An Appetite for Violets (33 page)

Funeral Cakes made on the death of Lord Charles Grice, 1681, writ in a fine old Secretary hand, The Cook’s Jewel

Though I was bone tired I slept uneasily that night. The baby lay beside me, and every few hours I woke to hear her whimpering. I nuzzled her close in my arms and was right glad of her little body, and I reckon she was glad of my warmth beside her. All through the small hours most awful pictures skittered through my brain: the dull china eyes of my dead mistress and the scarlet butchering of her body, and Renzo’s saying that if I cared for him I would go with him. But worst of all was Mr Pars’ threat to see me hang for murder. The gallows. Just the notion of the hanging tree and the final walk to that shameful death nearly made me faint with terror.

So I was cheered when dawn rose behind the shutters, and I could see the babe’s grey eyes blinking trustfully into mine. By God’s grace, it amazed me that from all the horrors of that night such a sweet merry-gotten girl should come from it. I dandled her awhile, singing daft songs as I pulled her tiny fingers and toes that were still crabbed up from being cramped so long. True, her head was still awry, but I rubbed it tenderly with ointment till it looked a little better. Yet it choked me too, with the pity of it, her being a motherless scrap in this foreign place.

Bengo nearly burst out of the kitchen when I released him. I could have taken a stick to him when I saw he’d been running heygo-mad about the place, knocking crockery about and breaking Carinna’s best teacup. Hurriedly, I warmed some milk, and having no bubby-pot, fed the baby drip by drip from a teaspoon. Mixed with a little wine and honey, it settled my little girl, and as soon as her lids began to droop, I bundled her into the bread basket and prayed she might stay silent. Soon after, I heard Mr Pars rise and told myself to be wary, for this man held my life in his hands. As I buttered his rolls I turned the matter over – that a judge might think like Mr Pars did, that I had harmed my own mistress. I could scarcely believe it, that he had crept up on me so quietly as the knife was raised over her body.

When I tried to argue my own innocence it was not so easy. As Mr Pars said, there were witnesses aplenty to my wearing Carinna’s gowns and calling myself by her name while she lay ailing in her bed. I had only Mr Pars and Jesmire to speak for me, and Jesmire, by her own accounts, loathed my guts. And so far as I knew, Mr Loveday being a slave had no rights to speak in a court of law.

Hearing Mr Pars come down the stairs I rushed to him and served his breakfast. I tried my best to read his countenance, but he was his usual stony-faced self. Then as soon as I heard the plate-scrapings cease in the parlour I went in and curtseyed lower than I had for many a month.

‘Mr Pars sir, you did say if I did your bidding today you might look kindly on me.’

He had lit his first pipe of the day and was settling back in one of the parlour armchairs. It was odd to see him downstairs, and to tell the truth he did look more comfortable than he had of late, as if he’d taken proper possession of the villa now my mistress was dead.

‘So you would eat humble pie, would you?’

‘Yes sir. And I’m right sorry about the mistress. She died a natural death sir. I waited and waited for you and the doctor—’

He lifted a hand to hush me. ‘Enough. There are matters aplenty to see to. First, I will arrange that the poor woman is buried. And meanwhile you must dispose of the child.’

At first my heart hammered like a drum for I couldn’t understand his meaning. Then I remembered Lady Carinna’s notion.

‘You mean ask after a foster family at the convent, sir?’

‘Aye. I suppose that for form’s sake you should wear your mistress’s gown when you go out. It would seem too strange if the mysterious bedridden Biddy were to suddenly start gallivanting about.’

‘Very well, sir. And will you write and tell her family? What terrible news for Sir Geoffrey. And her uncle and Mr Kitt.’

‘I will perform all the formalities. In this heat there must be no delay. The funeral must be tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, sir. And you will not summon the magistrate, sir?’

‘As I said, do as you are bid and I will think on it.’

I was still mighty uneasy, but curtseyed and began to collect his pots.

‘One last thing,’ he said in a very steady voice. ‘I must collect all her goods together. And I cannot find the jewel.’

I nearly dropped the teapot with fright. I wasn’t about to forget I’d made a death bed promise not to hand it over.

‘Did you not wear it recently?’ His voice was heavy with suspicion.

My mouth felt like sawdust. I prayed the jewel was where I’d left it, in my chamber.

