Unless I left. I could leave, I suppose, if something happened to Father.
Why not? I could leave Hulne Abbey to crumble and the gardens to grow wild. Someday, after many seasons of snow and rain, the iron lock that seals the great black gate to the apothecary garden would rust and break open. The heavy chain would slip to the ground, and all the deadly plants would be loosed upon the world—
This is all more foolishness. I am used to being alone, and it is ridiculous to mind it. Father is fine, I know it. He is too clever and strong to let anything bad happen to him. And I have plenty of work to occupy me and keep my thoughts from straying into dark corners. I check my list:
I will turn over the empty garden beds and prepare them for planting.
I will spread a fresh layer of mulch over the strawberry patch.
I will cut back last year’s dead growth on all the kitchen herbs, right to the ground, so the new sprouts will have sun and room to grow.
Good health to Father, I think nervously. A quick recovery to his patient, whomever it may be. A safe and speedy return to the cottage.
But it occurs to me: Perhaps there is no one sick. Perhaps Father is at Alnwick, at the castle library, lost in his research and the workings of his own mind, and that is why he has not thought to send word to me. Perhaps he has finally found the mysterious books he has sought for so long, among the duke’s many ancient and dusty volumes—the ones he believes may have been rescued from the hospital of the old monastery, before the soldiers came to burn what would burn and smash the rest.
Do these volumes even exist? Father believes they do. He believes passionately and without proof, the way other men believe in God. He often talks of these books in the evenings in our parlor, a glass of absinthe and water in his hand. When he speaks of them, his speech quickens and his eyes flash.
“The monastery hospital was famous throughout Europe,” he begins, as if I had not heard this tale from birth. “The monks’ power to heal the sick was so great that the people called them miracle workers, and sometimes even saints.” Then he laughs. “Anyone could be such a saint, if they had access to the same information as those long-dead holy men! Someone must have saved the volumes that contain all the monks’ wisdom. It would have been madness not to.”
He sips his green, licorice-scented drink and continues in this vein until the fire dies and my head nods forward on my chest.
Sometimes I think Father’s hunger to know what the monks knew is a madness all its own. Once, long ago, I watched him dig up a ten-foot square in a distant field to twice the depth of his spade. He planted nothing, but visited the place daily for weeks, to see if anything unusual had sprouted in the freshly turned earth.
“Did you think your shovel might wake the bones of all those dead monks, until they rise and tell you their secrets?” I joked nervously as I watched him sift through the dirt with his fingers.
“The monks may be dead, but their medicines still lie sleeping in the ground.” There was an edge to his voice. “Hidden deep in the cold, dark earth, a seed can be nearly immortal. Even after so many years, if exposed once more to the light and air and rain, there is a chance some long-forgotten plant of great power may yet reveal itself.”
I had meant only to tease, but instead I seem to have stirred Father’s anger, for he kept muttering furiously to himself: “But what of it? Any discovery I make will be useless, unless I can learn the specimen’s properties, its uses, its dangers….”
“No one knows more about plants than you do, Father,” I said, to calm him.
He climbed to his feet, dirt clinging to his knees.
All at once he was shouting. “Compared to the monks I know nothing! I dig blindly to rediscover what they took as common sense. The formulae all burned, the wisdom of centuries in ashes…. To kill such knowledge is itself murder—it is worse than murder—”
Father raged on. I stopped listening and let his voice turn to a wordless buzz, a hornet floating near my ear. All I could think was, But how could a puny seed be immortal, when it was so easy for Mama to die?
Wait, I hear someone at the door—it must be Father home at last—
3
17th March
Warmer today, but a steady wind blows from the east, smelling faintly of the sea. The sun peeked through the clouds briefly after lunch. Then gray skies once more.
Made breakfast for Father, who ate little and said less. After the meal he went straight to his study and locked the door. I am alone again.
Changed the soaking water for the belladonna seeds—only one more day beforethey are ready for planting!
