An Appetite for Violets (6 page)

‘And last night’s supper was edible too. A passable plum fool. We enjoyed it, didn’t we Bengo, my baby?’ She scooped up the vile dog and clapped its front paws together. It glared at me with the popping eyes of a frog. I bowed my head a little and curtseyed.

‘Thank you, Ladyship,’ I mumbled.

‘I am sorting my gowns,’ she announced, after staring so long into my face that I wondered if I wore a smudge of oven grease. ‘And it pleases me to be generous to persons I like.’ Her eyes swept over her bounty of costumes. ‘I believe you deserve a reward, Biddy Leigh.’

‘Not me, Ladyship,’ I muttered, bobbing low while edging backwards. ‘I only done my duty.’ I had rescued my wages and wished never to see that strange woman again. She twisted sideways in her chair and pointed. ‘Now that dress, the rose silk. What is your estimate of that one?’

I did not have the eye of a town girl, to know my
Française
from my
Indienne,
but I could tell a fine stitch when I saw one. It was a beautiful dress, like a great blossoming bouquet of ruffled silk.

‘It is—’ I stopped and swallowed hard. The dark rose taffeta bodice was worked with tiny frills and bows that must have taken a seamstress many weeks of blood-pricking work.

‘Try it on.’

‘I could not.’ I backed away like it might strike me. She truly was the most peculiar mistress I had ever known.

‘I am commanding you. I want to see you in that dress.’

‘Me Lady,’ I protested. ‘I cannot—’

‘Do it!’ Her face was pinched with annoyance; the dark brows fierce. With eyes cast down I approached the dress and lifted it off its hook. It felt satin-cushioned, and as warm as newly risen dough. The skirts trailed the floor and I prayed I might not damage the precious fabric.

‘Over there, girl.’ With a waft of her wrist she directed me into a darker corner where a table stood littered with all the fine items of a lady’s toilet.

By the time I had heaved off my old woollen bodice I was hot with shame. My shift was brown with sweat and kitchen grease. The skirt I had so proudly stitched from a length of woollen drab now looked coarser than a horse blanket. A cloud of perfume was freed as I stepped into a fine pink petticoat that danced about my legs like whipped froth. As I eased into the narrow bodice it strained at my shoulders. Hard work changes a woman’s body, I knew that. For a moment I glanced up at my mistress and envied her the narrow shoulders and thin arms of those who can barely lift their own soup plates.

‘Aha. You look quite changed.’ She was laughing again; leaning back to release a husky chuckle. Then she walked towards me and stared so intently I blushed.

‘Look at yourself,’ my mistress commanded, taking my arm and leading me to a great glass on a frame. Have courage, I scolded myself, it is only a dress. I felt like a beggar shamming in a queen’s robes. As I reached the mirror I expected to look as foolish as a gimcrack doll and for my mistress to scoff at me.

So I was mightily surprised to see my reflection. I saw a fine woman gaze back from the glass. Tall and straight, with chestnut hair freed from her kitchen cap. A pale face with cheeks flushed like pippins fresh from the tree. A lively astonishment shone in eyes the colour of greengage wine. And the gown – why, it suited me better than many a merchant’s wife traipsing in lace along the Chester Rows. I stared at a delightful stranger who was straight, elegant, and pleasing to any eye.

‘Will they ever heal?’ Lady Carinna stood frowning beside me. I followed her gaze and lifted my forearms so the lace frills fell back. Bands of puckered flesh ran from fingertip to elbow – some were old silvered scars and others new and scarlet.

‘Never,’ I answered, ‘so long as I cook.’

She was beside me in the mirror, and for a moment we both gazed at our twin reflections. I was half aware that my mistress watched me, but was too entranced by my own reflection to look at her. With red roses in my hair I would be the bonniest bride our village had ever seen. Why, I would make Jem a fine coat from old brocade to match. We would be the finest couple who ever married from Mawton. Afterwards, of course, I would sell it. A gown like that would be worth five whole pounds at a second-hand clothes stall.

