Bone China

by Laura Purcell

  When I returned with the cup of tea, I paused outside Lady Rose’s door, listening to them talk.

  ‘I fear you will ask me to forsake my snuffbox next.’

  ‘No, madam, providing it is used in moderation.’

  ‘To think that I did so many heedless things!’ Lady Rose exclaimed. ‘With my last child … I was not certain, you see. But now I fear I must have hurt the poor creature, eating and drinking and riding about in the carriage as I did. Nobody warned me.’

  ‘No, indeed. You were not to know, madam. Only those conversant with the very latest discoveries would be able to tell you. Our understanding of the child as it forms has changed.’

  ‘Stevens’s mother is a midwife.’ I heard a strain in Lady Rose’s voice. Not precisely distrust. Something worse: disappointment. ‘It seems she must be rather a shabby one, for Stevens never said a word about any of this.’

  Pride throbbed.

  ‘No one can know what they are not taught, madam.’

  ‘True,’ she sighed. ‘It is a prodigious shame. I had started to think my maid rather clever about these sort of things.’

  Chapter 12

  It felt like Yuletide once we had mulled the wine. Of course we would not decorate the house until Christmas Eve, but already preparations were afoot. Mrs Glover had put in the order for the hog’s head and decided where we would hang the bows of evergreen. The kitchen took on the fragrance of celebration: citrus, plums and cloves.

  The gaoler – as I had come to think of Mrs Friar – would not permit my mistress a taste of the season’s delights. Nothing sweet over the entire Christmas period, no rich meat and no assemblies either. While I would be rejoicing in Lady Rose’s company, glad to keep her all to myself, she would feel forlorn.

  I could not bear that. So, pouring a little of the wine into a long-stemmed glass, I sneaked out of the kitchen and went in search of her.

  There were few occasions I found Lady Rose alone in those days, but I could be sure that her piano practice would remain unmolested by Mrs Friar. She was playing now, filling the house with carols. I followed her clear voice up the stairs, as I had that night of the assembly: stealthily, hoping no one could see me. It was brave of her, I thought, to return to that room and its instrument in her current condition. A superstitious woman might fear the same thing would happen again.

  But she was singing of joy. ‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks’. I had heard it a thousand times, even sung it once myself in a wassail, yet it fell upon my ears as a new-made creation. Pushing the door ajar, I peeped through.

  The drawing room looked tired, the carpet spread once more over the floorboards. They had turned the piano to face a different direction. All I could see was the back of Lady Rose’s neck and a scoop of skin before the buttons started on her muslin dress.

  She must have felt the heat of my gaze for her hand faltered and a note rang false. Cursing beneath her breath, she leant back on the stool and shook out her cramped fingers.

  ‘My lady,’ I whispered.

  ‘Stevens? Is that you? What do you do here?’

  Creeping in, I placed a finger to my lips. The door clicked shut behind me.

  She did not smile, as she used to at my arrival. In fact, she did not appear like her usual self at all. The baby had made her put on flesh, but her cheeks had lost their petals thanks to the ‘lowering treatment’. Last time round she had glowed, a flower budding, yet with this pregnancy she was drab as a caterpillar’s cocoon. Mrs Friar had much to answer for.

  ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, my lady,’ I murmured. ‘I just thought … while she is not here.’ I stepped closer, proffering the glass. ‘It does not really feel like Christmas without a sip of mulled wine.’

  Its aroma lifted with the steam, berry-rich.

  I saw her wet her lips. Tempted. ‘I did not ask you for a drink, Stevens.’

  ‘No. I merely thought you might enjoy it. It seems unfair to keep you from everything sugary or pleasant to taste. Especially while you are bled so regularly.’

  She closed the lid over the piano keys. ‘Mrs Friar has forbidden wine.’

  ‘Yes. But Mrs Windrop has also forbidden a great many things, and that has not stopped us,’ I wheedled. The glass hovered between us. With all my strength, I willed her to take it.

  She averted her face. Would not look at the wine, lest she succumb. ‘I find Mrs Friar’s restrictions are administered with a much kinder intent than my mother-in-law’s.’

