Slipper

by Hester Velmans

  “I don’t think, Sir, that my sister Clarissa will be very pleased about this,” the new Lord Hempstead was saying.

  “About what? The old earl? Nah.”

  “No, I mean—the girl. Returning to the manor. After…”

  “Oh, that. Don’t worry about that. I am not afraid of her tongue, my lord, although I will admit she can be trying.”

  Robert grunted.

  “And besides, my wife’s all a-twitter about that Beaupree fellow she’s trying to reel in for Sarah. I doubt she’ll even notice the gel’s back, what with the captain’s upcoming visit to explore a possible arrangement.”

  Lucinda’s eyes had snapped open wide. Then, seeing Edmund and Robert looking at her, she’d pretended a jolt of the carriage had woken her up, and sank back into the seat with an exaggerated yawn.

  Meanwhile her uncle’s words were rattling around inside her head. The captain! Beaupree! He was talking about Henry. There was a scheme to snare Henry for Sarah! But—he was coming to Belweather Manor! He was not coming for Sarah. No, no. He was coming for her. Surely? Yes, surely! It was a ruse. A ruse on his part to see her again. Yes, that was it. He was doing it all for her, Lucinda, because he sensed his true love was in distress. He had heard her secret call! Nothing, nothing, nothing bad could happen to her now!

  That had been her conviction when Uncle Edmund had furtively whispered his proposal to her when they were alone in the idle coach during a rest stop. And his proposition, instead of revolting her—as it should have done, of course—only served to fan the flurry of excitement in her ribcage. Yes, yes, Henry would rescue her in the nick of time from her uncle’s lewd clutches! The fact that another man desired her and wished to press his advances on her—surely this could only increase her desirability in Henry’s eyes, and confirm to him that he had made the right choice!

  “Well, lamb, I just cannot make you out. At all.” Bessie was shaking her head sadly. “Don’t you see…”

  “Leave me alone!” Lucinda snapped.

  “If that’s what you want,” said Bessie, hurt.

  “It’s what I want!” she shouted. “All you ever do is meddle, meddle, meddle! I’m not your baby anymore, you know!”

  And to erase the reproachful sight of Bessie shuffling out the door, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pictured herself in Henry’s adoring arms.

  18

  A WITCH

  It was extremely fortunate for Lucinda that Uncle Edmund and Robert had to leave the very next day for London. A host of distant relatives and illegitimate offspring were expected to come clamoring for their piece of the Steppys pie; the trick was to forestall those claims, to nip them in the bud, by the ruthless wielding of one’s influence at court and in Chancery. In the order of things, this was a more pressing matter for Edmund—and a more thrilling sport—than the deflowering of a dependent virgin. So his niece was given a reprieve and left to resume her place, albeit temporarily, in the nursery.

  A fresh, nose-tingling breeze awoke her, promising a brilliant day. After all those months of being cooped up indoors with Aunt Arabella breathing down her neck, it was a joy to steal outside without being seen. She found her charcoals and drawing board where she had left them, in a chest in the nursery.

  She climbed the hill behind the manor and sat down under a tree overlooking the valley. The shimmering landscape was dotted with amiable old trees, every one planted in its own perfect puddle of shade. The horses and sheep had their heads lowered, all facing the same direction: a perfect composition. She began to sketch, but before long her attention was drawn by a hawk looping high above.

  She let her drawing board slide off her lap and leaned back, her elbows digging into the prickly turf. Minuscule insects hopscotched hypnotically before her half-closed eyes, spark-specks in the sun. Lulled by the sleepy air, she let her mind drift.

  She was standing in the manor’s ballroom. There was a wild dance going on, a country dance—a contredanse, Monsieur Piétain would have corrected her. Everyone she knew was there, laughing, perspiring, panting. She looked down at her dress: it was her kitchen uniform, ragged and dirty. She shrank against the wall, hoping no one would notice her.

