded pig. Then Jesmire gave my hair a right scragging, pulling it about like a hank of knotted wool and rubbing in some oil. I felt as weak as a new-born calf when I clambered out. God only knew if I’d survive. Thank my stars, there was at least a warmed shift to pull on at once.

The hair dressing was the worst of it. I’d seen my lady being tormented often enough, but now it was me with the clay curlers hissing and my hair being tugged at the roots. Honestly, if Jesmire truly wanted hiring she could try for a position as the king’s Chief Torturer. Then my head was puffed and teaseled until I thought I would cry like a baby. All the time my lady directed affairs from her bed, until at last my lips were rouged and one black patch stuck at the top of my cheek, just under my eye.

Next, she sent a flabbergasted Jesmire to fetch my rose red dress from my bundle; that mopsy’s face was a picture of astonishment when she returned. But before I could put it on I had to be laced into new stays: pink whaleboned satin they were, with blue rosettes at the breast.

‘Breathe in,’ complained Jesmire, straining to get the laces tight. My guts were slowly compressed like brawn in a press. I was as stiff as a ramrod; my waist felt as thin as a poker, my bubbies propped like two peaches right beneath my throat. Next, two hoops on a frame of linen were tied at my waist. The dress took a devil of a time to get right, for the sleeves had to be let out to fit my muscled arms.

‘There was a time when my uncle had me dress in such a pretty fashion for his friends to admire me,’ my mistress said in a queer voice. ‘It flatters a girl, a young girl at least.’

Then returning to her usual manner, she commanded, ‘Let me look at you. Lift your sleeves.’

I did as she bid.

‘That looks like a fresh scar.’

It was a livid pink weal, as shiny as taffeta, right below my elbow. ‘You foolish girl, I told you to keep yourself wholesome. Must I think for everyone? Jesmire, fetch my white mitts.’

I drew on the long silk things, like fine stockings only with finger holes. I felt like a pig in a poke, but supposed it would stop me waving my hands about. My lady directed some last few adornments: a pink silk ruffle at my throat, and a bag containing an ivory fan and a pot of vermillion to repaint my lips.

Finally, I was allowed to see myself in the mirror. And the truth was that I was utterly transmogrified. Something in the needle-pricked fingers of those Lyonnaise stay-makers, something in the age-old skill of the cobblers who had stitched my ribboned shoes, something in the flounce and shine and dazzle of my costume – there was in all of that a sort of magic. I didn’t know myself at all. I was some other stiff and graceful woman, cushioned in silk and fashion and money. My own ma would have ducked into a ditch to make way for me.

I looked about, all in a daze. My lady was watching me, preening herself like the cat that got the cream-pot. I only noticed Jesmire had slipped away when I heard a thunderous clatter on the stairs.

Mr Pars’ boots boomed louder with every step. I backed towards the window as he knocked at the door, then thrust it open.

‘My Lady, a moment please—’ His face was dark with fury.

Then old Pars saw me. A number of expressions travelled his countenance: firstly apology, as he made to bow, and uttered, ‘Madame, forgive me,’ in a contrite tone. He did not know me. Next, he grew mute and suspicious, narrowing his eyes and staring hard at my face, trying to read my features. Finally, he knew me.