  ‘Perhaps they are, my lady. I hope so. But you do look very pale. Drawn. It seems rather cruel of her to use you so.’

  Her shoulders set rigid. ‘Mrs Friar is trying to help me protect this baby.’

  She would not drain the glass, but in a strange way I felt she was draining me, drop by drop. All our past association seemed to be trickling away. I had always anticipated her needs, but now she was denying them, acting as if I offered not a treat, but a serpent.

  ‘Surely one sip …’ I smiled.

  ‘I am surprised at you, Stevens. You, who know how I suffered.’

  I crept closer. ‘It was not wine that took your last child.’

  ‘Do you know that? Truly? Can you swear with your hand upon your heart? For I cannot.’ She wrapped her arms around her belly. ‘I have no idea what did it. I trust Mrs Friar. I must follow her advice.’

  ‘But I have never heard of such a thing before, my lady.’

  My world narrowed to that one glass: it seemed that if only I could persuade her to take it, everything would be mended. I would endure Mrs Friar without a word of reproach for the length of the confinement – beyond, if required. Only let Lady Rose taste this wine and prove her regard for me.

  ‘My mother is a midwife,’ I tried. ‘She knows the ways of a child inside the womb.’

  ‘There are … new discoveries,’ she spluttered, weakening.

  ‘Nearly every mother consumes alcohol during her confinement. Why, I have seen wine fed to a newborn baby.’

  ‘All the same, I will not. Please take it away.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think I would suggest any action that would harm—’

  ‘Take it away!’ She did not realise how close I was standing. As she flung out her hand to enforce the sentence, she knocked the glass from my hands.

  I gasped. Wine swept across the floor. There seemed so much more of it than I had poured.

  Lady Rose’s lip trembled. For a moment she stared at the carpet, stained as if from slaughter.

  ‘Clear that up, Stevens. Let us say no more about it.’

  Then she turned on her stool, reopened the piano and began to play again.

  That was the worst part: the music. Her way of reminding me that I was nothing: a mere interruption to her practice.

  Humiliated, I dropped to my knees and began to gather the slivers into my apron. The glass had broken into shards that cut me.

  I was glad. Glad to have an outward mark of what she had done to me.

  When I stood, the fragments made a sound like grinding teeth. After I had disposed of them, I would need to come back with a bucket and mop to clean the spilled wine.

  Lady Rose did not even raise her head from the keys as I left.

  My eyes were hot. Burning with shame, pain and anger, I felt that if my gaze fell upon the Yule log, it would ignite at once.

  But it was not a log I saw. It was her.

  She was at the other end of the landing, oblivious to me, taking the staircase up to the servants’ quarters. The path I often trod, between Lady Rose’s suite and my own rooms.

  Mrs Friar was echoing my steps.

  Over her arm hung a swathe of pea-green. An old friend to me: the morning dress trimmed with yellow. I had washed it, pressed it and arranged it over Lady Rose. Now another held it with reverence.

  Mrs Friar was no thief. I can say that much in her favour; she was too sensible, too measured. I wish she had stolen it. I could have forgiven that. But the fact that she was carrying a gown fro
m Lady Rose’s room to her own could mean only one thing.

  My mistress had given it as a gift.

  I was not special at all.

  *

  I hardly slept that night. It is no exoneration, but I feel compelled to describe the frayed state of my nerves. What follows is easier comprehended after a glimpse into the torturous hours I spent alone, weeping until my eyes swelled and I thought my head would crack from the pressure of my tears.

  They left wet marks upon the travelling dress she had given to me. Fawn and blue. Half the night, I held it with the grip of one who was drowning. Then I thought of the handsome gown Mrs Friar had received and its costly fabric; how it had been a dress that Lady Rose wore, treasured. By comparison, the travelling gown felt like an insult. I threw it off the bed, but that was not enough. Only thrusting it inside my trunk at the bottom of the wardrobe afforded me satisfaction.

  Perhaps I was ill. Feverish. I remember lying on top of the covers, even though it was a cold December. When I awoke, I took scarcely any breakfast. Burns, sitting at my side, did not remark upon it, but I know she saw. She saw more than I gave her credit for.