‘Take it,’ she announced suddenly.

I could not stop myself arching around in the mirror to see the elegant back falling like a pleated cloak down to the hem. ‘Thank you, mistress,’ I gabbled, ‘for letting me try it. But I cannot take it. It’s too fine for me.’

Her eyes narrowed in the looking glass.

‘Do not be a dunderhead, girl.’ She was walking away. ‘I could not wear it now you have touched it. I’ll think on how you pay me back. Go now. Take it. I must write a letter.’

I slipped it off as she returned to her desk. My head was addled to think that the dress was mine. As I pulled on my own worsted skirt it prickled like woven thistles. I picked up the scarlet gown in a great fat bundle that felt as heavy as a child.

‘Thank you, Me Lady,’ I repeated, frog-throated with gratitude. She waved me away without even lifting her head from her papers, so rapidly did she scribble. I would never have guessed that what inspired her was the scene she had just witnessed in her looking glass. For while I had stared starry-eyed into that mirror and seen me and Jem kissing at the church gate in all our finery, my mistress had seen an entirely different future for her pathetically grateful under-cook.

*   *   *

It’s said that dead souls walk on All Souls’ Night, bringing mischief to the world. That the Souling sets spirits free to play cruel tricks, bringing portents in mirrors, and messages glimpsed in moonlit wells. But that night no ghostly message came to me. Yet as for mischief coming my way, Lord, there was plenty of that brewing.

The servants’ hall was stuffed with that many revellers we could scarcely carry the food through them. A fiddle and pipe were screeching out songs and Old Ned warbled along, tankard sloshing in his hand. The young folk were whooping and dancing, with Teg cackling in their midst, her bubbies bouncing. I only half watched, for my new gown burned in my head like a rick-fire. By rights, my lady’s cast-offs were Jesmire’s, and I had only Lady Carinna’s word that I had got it honestly. If someone found it and she gave back-word, I might be hanged.

Our steward Mr Pars arrived; the crowd made a path for him and touched their caps, though he paid no heed to them at all. He stood apart, eating venison pie with pickle and cheese. A pettifogger some called him, and tonight he looked especially sour, his grizzled head hanging low and his jowls sagging. One parlour maid said she’d heard the new mistress hollering at him behind the door, but that sounded like hogwash to me. But anyone could see he were troubled. He was chewing as if his supper were sawdust, with his gaze on some other distant scene that would not leave him be.

Jem meanwhile was lurching with his cronies, swigging back pots of ale. I had a sudden pang of misgiving as I watched him. The addlehead had been drinking all day long. He can at least stand, I sighed inwardly. I must be patient and let the ale drop to his boots.

Once me and Sukey had cleared the few scraps of food left over, I could at last watch the Souling play. Our coachman George Stapleforth was King George in a red-crossed tabard. It was a treat to see him pricked on the end of a wooden sword. The Quack Doctor was trying to raise dead King George with his potion when I noticed Mr Loveday standing all alone by the side of the stage. No one had befriended him; all day the lads had found sport hollering ‘Hey, Tarbrush!’ and ‘Chimney Chops!’ as he went about his business. I swore I would return his kindness in some way, even if it meant some bouncing from the others.

As I watched him, Mr Loveday’s sad eyes turned around to a spot behind me, and he stiffened like a sentry. Mr Pars looked up and also gave a start. Turning around I found the object of their interest. Right near me, at the back of the hall, stood Lady Carinna, splendid in a blue gown that shone like an angel’s glory.

It was a battle for Mr Pars to reach her; his blood was up for he knocked a few loiterers out of his path.

He was stiffly correct by the time he bowed before her. ‘Lady Carinna. If you had but rung—’

‘Rung? Damn you, Pars. If there is no answer to my ringing?’ Her voice carried loudly and those close by began to turn and stare. Then the play halted too, for old George had missed his cue. For a moment there was a hubbub, till silence fell and Lady Carinna noticed us all agog.

