Trip to London
My life with John took on a new dimension each day. Melanie, on the other hand, changed into a sullen and detached servant. I anticipated John’s time with her had faded into obscurity, but I possessed no proof that was indeed the case. Because his attention toward me deepened, I felt encouraged. Battles had been won, but the war for his heart still raged.
As our intimacy improved, I yearned to become pregnant. I harbored a secret fear if he still visited Melanie’s bed she might win the blessing that should be mine. I wanted her to remain barren, for dealing with a child between the two of them would certainly be more than I could handle.
Nevertheless, as the weeks passed, I noticed my health deteriorating. Headaches, nausea, and fatigue became part of my morning routine. I began to suspect that I might be pregnant because my menses had not arrived on time either. In my heart, I knew if I could give him an heir, it would certainly win his love.
Not wishing to tell him until I knew for certain, I asked if he had any objection to my going to London on a shopping spree. My intent was not to procure a new dress but to visit a physician. I feared that if I sought medical attention in Dorchester, he would somehow hear about my visit.
I hated to leave the estate for an extended period because I worried that he and Melanie would take the opportunity to be together. Every day I lived with little knowledge regarding their current relationship. It had been impossible to snoop around and follow him wherever he went. I did take note, nevertheless, of his excuses to meet with Mr. Williams and to ride off somewhere on his fourteen hundred acres to talk about business. Daily I wrestled with the pain of betrayal while clinging to the hope of newfound loyalty.
After convincing myself that I had to take the risk and leave Blythe Court, I made the suggestion during dinner.
“Do you mind if I take a short trip to London? I would like to go shopping if you don’t mind.”
“London?” He raised his head and looked at me. “Why there? Can’t you shop in Dorchester?”
“Well, I could,” I began, sounding like a spoiled child, “but the best fashions are in London. I will only be gone for one night.” The thought of being away only for a short time increased the queasiness in my stomach. Would they meet in the tower? Would she come to his bedchamber? Would he go to her? I could easily drive myself insane speculating.
“Where will you stay? I don’t particularly care for you traveling by yourself.” He frowned at me as if he did not trust or approve of my leaving.
“Do you think your cousin Charlene might put me up for the night?” I hadn’t thought of it before until I noticed his resistance to my suggestion.
“Well, I suppose you can take the train. It is three hours, you know, from here to London. I can write ahead that you are coming, but I want confirmation first they can accommodate your arrival.”
“Of course, John,” I agreed, slightly irritated by the wait. Nevertheless, I did not want to argue lest he changed his mind.
I dabbed my lips with a napkin and glanced up to catch him staring at me. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me for any money,” he grinned. “How will you fund this shopping spree of yours?”
The devilish look in his eyes was playful. I had not even thought of asking for money, thanks to my mind being muddled with deceitful plans.
“Would fifty pounds be too much?” I scrunched my shoulders, bracing myself for his answer.
“By the time you pay for your train ticket, transportation in London, and shopping, you’ll return with a few crowns in your purse.” He pondered for a moment then continued. “Two hundred pounds should be adequate, on one condition.”
“And what would that be?”
“Purchase something in red,” he said. “It’s my favorite color, but you never wear it.”
I brought my hand to my mouth and snickered about the suggestion. “Oh, I think that can be arranged, your lordship.” My eyes expressed love while his reflected a hint of affection. Within the next week, I hoped to be in London.
* * * *
Charlene met me at the station. Though we had not formed any type of friendship, I wished to try to forge one during my short stay. To my disappointment, however, I did not sense she necessarily shared the same wishes.
After I had disembarked, we gave each other a ceremonial greeting, hugging for a mere second.
“How was your trip?” she asked.
“Pleasant,” I replied. It had been a tiring journey, and my body ached with exhaustion. Her driver offered to carry my suitcase and led us out to the waiting carriage.
“John wrote that you wanted to go shopping. Don’t you have a seamstress in Dorchester?”
“Not really,” I sighed. “I have not made any regular trips into town to look for one, frankly.” I thought of Melanie’s poor skills and decided to bring her name up into the conversation for a reaction. “My lady’s maid, I’m afraid, does not possess any talents as a seamstress. I asked her to mend a few rips in my dresses, and the outcome was disastrous.”
“I’m not surprised,” Charlene said. “From what I understand she’s always been a chambermaid at Blythe Court. To be honest, I was surprised John allowed her to serve you at all.”
“Well, it was not his doing,” I clarified. “She helped me during the weekend house party. I found her to be delightful and asked if she would attend me after the wedding.”
Charlene did not respond but appeared to ponder my explanation. We climbed into the carriage and shortly thereafter arrived at her residence.
“Mother and Father are away, so it is only the two of us,” she said. “I hope you do not mind.”
“No, that is fine.”
“Follow me, and I’ll show you to your room.”
Charlene led the way upstairs. As she walked before me, I sensed an unhappy young woman. She had scarcely smiled since my arrival. Whether she disliked me or something else weighed heavily upon her heart, I could not tell. I hoped during dinner we might have a long talk and become better acquainted.