  Suddenly her heart skipped a beat. That attractive couple leading the dance—they were looking straight at her! Shyly, she tried to melt into the shadows, but the dazzling man and woman beckoned to her. Come! They caught her by the hand and then she was whirling around between them, wings on her feet, her skirts billowing behind her. On the other side of the circle, she saw Henry Beaupree staring at her in amazement and pride. And there were her aunts and uncles, and all the neighbors too, beaming encouragement. Only Sarah, Robert, and the rest of her cousins were scowling. They started bickering and hitting each other, and were expelled from the circle…

  A bee zoomed past her ear, jolting her out of the reverie.

  An immense tower of white had materialized overhead, thick cauliflower clouds stacked atop one another precariously. Seen from this angle, the whole pile appeared dangerously top-heavy. She let her head hang back, enjoying the dizziness. A prickly blade of grass scratched at her nose. She slapped it away, but it sprang back impertinently. She sneezed, never taking her eyes off the clouds overhead. Even if they did topple, what harm could they do? She waved at the clouds, inviting them to smother her in softness. Her clouds. Her sky. When she was a little girl she had been convinced that the sky was hers, that no one else saw it as she saw it. She gazed at it with proprietary awe.

  A shout came wafting up from the kitchen garden at the foot of the hill, answered by a scolding complaint. She sat up. It was two squabbling servants, thinking themselves unobserved.

  She rubbed her palms together to wipe off the grit and twigs, then picked up the charcoal and paper beside her.

  Winning over Sarah, whose disdain for her cousin had grown even more scathing since the “scandal,” was out of the question. But even if there was no prospect of sisterly confidences, it was easy enough to extract information from Sarah by provoking her.

  They were sitting at their needlework in adjoining window nooks, their backs to the glass in order to catch the last slanted light of day. Their faces were hidden from each other by the pillar between them; each could just see the other’s swinging feet.

  Lucinda sighed. “So. Nothing came of it, then, I gather?” she said.

  “Of what?” Sarah’s voice came back.

  “Oh, of your betrothal. It’s been eight months since I’ve been away, and here you still are.”

  “That shows what you know of it,” said Sarah snidely. “It’s still a secret.”

  “Hmm.”

  Sarah bent forward, peering around the column to catch a glimpse of her interlocutor. Lucinda was intent on her needle. She showed not a flicker of interest. Sarah leaned back into her alcove again.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know…” she taunted.

  No reply.

  “Well, I’m not telling, anyway.”

  “So? I don’t want to know. I’m not interested.”

  Lucinda watched her cousin’s feet freeze, the toes in an upward position. Then they began to swing again. The heels banged on the paneling.

  “Actually, it’s a fine match. Everyone says so.” There was a pause. “He’s sooo handsome!”

  From Lucinda’s niche a snort could be heard. It put Sarah on the defensive.

  “Yes he is. Who would want an ill-favored husband? I certainly would not.”

  Lucinda sighed pityingly.

  Now Sarah was really mad.

  “Well, little Miss know-it-all, it’s someone you know. Someone you’ve been sweet on yourself.”

  “I have never been sweet on anyone,” came the calm reply.

  “Oh no? What about Captain Beaupree? You…you quizzed me about him after the ball, last winter, didn’t you. Yes you did. I could tell that you liked him.”

  “So?” asked Lucinda.

  “So? So the point is, he’s the one I am to marry.”<
br />
  “Oh,” said Lucinda. “You thought…? I…? That man? Oh, no. You are quite welcome to him. Thank you very much.”

  Sarah was quiet for some moments, wrestling with Lucinda’s intimation that Sarah was pursuing the captain as a matrimonial prospect only because she believed that Lucinda had once been attracted to him!

  Seething, Sarah now took the offensive.

  “Of course. I forgot. You cannot afford to be sweet on anyone. Without a portion, no one will want you, will they!”

  “When I marry,” said Lucinda with great dignity, “it will be for love. Not for money.”

  “Then you will die an old maid,” Sarah said primly.

  “If I must.”

  “But just wait until I am married.” Sarah’s voice was charged with as much dreaminess as she could muster. “There will be such a feast. I am certain the king will attend—and the entire court too.”

  “If there is a wedding. It’s a secret, you say? Why?”