  Thanks to Mrs Friar, the morning ritual of mixing chocolate was lost to me. Instead, I poured a glass of barley water and left the kitchen, climbing the stairs in a sort of haze. The marble pillars and chandeliers were there, as they had always been, yet the house that I had cherished seemed beyond my reach now. I held no part in it.

  Only in the yellow glow of Lady Rose’s bedchamber did objects resume their proper shape. It was a bright, frosty day. Even with the shutters closed, sunlight was leaking in.

  It fell upon a chair. The parcel of baby clothes I had made and later hidden at the bottom of the press lay unwrapped there.

  Hope sparked, ever so faint. Had Lady Rose found the gift and softened towards me? Mrs Friar was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my mistress had told her to keep away, so we might talk this morning?

  I loved her, you see. I wanted to believe the best of her.

  For a moment I watched her at rest, eyes flicking gently beneath their lids. Brown marks powdered the underside of her nose. She had been taking more snuff of late.

  I touched her arm. ‘My lady, it is morning.’

  She grunted, stirred.

  Placing the barley water beside her bed, I went to the window and drew back the shutters. Everything was illuminated. My head began to ache from the glare of sunlight bouncing off the frosted rooftops.

  I heard my lady sigh and heave herself up in bed. A clink as she picked up the glass. Still I waited, forcing my watering eyes to watch the street. Any minute now, I thought, she will mention the clothes. Thank me.

  There was nothing.

  She could not have forgotten. The chair stood right opposite her bed. It would be before her gaze now as she sat against the headboard and sipped her drink.

  Silence pressed down upon us.

  At last, ‘Stevens.’

  In that second of joy, I might have wept. She would apologise for all that had happened, I was sure. The spilled wine and the shattered glass would pass from us like a bad dream.

  I turned to face her.

  ‘Stevens,’ she said carelessly, running a hand through her bedraggled hair, ‘my snuffbox is empty. Be so good as to refill it.’

  I swayed on my feet.

  I do not know what would have happened next if Mrs Friar had not chosen that moment to knock at the door and enter without waiting for an answer. For the first time in my life, I was grateful to her. The distraction gave me time to move to the dressing table and turn my back on Lady Rose.

  I thought I needed time to compose myself, but that was not true. It was a nerveless, dead creature that picked up the snuffbox from the table and placed it in her apron. Lady Rose and Mrs Friar were talking, but I heard nothing of their conversation.

  Of course I had experienced casual cruelty from the gentry before. There was no particular reason this instance should strike me like a bolt of ice to the heart. But it did and it changed everything: transmuted Lady Rose from a woman I loved into a beast whose jaw must be bound.

  Moving towards the door, I stopped and curtseyed. ‘Will there be anything else, my lady?’ The words might have come from an automaton. She must have heard the alteration in my voice, for she glanced at me. Her brow furrowed. She did not recognise me either, I thought. It was as though we had never met.

  Mrs Friar spoke. ‘It is cold today, Lady Rose. Perhaps a tisane would warm you?’

  ‘Very well. If you please, Stevens.’

  Those were the last words she said to me.

  I do not remember descending to the lower regions but all at once I seemed to be in the kitchen’s bronze glare with pans of water steaming around me. Logs smoked on the fire. Burns was there, making something for Mrs Windrop, but I was not really aware of her. Nor did I track the movements of my hands. They knew what to do.

  Juniper, tansy oil, rue, pennyroyal. Women came to my mother to get their babies out of their bellies, yes, but there was more than one way to achieve that. Not all of them wanted to wait the full term. I had seen them come and go in secret: mothers who could not afford to feed another mouth.

  Afterwards, she would need me again. Mrs Friar would leave in disgrace.

  I poured the mixture into a delicate Willow pattern teacup, sliced some sugar from the loaf and mixed it in to disguise the taste. When the ripples subsided, I saw my face staring back at me.

  Something inside stuttered. Call it conscience, my good angel, whatever you will. I cannot name it, I only know that I paused there before the smoking cup.