‘I did sir. But I gave it back to my lady. I’ll make a search for it in her boxes.’

‘Her boxes? Very well. Get on with it, then.’ He watched me silently from the midst of skeins of smoke. ‘For if the jewel is missing, you understand it puts all these affairs in a most grave light.’

*   *   *

It was a hot, heavy day for the cloudburst had never come in the night. I decided to walk with the baby, for Jesmire had the carriage and I lacked the courage to ride a horse all alone. So I swaddled the poor little bantling in a shawl, and though it wasn’t how a lady might do it, I bundled her onto my hip like the women of Scarth did when they set off coal-picking. Dressed in my lady’s blue Paris dress, I felt a right spectacle as I lumbered up the road to Ombrosa. By the time I’d trudged past the village’s stone walls I had a stitch in my side like a larding needle. I passed a few old women sitting at their doorways, and a clutch of old fellows playing greasy cards beneath some ancient arches. They stared as they always did, brazen and curious, but not breaking into speech until I’d passed them by.

Recollecting the count’s directions I carried on up the track towards the peak of the hill. Slowly the brown tower and stone walls of the convent came into view far above me. By now a muzzy sun was bearing down, and I cursed the narrowness of my bodice that tightened my breath. The road moved in uncertain directions, so the buildings swung east, then north, forever out of reach. But at last, after my feet had pounded many miles of hard road, I turned a bend and found myself before a shabby gatehouse.

I knocked at the iron-studded door. For some minutes no one came. No longer rocked by my striding, the baby began to cry, a pink-gummed wailing that made my teeth ache. I knocked again, my anger growing. God damn these papists, I swore beneath my breath. Must they always be kissing the toes of stone idols and counting their beads?

Then the grille in the door creaked, and a suspicious eye looked out at me.

I said in my best Italian that I wished them to find a family for the baby, for which service I would pay good money. With no word of greeting, an ill-favoured nun unlatched the door and I followed her inside. We were in a sort of courtyard where weeds sprang through the pavings and goats tussled over kitchen scraps. I followed her hobbling figure into a dingy chamber where she set herself down behind a table. Above us hung a picture of Mother Mary, her heart pierced with swords like a living pincushion.

With a loud sigh, the nun reached for a coffer and held out the box for my money. I had my silver
lire
ready, but once I had seen the place a great reluctance stopped me from handing it over.

‘
La bambina,
’ I asked. I motioned her to show me where the baby would be kept until everything was sorted out. The old nun frowned and shook her box right in my face. Damn you, old witch, I thought. ‘
Dove la bambina?
’ I struggled to think of the Italian word. ‘
Dorme?
’ I demanded.

It was a struggle of wills, but I would not leave Carinna’s child without seeing where she would sleep that night. What I did see, after a crude argument of gestures, was most pitiful. The
Bastardi
as the old nun called them, were kept by a family housed in a grim hovel with slits for windows. One babe lay kicking in his own filth on the straw. The other few children were all thin and ragged. In charge of them was a hackslavering woman with a large stick in her hand. I turned on my heels and left that hellish place. I could never in one thousand years have left that dear little girl in such a pit of misery.

Fury drove me back down to the village. The baby was crying again, doubtless hungry for her mother’s milk. I found the familiar market and made enquiries of the stallholders, praying there would be someone in need of the money. An hour later I found Carla – a plump, tongue-lashed fourteen-year-old whose mother screamed oaths at her, even though the girl’s own fatherless baby had died. The wet stains on her bodice told me all I needed to know. So I offered her mother half the money I had intended for the convent, and promised the girl the rest when her milk proved good. We settled on her coming the next day at supper time, after she had been shriven by a priest, and then I bought a jug of milk fresh from the cow.

I walked back up the pale road slowly, batting away the buzzing flies and trying to settle Evelina against my hip. I’d chosen her name from the cover of one of my mistress’s books, and reckoned it nicely new-fangled and not like the burden I must bear of living a life of damned Obedience. The truth was I’d got a right hankering to keep the babe. Aye, I knew it was mighty stupid, but I could not part from her. The way she clung to me, the soft unformed look of her, as if she’d break as easy as an eggshell, all snared my heartstrings. Yet I couldn’t settle on a plan at all, only to keep her from Mr Pars’ eyes until I knew where I might take her.