  “It’s almost settled. They just don’t want me to say anything about it yet…”

  “Come, Sarah, you just told me about it, didn’t you? You did!” Lucinda was aware of the sharp edge of triumph in her voice, and she wasn’t proud of it. “So you must want it known, because you just told me and I said I did not want to know! Did I not! Therefore it must be Hen—I mean the captain—who wants it kept quiet. And what do you suppose that means? Are you quite, quite sure he is as keen on this union as you are?”

  “I don’t want it at all! I mean…” Sarah was close to tears now. She jumped off the window ledge and patted her skirts, front and back. “I mean I do, I do want it. It’s a good match, everybody says so.”

  “Who’s ‘everybody’?” taunted Lucinda.

  “Everybody!” shouted Sarah. “Mother. Aunt Edwina. Mrs. Limpid.”

  “Just as I thought,” said Lucinda.

  “What?”

  “As usual, Sarah,” Lucinda explained patiently, her head bent low over the needle stabbing efficiently at the canvas, “you are allowing others to make your decisions for you. How do you know what this captain is like? Have they arranged a meeting between you, so that you can find out for yourself what sort of a husband he will make?”

  “Well,” Sarah began doubtfully.

  “You mean you only met him when he was here that one time last winter? Surely you will not allow them to push you into a marriage with a man you saw but twice?”

  “Three times,” Sarah lied sullenly. “And besides, he is coming back next week, to arrange it with Father. At least he was, before Grandfather died.”

  “Next week?” repeated Lucinda carefully.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I hope your father will consider the captain’s suit carefully. I mean, it’s not even as if he’s a duke, or a count, or anything…”

  Having planted a suitable crop of doubts in her cousin’s head, Lucinda folded her needlework and skipped out of the room.

  There was something the matter with Lady Clarissa, and Bessie was troubled. The other servants too had begun to notice that their mistress had withdrawn almost completely, and spent day after day cooped up in her closet. When you tiptoed in, you would find her sitting at her dressing table, staring vacantly at her reflection. It took several ahems to coax her into acknowledging your presence, and even then she seemed to have difficulty rousing herself to formulate an order, or even to respond to a respectful query. Even less characteristically, she paid little heed to her husband, barely seeming to care whether he was home or not. The nights in particular were strangely silent, for the corridors no longer echoed with the sound of Clarissa’s nagging protests and conjugal sighs.

  One afternoon Kitty, ordinarily calm and competent, came running into to the kitchen in a panic, looking for Bessie. She was very upset.

  “Bess, could you—could you come and have a look at milady? She’s making funny movements with her hands, and she’s trying to speak, but no words come out! Eerie, it is! She’s given me such a turn! Please, please come!”

  Bessie hurried after Kitty to milady’s chamber. Milady was obviously not well. She was shaking all over. Her bonnet had slipped down her neck, revealing hair that was matted and unkempt, her skin was strangely flushed under a very thick layer of white powder, and she was making jerky movements with her hands and torso, bending over at the waist and then straightening again with difficulty. There was a startling resemblance to the puppets that entertained the village children on market day.

  “Madam, what’s the matter?” Bessie exclaimed in alarm.

  Clarissa opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. A beaded line of spittle spanned the space between her top and her bottom lip. The rouge was smeared right down to her chin.

  “Rrahrrrr,” she rattled.

  “Come, now, dear,” Bessie fussed, forgetting for a moment, in her shock, how one should address one’s lady, “let’s get you into bed now, pet, there’s a dear. That’s right, that’s right, there we go. Now isn’t that better? Don’t try to speak, love, quiet now, just rest.”

  She turned back to the appalled Kitty. “Don’t just stand there, girl! Fetch some warm water to sponge her face. And change her into a clean gown. There’s Lord-knows-what all over the front of this one.”

  “But…but what’s the matter with her?”

  “I don’t know!” exclaimed Bessie impatiently. “I am not a physician!” She turned back to the dressing table. An alarming thought had just occurred to her.

  Sure enough, there was the vial of belladonna that Bessie had supplied her with yesterday. As usual, she had tried to impress upon her lady the danger of taking more than two drops at a time. The vial was half empty.