Father still has not told me where he was.
I TRY TO BUSY MYSELF with chores. I practice sketching, though I can find nothing of interest to sketch: a kettle, a chair, a ball of yarn.
After lunch I can stand it no longer. The fire is still in embers, so I am quickly able to rekindle it and put on a kettle of water for tea. As soon as the tea is ready, I set it on a tray and proceed to Father’s study.
Before I knock, I peer through the keyhole. What I see only fills me with more questions. Father paces around the room and mutters like a wild thing, grabbing volumes from the shelves and throwing them down again. His heavy leather-bound book of formulas, the one he keeps locked in a drawer, lies open on his desk. Now and then he comes back to the book and leafs through the pages, looking for something that he clearly cannot find.
I take a deep breath to calm myself and knock on the great wooden door.
“Father? I brought you some tea.”
Silence. Then:
“I did not ask for tea, Jessamine.”
“I want to speak to you.”
A thud, as of a large book slammed shut. The bang of a drawer closing, the click of a lock. Father opens the door, the small gold key still in his hand.
“Speak, then. I am busy; I am sure you can deduce that from the state of my desk.” He looks down at the tray. “What type of tea is it?”
“Lemon balm. Made with leaves that I saved from last summer and dried in the storeroom.” I lift the tray higher, so he can catch the scent. “It is very soothing.”
“Lemon balm tea,” he echoes as I make my way past him and place the tray on his desk. The dark wood is pocked and crisscrossed with grooves from a few centuries’ worth of scribbling pens. “Such a simple, harmless drink. Made by your own sweet hands, I presume?”
“Of course.” I hand him the cup. Lemon-scented steam rises between us. As he sips I gather my courage to ask, “where were you, Father?”
“In my study, obviously. I have been in here all day.”
“I mean yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that.”
He turns away. “I was where my services were required; that is all you need to know.”
“That is not an answer.” I too can be stubbor–I am my father’s daughter, after all. “I was left here alone for three days. surely it is only fair that I know why.”
He looks angry at first. Then his face softens.
“I am sorry if you were anxious, Jessamine. I was called away to deal with an urgent medical matter. It took up all of my attention; if you had asked me how many days I had been absent from home, I myself could not tell you.”
“Called away to where?”
“I have been in London.”
“London! why? where? why did you not take me?”
He holds up a hand to stop my questions. “I have been places I hope you never go, and seen things I hope you never see. I was in London. That is all I will say, and even that is saying too much. Now forgive me; I must get back to work.” He turns to retreat to his chair, then stops. “How are the gardens, Jessamine? Are you tending them well?”
“Of course. I have turned over all the beds, and planted the lettuce and radishes, and—”
He interrupts. “And the belladonna seeds?”
“I have changed the water every day, exactly as you showed me. Tomorrow they will be ready for pla
nting.” On a foolish impulse I add, “May I plant the seeds myself? I have taken good care of them this far.”
“No. I will do it.”
“But, Father, why not?”
“You have already done too much.”
“Soaking seeds? I’ve done nothing! How I wish you would let me into the apothecary garden! I could help you with your research, your cures—”
“No! You must not. Swear to me, Jessamine. Even when I am not home—and I may have to go away again, and soon—swear that you will not go in there.” Father walks toward me step by step, forcing me to retreat until I stand in the doorway to the study once more.
“You needn’t make me swear. The gate is locked, remember?” I sound sullen and sarcastic; I cannot help it. “For I am only a foolish child who cannot be trusted to have sense enough not to poison herself. Isn’t that what you think? But you are mistaken, Father. I am not a child anymore.”
“You are a child,” Father says flatly, “until I say you are not. Now leave me. I will see you at supper.”
He steps back, and the ancient door shuts in my face.
Out the front door of the cottage, through the courtyard, past the ruins and the outer wall, to the footpath, the crossroads, the world. I walk quickly, until my breath comes fast and my heart pounds.