I looked anxiously about as my sore feet traipsed up the long drive back to the villa. There was something going on behind the house, for a dark billow of smoke rose from the garden, and bitter ash tainted the air. Contriving to tuck the baby beneath my cloak I slipped in by the front door and held my breath as I crept very nimbly to the kitchen. Thank the Lord Mr Pars was out at the back. From the kitchen window I could see him burning a great heap of stuff out in the garden. I warmed a little milk and Evelina took some from the spoon, until I set her down in the basket fast asleep.

That nuisance Bengo then scratched at the door, and to add to my labours, he had been disgustingly sick. The ratty creature was walking like a drunkard, it was quite comical to see it. On his snout was a crusty string of dried green sick, and there was more of it in the yard. Fearing he might betray Evelina to Mr Pars, I shut him outside the door with a dish of water.

I knew I must leave the very next day. Each time I glanced through the glass at Mr Pars I grew more and more uneasy. Though he was some distance away I could read a smug way about him; it was giving him a great deal of pleasure to destroy what looked to be my mistress’s goods. I wasn’t daft, I knew I had disobeyed him by bringing little Evelina back home. Thinking on his other request, I began to fret over Carinna’s jewel.

Just then the clock struck four of the afternoon. Why, it is only two hours till Mr Loveday comes home, I told myself cheerily. And so, to keep my spirits up, I did what I always do when I grow fretful. I started to cook.

The joint of Easter beef was hanging in the larder, so that was easily spitted over the fire. And there was fresh stuff in the pantry, plenty to use up if I was leaving the next day. When Mr Loveday returned all would be well, I told myself. No doubt after that we would all take our different roads, and I would take Evelina with me. Tonight called for a funeral supper for Carinna, it was the least I could do to remember her. I pulled out
The Cook’s Jewel
and found some fine receipts. As I laid out my cloths and spoons and bowls, all my fears seemed suddenly nonsense. First I made some pies and baked a fine white loaf. Then I started to mix some funeral cakes, and the delight of making a strange and interesting receipt worked on my nerves like balm. What with the pounding and sieving and careful cutting of the paper cases that the old receipt called
coffens,
were it not for Mr Pars and his hately threat I might have been happy. Why this is what I want, I realised with a most powerful understanding – to work in my own kitchen with little babes beside me. My very insides ached to think of my own unborn sons and daughters, and how I would fight like a she-wolf with anyone who tried to harm them. And if anyone should ever try to harm Evelina, I would kill them too.

Now ’tis a strange thing, that some folk think more clearly with a pipe clenched between their teeth, while others need a needle darting in their fingers. For me, the neat repetitions of cookery are the finest aid to cogitation. First I thought of the jewel and where to hide it from Mr Pars, and conceived a most wondrous place of concealment. It was the work of a moment to slip it safely away and to know I had carried out my mistress’s dying wish. Then I got back to work, and the table in the dining room soon had a clean white cloth and my pies and beef and fruits were laid out in a most genteel geometrical display. Then, as I spooned an equal part of the funeral cake mixture into each paper case, all the separate parts of what had happened these last months began to bind together too. As I baked my first batch I thought of my lady’s kindness in giving me her beautifying waters. As I washed the crocks I remembered my foolish suspicion that she had used sassafras to poison Sir Geoffrey. Why, I pondered, as I lifted the first cakes from the oven, I had been simple-minded to even think my mistress could poison anyone – it was more like she had herself been poisoned, for all her quick decline in health.

I slammed the hot board of cakes down on the table. Evelina raised a twitching hand in the air, but after a sucking motion with her lips she settled and slept once more. Poison? It had to be balderdash. Yet – Carinna’s greenish vomit had been no ordinary bile. And – that was it, that was what was mithering me – Bengo had suddenly sickened too, and had also vomited green stuff.

I clasped my fingers to my mouth as if to stop myself ever uttering such a word. No, I had to be wrong, for had not all of my mistress’s food been cooked and served by me? So maybe it was a contagion, I argued. For a moment I felt the balm of relief. Yet what contagion could have struck only her and Bengo? It had to be something she had eaten. Well, she had eaten syllabub, that was all, and I had concocted it. Indeed, I had sampled it and enjoyed it. Yet, Bengo had puked up greenish stuff too. What had they both eaten that no one else had touched?