The pony knew the way and trotted on as we sat in silence. Not taking my eye from the road, I asked, ‘Has he ever touched you?’
‘Lord, no. You know yourself he don’t even like me. I disgust him, being so rough-mannered.’
Just then we came to the boundary with Riverslea, and I halted the pony at the fields overlooking my neighbour’s property. There it stood, Miss Claybourn’s ramshackle abode. It was smaller than Delafosse, built around an ancient keep tower, a jumble of tottering half-timber, ill-matched to a later facade of brick.
‘I suppose she has no money.’ I studied the mish-mash of old and new. A few windows were boarded up, and green moss grew over the sunken rooftops.
‘No. Not a mite. But she does have a taste for the high life. Her maid Sue tells me she owes a vast deal of money.’
I thought of Michael’s box of unpaid bills. They would make a well-matched pair. I knew in my bones that Peg was right when she said Michael wanted only my money. At some subterranean level, I had known it from the first and let myself be played upon. But what truly enraged me was that he wanted to share it with this spendthrift jade. By God, I vowed, I would not sign another paper for him; not if I were to be scourged through the streets behind a handcart.
As we reached the outskirts of the village, I told Peg to further befriend Miss Claybourn’s maid. ‘Take what time you need from your duties. Find out what you can.’
‘And you, mistress?’
‘I will make my own inquiries,’ I said. I would not be drawn further.
‘Only be careful, mistress.’ She clambered down from the trap. ‘He has not a thought for any but himself.’
I did not elaborate on my plans to Peg because I had no plans. Calling at the post office, I found a letter waiting from Peter. He was his usual cordial self, as he might well be, having removed to London and all the pleasures of that city. At the end, he wrote:
It pains me heartily to think of you in that disagreeable ruin. Will you come to London to celebrate the New Year, as a favour to me? I will meet you at your convenience. I beg you to write, sister, with your plans,
Your ever affectionate brother (in Law and in Spirit)
Peter
Peter’s kindness stung me to tears. Remembering our carefree hours in York I was certainly tempted. I will sleep on it, I thought, having no appetite at present to tell Michael I might desert him for his loathed brother.
But once I had left the postal office, there were almost no public places where a lady might linger in Earlby. I scarcely wanted to meet my own housekeeper in the grocer’s or butcher’s shops, and the villagers were of that country type that will stand stock-still and stare very boldly at anyone whose family has not lived there since Domesday. ‘Hearken at her, Mr Michael’s wife,’ I heard a flat voice remark. A group of raw-faced women in shawls huddled at the Market Cross, openly discussing me as I strode past.
I took a circuit around the George, and lingered at the signboard that advertised the times and prices of the mail coaches. Bristol, Leeds, Derby, Edinburgh – and there was London. The cities’ golden names danced before my eyes, like the words from a spell that might still whisk me away. Only a few weeks earlier I had daydreamed of escaping on the snowbound mail coach, disappearing into trail-less winter. Now I was paralysed; like a broken-winged bird, trailing in circles. Feeling a presence behind me, I turned to find Peg.
‘Look, mistress. The hunt is coming up the High Street.’
I quickly turned to where she pointed; the metallic ringing of hooves built to a crescendo as the Earlby Hunt came into view. About thirty riders were approaching, the leaders in scarlet, swaggering as they swept past the open-mouthed locals. Milling like a restless tide about the horses’ hocks were a mass of yelping hounds, their tails up and eyes bright. I searched from face to face for Michael, but I could not find him. I was surprised to see a few women were amongst their number. By his own account, Michael did ride to hounds, but had never invited me even to see him off.
The leading horses soon towered over us, glossy giants with hooves trotting dangerously close. I recognised a few unpleasant men from the George, and sent up a silent prayer for any foxes abroad that day.
Suddenly, Peg clutched my arm. ‘There. Look. It’s her.’
She was swivelling on her tiptoes. ‘Miss Sybilla Claybourn!’
I tried to follow her line of sight – the cavalcade had largely passed us, and I had only a rear view of the riders. Yes – near the front, in the distant thick of the pack, was an elegant young lady. I could just see the feathers on her tilted hat bouncing jauntily; her military blue coat was nipped very tight at her narrow waist. She was handsome, in a stiff-backed, look-at-me fashion. Her hair, tightly curled beneath her jaunty hat, was unmistakably very dark. So that is her, I thought, feeling entirely helpless against such a rival. She was all that Peg had hinted at: well-turned-out, pleasure-loving, irresistible to men.
As I paced back down the High Street I was struck by my own stupefaction. Good and bad, right and wrong; all swirled in a maelstrom that I couldn’t stop, like dead leaves spinning. Whatever compass I had used as a guide on my life’s path had irrevocably broken.