I may not go back. No—I will not go back. If Father can disappear for three days, so can I. For three days, or three years, or three lifetimes.
You are a child until I say you are not.
Am I really? What child would leave home as I do now, with no destination except away from you, penniless and provisionless, with only the shawl around her head for shelter?
When I grow hungry I will find roots and berries to eat. Perhaps it is out here, in the wide, wild, unchained world, that I will finally taste all the forbidden fruit you keep under lock and key. Perhaps there are fresh mysteries growing in the woods, delicious, dangerous poisons that even you do not know exist!
In this way my spiteful, wounded thoughts circle round and round, erasing the passage of time. Am I a mile from the cottage? Five miles? Ten? I break into a half run as the path veers into a downhill slope, and spread my arms like a sail to catch the wind. If only the currents of air could lift me and carry me! How pleasant it would be to fly on that wind, like the tuft of a dandelion. How much easier it would be to soar,weightless, than to trudge across the countryside dragging the bulk of my long skirt and petticoat, with my feet bound into heavy boots that seem to have grown too small, again.
I pause to catch my breath and to still my whirling brain. My thoughts trip over one another, vying to be heard, like many voices in a shouting mob. My hair has come loose and the stinging tendrils whip into my eyes. The hem of my skirt is heavy with mud; my sleeves are damp with the tears I have been wiping away since I bolted from the cottage. I did not think to bring water with me—I was not thinking at all when I ran out in the heat of fury—and now my throat is raw and dry.
It would serve Father right if I sated my thirst from the ditch where I poured the belladonna water, I think bitterly. Let him find me dead under the gorse bushes. Let him bury me deep in the ground, my arms twined around the bones of that soft, orange-furred cat.
Exhausted, I let myself fall to the ground in the sheep meadow that borders the path. I lie with my back pressed to the earth and feel the dampness of the grass seeping into my clothes.
Above me, high in the cold blue sky, a black dot moves, first one way, then another, making wide, deliberate zigzags toward the earth. As it descends, it grows larger, grows wings, grows a voice.
It is a raven, and its raspy cry mocks my own dry sobs. It lands on a fence post by the path, ten paces up the slope from me. Proudly it flexes its great black wings; when fully open, they span nearly as far as I can spread my own two arms. Its sleek head gleams with an iridescent, oily sheen.
I lift myself up on my elbows. In answer, the bird cocks its head to the side so I can admire its lifeless black eye, set like a black pearl in the side of its skull. It repeats its raw cry—a terrible, merciless cry.
Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
The sheep bleat in fear and move away. The raven hunkers down into itself and gathers its energy to spring. It has decided on a target, chosen a vimtim—a young lamb that has wandered too far from the flock—
In a flash I am on my feet, a stone in my hand. With all my might I hurl it at the raven. My aim is low, and the stone hits the post with a sharp thwack. The bird flaps its wings clumsily in surprise and rises on taut, wiry legs. It swivels its head to look at me full on.
I hurl another stone. This time I hit the bird squarely, right on its oily black chest.
KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
The raven screams in fury and takes flight, circling around and swooping low over my head. I fall to the ground and curl in a ball, covering my face with the shawl.
Go ahead, wicked bird, I think, try to peck out my eyes if you can. Even blinded, I will grab you by the throat and never let go. I am that angry and reckless now, and I care nothing for what happens to me.
As if hearing my thoughts, the raven retreats, still complaining, until its furious cry fades into the sky.
I uncurl my body and look around. The sheep stare at me, their limpid, nearly human eyes wet with gratitude.
I shiver with cold and fatigue, and my knees weaken with the relief that comes when danger has passed.
It has passed for the lamb, perhaps. For now. But not for me.
Finally I let myself feel all the fear and sorrow in my heart, and my tears are set loose once more. I am easy prey, I think, a motherless lamb, alone in the world. No flock, no friends, no green field I can call home. And the skies are full of ravens.