“You should be comfortable here,” she said, opening the door and leading me into a bedchamber. The footman set my suitcase down and departed.
“If there is anything you need, let me know,” she offered. “Do you plan on shopping this afternoon?”
“No, I thought I would in the morning. I do, however, have an appointment about three o’clock with an old friend that I promised to meet for tea.”
“Oh,” she replied, looking at me strangely.
“I would invite you to come, but I am afraid we would bore you with our childhood stories. We grew up together.” The lies poured from my lips without an ounce of remorse.
“That is quite all right. We can talk at dinner, and I will suggest some dress shops for you to visit in the morning.”
“Thank you for understanding, Charlene. I do not wish to injure your spirits since you have been so hospitable to put me up for the night.”
“Think nothing of it,” she replied.
Her sincerity was palpable, so I quickly pushed aside any guilt. At three o’clock, I would visit Dr. Branson, who had been my family’s medical practitioner on previous occasions while in London. I had written ahead of time and secured an appointment. Anxious to discover if I carried John’s child, I unpacked and readied myself.
* * * *
“How many menses have you missed, Lady Broadhurst?” Dr. Branson asked as I lay on the table while he examined me.
“Two.” I glanced at the nurse watching me endure the embarrassing parting of my legs and intimate parts.
“Any other symptoms?”
“I have been exhausted of late and experiencing nausea, abdominal pain, and headaches,” I said.
“And you are sexually active with your spouse, I take it?”
I thought it a ludicrous question but responded. “Yes, of course.”
“And is he monogamous with you?”
I nearly shot up from the table. “Do you mean is he having an a
ffair?”
“I know it is not a question wives like to discuss, but it helps to identify the possibility of syphilis.”
Syphilis? My mouth gaped open. I had never considered such a dreadful diagnosis. My eyes stung with tears considering the horrifying possibility.
“You mean I could be infected?” He did not immediately reply as he continued his internal examination. The possibility of such a terrible thing actually made me tremble.
“You may sit up now,” he said, finishing his inspection. He looked at me with concern. “The good news is you are clean from infection. I see no indication of syphilis.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, dear God, thank you,” I mumbled, closing my eyes in relief. “Am I pregnant?”
He shook his head negatively. “At this early stage, it is challenging to ascertain if you are pregnant by mere examination. If you are, by the third month of missing your menses, you should notice a slightly rounded abdomen. You say you have no increased appetite, but a lack of one?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“Honestly, I doubt you are. Upon my examination, I observed your uterus is tilted. This often contributes to an inability to conceive.”
“You mean I might not be able to get pregnant?” My heart sank in despair.
“Not necessarily, but I am pleased to say that is not always the case. Certain positions between your husband and yourself might aid in conception.”
Even though he left me with a spot of hope, I found it to be of little comfort.
“Since you are not pregnant, we are faced with the mystery of the origin of your headaches, stomach pain, and fatigue. Can you tell me when you first noticed these symptoms?”
My mind wandered back counting the weeks. “A little over a month ago in the morning after my tea and bread.”
He stroked his chin and thoughtfully stood there gazing at me. “Let me see your hands,” he asked.
Even though I thought his request odd, I held out both of my hands palms up. He turned them over and carefully studied my nails. “Hum,” he mumbled, looking at each finger. His brow creased with concern.
“Hum what?”
“You see these white lines on your nails?” he asked. He pointed to them with his index finger.
“Yes, I have noticed them of late. What do they mean?” I pulled my hands back and clasped them together in my lap.
“You say you live at Blythe Court outside of Dorchester. Has anyone tested your water supply in the past year?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I replied, scrunching my brow. “It is an old estate and dates back to the thirteenth century. What in the world does our water supply have to do with my nails?”
“There could be arsenic in your well water or some other type of heavy metal, which produces the same kind of symptoms. The fact you have missed a few menses is not unusual if your body has ingested anything out of the ordinary.”
“But no one else has been sick,” I countered. My response caused me to pause as I tried to deduce its origins.
“Well, small doses can cause these minor symptoms, but if they persist over a longer period of time, it could lead to an unpleasant and painful death.”
My mouth gaped open, and I swore my heart stopped beating. I could not speak as my mind drifted to Melanie, who brought my morning tea and bread. Could she be responsible? Had my plan worked so well she needed to do away with me entirely in order to keep John?
“And what about your bedchamber, Lady Broadhurst. Does it have green wallpaper?”
“No, it has wood-paneled walls,” I replied. “Why are you asking about the color of my wall coverings?”
“The green pigment in wallpaper contains arsenic. Some of my patients have seen significant improvement in their health by getting rid of the wallpaper in their homes.”
“And where else can it be found?”
“As you know, it is readily available for purchase from any druggist.”
I barely knew anything about arsenic or how it could be easily obtained.
“Well, if the source is not from the wallpaper,” he continued, “I would suggest you have the water supply tested. If you have any green dresses, you can test if the pigment coloring has arsenic by dropping a small amount of ammonia on the fabric. If it turns blue, arsenic is present in the dye, and you should destroy the dress.”