‘Mr Pars,’ she hissed, as loud as a swishing whip, ‘I must discuss our departure at once.’ Then she turned with a rapid shimmer of blue silk and our steward trotted after her.

After a moment’s silence all the company burst into curious chatter.

‘Where she be off to then?’ asked fat Nell the laundress who stood close by me. ‘Back to London, you fancy?’

‘I hope so,’ I said, puzzled and uneasy. ‘For I reckon she brings only trouble here.’

VII

Mawton Lodge

The Correspondence of Mr Humphrey Pars
All Souls’ Day, 1st November 1772

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE

North Lodge

Mawton

1st November 1772

Mr Ozias Pars

Marsh Cottage

Saltford

Ozias,

Brother, I have no time for courtesies, for the news here at Mawton is so prodigious I must share it at once. Two days ago, Sir Geoffrey’s bride arrived here without news or notice. And this close on word that Sir Geoffrey himself has retreated to his Irish estate, after no more than ten days’ dalliance with his bride in London. Oh, the folly of old men!

As for the girl, she had not been here a single day before I knew her to be as tainted and shallow as a puddle. However, she does not lack a vixen’s cunning, as you will learn. Last night she confided to me that by the month’s end she will leave for France and onwards to Italy, where her uncle owns a property. I asked if her husband would join her. ‘No, no, he is too liverish to travel at this time of year,’ says she. ‘But he insists I must go for my health that declines in this northern chill. And I should like you to lead my little expedition, Pars, for I do so need a man of good sense to make my arrangements. Indeed, he writes to me of his absolute trust,’ she said, ‘that you will appoint a sound deputy while you are absent.’

Now letters had arrived, I knew that, but from her insistence on always sending her own man for the post box I had lost my usual intelligence. I left her with assurances I would think on the matter.

I have been considering the situation with great thoroughness of mind. I have sought assurances from young John Strutt that he will do his best to oversee my land agent’s duties, the farm and household. Then, last night on Souling Night my lady brought all to a head, interrupting the revels to tell me she wished urgently to gather the funds for her travel. No sooner was Sir Geoffrey’s dresser open than she rifled through it, as quick as a dealer of cards at the Assembly Rooms. Soon there was close upon £1,400 upon the table.

‘This is not suffcient,’ she said. ‘Look here, I bring with me a letter of credit signed by Sir Geoffrey himself. You must visit Sir Geoffrey’s banker in Chester tomorrow and draw a further £1,000 for the journey.’ I perused her letter and found it most properly drawn up, with Sir Geoffrey’s own seal and signature – a little shaky for sure, but I would swear in a court of law it was his own hand. Brother, you see how these Town Madams may run through a Fortune?

‘Speed is all,’ she entreated, ‘for we must leave for London and reach Dover before the winter storms.’

She then told me who should make up the party, the splendour of her equipage and so forth.

‘And I am to choose what jewels I like,’ she said, ‘for I must not embarrass Sir Geoffrey’s good name.’

Then she commanded me to give her Lady Maria’s jewel, the Mawton Rose. Oh, with what reluctance did I hand her that precious stone. If I were a man of fancy, I should say the gem cast a baleful glow on its new mistress’s greedy face. She pressed me to hang it about her neck, and as my fingers fumbled with the clasp I was dreadfully tormented by the memory of sweet Lady Maria.

Only as I left the room did she ask, ‘So you will join my little adventure?’ I looked at the bonds and the jewel and her cunning narrow face and replied, ‘I will indeed, My Lady.’

To my advantage, I believe she thinks me some sort of witless drudge, but I will watch and wait and bide my time.

E’en so, brother, my heart beats as quick as a soldier’s tattoo at such a rapid change in my affairs. I have maps to obtain, strongboxes to be commanded, horses to inspect, and sailing times to negotiate. I will go Ozias, and I will protect my master’s interests. On my oath I will do all in my means to protect the Mawton fortune, should I travel from here to Italy or around the world and back again. I shall write when I may from the road and by that means I shall instruct you as,

Your zealous brother,

Humphrey Pars

VIII

Mawton Hall