I have no choice. I must go back to Hulne Abbey.
During my wild race from home, rage and hurt blotted out all sense of time passed or distance traveled—but now, on the shame-filled journey back, the movement of the clock resumes with vengeful slowness. It is a full three hours before I reach the cottage. For the final torturous hour I must pick my footing step by step in the pitch dark, for of course I have no lantern. Twice I stumble and catch myself on my hands, leaving my palms scraped bloody from the gravelly path.
Easy prey, my fear whispers to me with every step. Remember what you are.
The cottage is cold and dark when I finally cross its threshold, with only a few glowing remnants of a fire glowing among the ashes in the parlor hearth. If there has been a supper I have missed it, but with no one to cook or call him to the table, Father may well still be working, reading and muttering, oblivious to all that has taken place outside the locked world of his study.
I light a candle and rummage in the pantry until I find a leftover boiled egg and some cold cooked potato. I wrap them in a linen napkin to take upstairs with me. I will eat them in private and then go to sleep, to put the memory of this awful day behind me as quickly as I can.
The house is so quiet; perhaps Father has already retired to bed. Out of habit I pause to check the pail by the back door, the one marked POISON that holds the belladonna seeds. Tonight is their last night soaking in this watery womb. Tomorrow they will be planted, in the garden where I am not permitted to go.
I lift the lid and lower my candle so I can see inside.
The bucket is dry and empty. The belladonna seeds are gone.
My first, horrified thought: Has someone stolen them? Father will be furious!
But then I listen again: The cottage is silent, but there are noises coming from outside. Dull, digging noises. The sound of earth being turned.
Now that I no longer need its light, the moon has risen and bathed the courtyard in its soft glow. But I do not have to see my way. I know exactly where to go. Past the courtyard, past the fishpond, past all the garden beds, up the narrow winding path to the left that leads to the tall, locked gate.
I lay one hand on the rough metal chain; with the other I clasp the lock. I press my forehead against the cold iro
n bars, and peer through the dark forms and moving shadows of a mysterious world I will never be allowed to enter.
Father is at the north wall, bent over in the moonlight, digging. Whistling softly. Happy.
Silently I return to the cottage. I stand by the back door, my head hanging down in defeat.
Without my bidding, my foot lashes out and kicks over the empty pail.
Will everything I care for be taken away from me?
4
23rd March
A fine, clear day, but a sharp metal smell in the air warns of a coming storm.
I planted more radishes in the morning, also set bulbs of onions and garlic. The bulbs overwintered nicely in the cellar; they were dry and firm, with no sign of mold.
Took out my mending basket to repair torn stockings and found a
THE SOUND OF HOOFBEATS seems to come from nowhere, and gets louder so quickly I drop my pen to the floor in surprise. Father did not say that we would be receiving company, and now I cannot recall if the beds are made—
The hoofbeats get closer by the second. They must be headed here, for the nearest farm is two miles in the other direction.
“Father!” I call, as I half run to the kitchen to put away the breakfast things. “Someone is coming! Shall I prepare a meal? Shall I make tea?”
It has been almost a week since Father stole (for in my mind he did steal them) and planted the belladonna seeds. We have not spoken of it, nor have we spoken of much else in the intervening days. But the excitement of an unexpected guest makes me forget my resolve to punish him with my silence.
“Father!” I call more loudly. “Are you expecting company?”
We do not get many visitors at the cottage, only the occasional tradesman trying to sell us tin pots or a matron from a neighboring farm seeking a cure for the toothache. But every now and again the duke himself will appear, unannounced, with a small hunting party in tow. This land is the duke’s land, as is most of the acreage in Northumberland, and the fields and forests that spread over the site of the old monastery have long been the duke’s favorite hunting park. After an afternoon’s shooting, he and his guests have sometimes stopped here to gaze at the ruins, water their horses, and brag about the day’s kill.
The Poison Diaries Page 2