“Anything else?”
“If symptoms become precariously acute, you should seek medical attention immediately.”
For a brief moment, I stared at the white lines on my nails. “Isn’t arsenic also used to murder people?” I innocently asked, looking at my physician. My tongue articulated the shocking thought floating through my mind, as I tried to process how I had been exposed.
Dr. Branson had a hearty laugh at my expense, as well as the nurse in the room. Apparently, they found my question quite humorous.
“In murder mystery novels,” Dr. Branson said, grinning. “I have yet to meet anyone who has actually used arsenic to kill one of my patients.”
His carefree voice indicated he had not taken my question seriously, but his smile faded. My countenance betrayed the terrifying thoughts running around in my brain.
“Are you suggesting your husband might be trying to kill you?”
I quickly dismissed his assumption. “Oh, absolutely not,” I emphatically declared. “We are in love. I do suppose I am prone to being caught up in sensational storytelling. It is all the rage with the ladies these days.”
“Oh, yes, I know very well. My wife regularly reads short stories in The Strand Magazine regarding murders being investigated by Scotland Yard and women poisoning their husbands. I have no idea what all the fuss is about.” He bellowed a hearty laugh. “Maybe I should worry that my wife wishes to poison me.”
Though Dr. Branson thought lightly of the possibility, I could not shake off an ominous feeling while thinking of Melanie. “Frankly, I am worried,” I said, showing him my concern.
“Try a process of elimination and that should lead you to the cause. My suggestion would be to drink more wine and dispense with anything brewed with your water supply, such as tea and coffee and see if it helps to minimize the symptoms.”
Process of elimination. It sounded like a wise course of action. I would refuse my morning tea and bread and see if it made a difference.
“Well, if the poisoning stops will I recover and the symptoms go away?”
“Depending on how much you have ingested, it could take some time. Nevertheless, I have seen a few of my patients improve their health significantly once the source has been identified and eliminated.”
“Then I will eliminate it,” I replied. A mixture of fear and determination flushed through my veins. From this point onward, I would refuse any tea or bits of food presented to me by Melanie.
Unspoken Secrets
Upon my return, I felt as numb as the day I saw John and Melanie embrace. Needless to say, my disappointment about not being pregnant weighed heavily on my already broken heart. I wanted and needed a baby for both of our sakes. It appeared my prayers would continue to go unanswered. To make it even more depressing, now I knew it might be a challenge getting pregnant.
Beyond dealing with the fright of that revelation, I had been faced with the terrible possibility I had somehow ingested arsenic. Whether by nature or by the hand of a human, I was not sure. Nevertheless, I had deep-seated suspicions my tea contained more than the brew I loved to drink each morning.
I met Charlene in the parlor and could barely focus my mind. The white lines in my nails mesmerized me into a state of despondency. It did not take long for my host to inquire about my odd behavior.
“Did you have a pleasant tea this afternoon with your friend?”
I lifted my head at the sound of Charlene’s voice. “Tea?” I replied, looking at her as if I hadn’t an inkling of what she was talking about. Thankfully, my memory prompted me about my earlier lie. “Oh tea,” I exclaimed. “Yes, it was…” My voice trailed
off into silence as an overwhelming bout of tension swept over me, stealing the breath from my lungs. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I sobbed loudly like a baby in front of John’s cousin, who I barely knew. She reached out and touched my hand.
“Good gracious, Ann, what is wrong?”
“Oh, Charlene, I have no one to talk to, and so much is weighing on my heart.” My short confession did nothing to allay my apprehension.
“If it makes you feel better, I do have a good ear for listening,” Charlene replied. “I know we barely know each other, but I hate to see anyone in such a state of despair.”
After sniffing a few times and wiping my face with the palm of my hands, I looked into her eyes. Her soft voice and sincere words encouraged me to bear my heart.
“I didn’t have tea with a friend,” I began. “I lied to you.”
“You must have reasons,” Charlene replied with little alarm.
“I went to see a physician hoping to find out if I might be pregnant.”
“And are you?” she asked enthusiastically, reaching out and squeezing my hand.
Words failed me, so I merely shook my head no.
“Oh, I’m so very sorry,” Charlene said. “John will be disappointed no doubt.”
“It’s more than that,” I added. My voice trembled as I thought about telling her everything.
“More than what?” she asked.
“It appears I am ill due to arsenic poisoning of some sort either from the water or elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Charlene squawked. “What do you mean elsewhere?” Her eyes widened in horror. “Certainly, you are not accusing John of doing anything so dreadful to you.”
“No, but there is another who may wish to do me harm because of John,” I replied. My eyes warily waited for Charlene’s reaction.
“Melanie,” she said with acute certainty. Charlene lowered her eyes and shook her head.
“I know of their affair,” I swiftly answered to dispel any conjecturing on her part of what knowledge I possessed.
“You know?”
“Yes, I know. Tell me how long this has been going on and why?”
Blythe Court (Novella) Page 9