  My fingers groped for the snuffbox in my apron. Its cool shape steadied me. Suppose I made the snuff first and carried both items upstairs together? It would give me a little time to think.

  Wrenching myself away from the kitchen table, I left the tisane and went to the pantry.

  I spread out a sheet of vellum and sprinkled it with violet water. As I began to grind and blend the ingredients for Violet Strasbourg snuff upon it, I seemed to wake from a dream, my skin hot and cold by turns. Had I really … What in the name of God was I thinking?

  I could not feed Lady Rose an abortifacient. I knew what a baby meant to her. Had I forgotten those desperate tears, the day she had stood on Westminster Bridge and yearned for the waters to take her? If she miscarried, Mrs Windrop and Burns would smirk, triumphant. Sir Arthur … I was not sure how it would move him. But he suspected me, that much was certain. Poisoning my mistress would be playing straight into his hands.

  And of course, Mrs Friar was no fool. How had I not considered that? Surely, she would investigate the tisane or at least be able to guess at its contents. There was little chance of my emerging unscathed with her watching my actions.

  It had been an evil, stupid thing. A moment of madness. Of course I could not do it! I loved her. Truly, I did.

  I tipped the snuff into the box and snapped the lid shut, as if that were an end to the matter.

  A fresh tisane would need to be brewed; my lady would be impatient, ask what had taken me so long. But I could endure her harsh words. Better that than to see her lovely face crumpled in pain and anguish.

  Walking back into the kitchen, I went to the table, ready to pour the diabolical mixture down the privy where it belonged.

  The Willow pattern cup had gone.

  Foolishly, I wiped my eyes, expecting the view to change. It did not. I even crouched down and looked beneath the table. There was only dust and crumbs, no trace of my sin.

  Sweat ran down the back of my neck. The fire felt outrageously hot.

  A scullery maid must have cleared it away; that was the only explanation. Some officious girl who saw the cup there and thought it had been discarded. Well, she had executed my task for me. So long as the thing was gone.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, I brewed something better for my mistress from peppermint leaves. My slick hands fumbled to perform their tasks. I still felt warm, a little
feverish, as if I had survived a great ordeal. I suppose I had.

  I daresay the tisane I botched together was of an indifferent quality. I never found out. For when I opened the door to the kitchen, Burns was standing on the other side.

  She wore the black dress I had noted that first day. Her face did not match its sombre hues. She was vivid, alive with something thoroughly repellent.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said.

  A grin crept up her cheek. ‘Did she ask for another one already?’

  ‘Another …?’

  She gestured at the cup in my hands. ‘It seems your mistress has a taste for poisonous herbs.’

  My mouth turned parchment dry. A low buzz started in my head. I stared, dumb, a partridge flushed out by dogs.

  ‘I saw the ingredients,’ she added maliciously. ‘One of your receipts, was it? No need to write it down. I committed every step to memory … just in case someone should ask me what you put in that cup.’

  ‘That was not for … I did not …’ I wet my lips and cleared my throat. ‘You are mistaken, Burns. I did not take that drink to Lady Rose.’

  ‘No. But I did.’

  I had only seen such exalting hate once before: at a public execution. Now I was there again, only this time the noose was around my own throat. The floor dropped away beneath my feet and I began to choke.

  ‘Careless, to leave it sitting about like that. I said as much to Lady Rose. Of course she defended you, expected you had forgotten it in your haste to mix her snuff.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘She has probably finished by now. You had better go and collect the cup.’

  I did the only thing I could: I flung the peppermint tisane in her face.

  She was too shocked to cry out. I heard her gasp, then a sound like a nut cracking as the cup and saucer fell to the floor.

  I pushed past her and I ran.

  My skirts tripped me on the stairs. Half-crawling, I grappled my way, up and up, to the servants’ quarters. There was no time to think of Lady Rose; it was already too late to stop her from taking the drink.

  Opening the wardrobe, I pulled out my trunk and flung a gown and some caps on top of the travelling dress. There was a little money in my reticule, wages from last quarter and odd coins which Lady Rose had given me to fetch ribbons and bonbons. I had a hip flask for water and the full snuffbox. It was all I dared stop to pack.