  “Oh my Lord!” said Bessie, and then, for good measure, “Oh, my Lord.”

  “What?” quavered Kitty, and, “What?” said Mrs. Limpid, who had been alerted, from the doorway.

  “It’s the deadly nightshade,” Bessie said. “I think she’s gone and poisoned herself.”

  “Poison!” exclaimed Mrs. Limpid. “Poison! How can that be? In this house!”

  “It’s not really, in small doses,” Bessie began defensively, but Mrs. Limpid had already started a tirade.

  “I’ve told you, woman, your quackery is not to be tolerated! Now look what you’ve done! If she dies, it will be your fault!”

  “Mnnaahrr?” came a quavering sound from the bed.

  They all turned and stared at Clarissa, who had been forgotten.

  “No, no, milady,” Bessie clucked, rushing over to her, “Of course not. You are not going to die. What an idea!” She busily tugged at the bedcovers, so the others would not notice how her hands were shaking.

  In the absence of Sir Edmund, Lady Arabella took it upon herself to send for Dr. Hoogschotel, who happened to be staying nearby in hopes of collecting his outstanding fee. The Flemish doctor was of the opinion that a cure of purging and bleeding would very soon restore Lady Clarissa’s health. As for her speech, he ventured that it was witchcraft that had struck her dumb.

  “Dis is de furrist time I haff seen de fiend’s work wrought on a lady off de—iff I may be zo bold—qvality,” he told Arabella in his carefully articulated English. “But de signs are de same as in de commonvolk. You see, de deffil is at vork here. You see dis fit, how she moves like dat. Dis is de deffil acting upon de yuman body by natural means, dat is to say, by sturring up de superabundant yumors, egciting dose yumors.”

  Everyone looked at Clarissa, who had grown even more agitated since the doctor had started speaking.

  “Tell me, has she—pardon me vor asking—vomited anysing out of de ordinary? Pins, for instance?”

  “Vomited? Pins?” asked Mrs. Limpid, aghast.

  “Yes. Crooked pins and such. Or nails. Any phlegum?”

  “Only phlegm,” said Kitty, uncertainly.

  “Well, it may yet come. De phlegum, already, iss a symptom. And see her mouss? How she tries to speak. Satan has robbed her off de power of speech.” He
suppressed an unprofessional smirk. “It is a good lesson, iss it not…”—here he winked in the direction of Mrs. Limpid and Kitty—”for wives to heed deir husbands when dey tell dem to hold deir tongue?”

  Kitty giggled. Mrs. Limpid pursed her lips and said nothing. Arabella threw the good doctor a venomous look.

  He put his hands together piously, and nodded. “Yes, it iss a most interesting case, yes. Tell me, is dere anyone whom you suspect might vish to hex dis poor lady?”

  Mrs. Limpid shook her head. “But see here. Witchcraft—I cannot imagine such a thing…Can’t it just have been the poison? That’s what Bessie thinks. There is the bottle. She drank too much of it, you see.”

  Dr. Hoogschotel reverently took the flask from Mrs. Limpid’s hand and rolled it around in his joined open palms.

  “Well. Vat iss in it?”

  “I think she said the deadly nightshade.”

  “For the complexion,” added Kitty.

  “I see. It iss possible, yes. Who is dis Bessie?”

  “One of our cooks. She dabbles in plants and remedies and such, and she…”

  “I see. I sink vee must interview dis cook. She may be de sorceress vee are looking for.”

  “Sorceress?” repeated Arabella.

  “Yes. De deadly nightshade, madam, you see, is one of de hexes’ favorite brews. Dey drink it, so I am informed, during deir fiendish ceremonies. Dey anoint deir bodies wis it too.”

  “What are you saying, Doctor?” demanded Arabella.

  “My dear lady. Let me be clear. We have before us de victim of poison and witchcraft.” So Dr. Hoogschotel wrapped up his snap yet learned diagnosis.

  19

  THE CURE AND THE CURSE

  After Lady Doughby heard from Thomas that Lucinda had been removed from Wriggin Hall and sent back to Belweather Manor, she could not help agreeing that the girl’s future was at stake.