Not knowing what to do, I did nothing. When weary of my room I walked mournfully in our park, dreading I might otherwise see Miss Claybourn again. When the worst of December’s rain abated, I set off each morning after breakfast, my boots and hems soon muddy, and my face warm. I had a few favoured spots in the woodland, but my favourite remained the dilapidated summerhouse. Though I never again approached the tunnel door, I fed the stove with dead branches and took my sketchbook out, finding solace in the movement of pencil on paper.
I felt a strange hunger to depict my memories, struggling to make sense of all that had happened. I drew my empty bed with its ornate hangings and tassels, the bed sheets rumpled and twisted. I scored in a long, sooty black hair, but the snake of it disappeared in the mass of shading. Another day I depicted the bed occupied by Michael and myself, our bodies melded and twisted, my hair spread like a rippled cloak across the pillow. One awful day I drew the scene at the tower, a phantasmagorical Michael and his lover emerging in the moonlight – it was an inky, nib-scraping piece, like a nightmare etched by Mr Fuseli. Finally, I propped the drawings up against the walls, black-scored rectangles repelling the low winter’s light. But it was useless; no epiphany occurred. They were, in the end, only ink and paper.
Each night I let Michael run on about his troubles. He assured me constantly he was striving to move matters forward at Whitelow. Nevertheless, I began to wonder how it was that any man could be so self-confounding. Obstacle after obstacle rose before him, like waves upon an ocean. It was not that Michael was incompetent, only slapdash; he did not lack drive, only consistency. He got into petty quarrels, he sent out ill-drafted orders, he was disappointed by unreliable associates. Yet, all the time, I asked myself: could this be a disguise for the wickedness described by Peg? Sadly, I concluded that to preserve his fragile prestige, it might well be.
One night I made an excuse to go upstairs early, but instead of going to my room, I ascended to my studio and re-read Peter’s invitation. I tried to summon a reply, but nothing promising entered my head. Above me hung my painting of Delafosse, its rows of windows mostly empty; its massy bulk recalling a prison for the tiny image of a woman trapped at the window. God in Heaven, I thought, what am I to do?
A step on the stair gave me a moment’s warning.
‘Peg?’ I called. I would be glad of a chance to confide my desperation.
‘Grace.’ It was Michael. He strode in and looked about.
‘So this is your hiding place.’ I forced my hands to remain still; not to snatch up my sketchbook, containing my furious pictures of him. Only when he turned his back to gaze at a sketch I had made of the coiling-haired angel on the staircase, did I succeed in pushing Peter’s letter under a blotter.
‘Do you like my angel? It is the Blair crest, I believe.’
/> ‘An angel? That’s a gorgon’s head,’ he scoffed.
I looked at it more closely; at the stern, square-jawed face and the rippling hair comprised of coils that might indeed be living serpents. So that is it, I thought, this is a nest of vipers.
He sat down opposite me and leaned back, eyeing me with an expression I could not read. Suddenly he noticed Peg’s portrait.
‘Do you like it?’
He affected sardonic dislike. ‘No.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve caught Peg’s likeness?’
‘I wouldn’t know – I don’t look at her. She’s a servant, damn her. What sort of man takes notice of his servants?’ His eye slid over to my portrait of John Francis. ‘Who is that?’
‘An old friend,’ I said, with an attempt at cheeriness.
‘A sweetheart? Is he the one your father banished off to sea?’
‘Oh, it was not like that—’
‘I feel sorry for him,’ he said. ‘Were you as cold to him as you are to me?’
I made no reply.
‘You are pulling away from me. One moment you are kind and sweet. And yes,’ he sighed, ‘I admit it: at times you have been the wife I scarcely deserve. There, you have it, in spite of my pride. And now, on a whim, you treat me like an enemy; you make it exceedingly clear that you do not want me near you. I can only bear so much, Grace.’ He looked at me with a wounded expression. ‘I confided in you. I told you of matters that hurt me greatly. Do you know how many people know about my birth?’
I shook my head.
‘My family – and you, alone. I know my family do not care a jot for my feelings, but I thought we had an understanding. I am not blind. I can see that you are disappointed in me.’ I stared into my lap. ‘It is true, I have made mistakes. But I am not as unfeeling as other men – no, don’t deny it. I thought that you would help me. I believed there was the beginning of a good marriage between us.’
He reached out to me across the table – as delicately as a feather, his fingers brushed my hand. But now the sensations he roused, though impossible to dampen, sickened me. ‘Grace, we have been fools. Can we not go back and start again? Come and look at the moon, as we used to.’
Mechanically I rose, and he led me by the hand to the window. A pock-marked moon cast a silver light over the park. ‘It will be Christmas soon. Even a blockhead like me can see it is a time for reconciliation.’ He slid his arm around my waist. ‘I have never had a Christmas in my own home. We should hang green boughs and burn a Yule log. Enjoy a hearty dinner in that splendid room you have created. We can choose freely, Grace – choose to be happy. My parents are in London, as you know. Next year, when the business is established, we will join them with our heads held high. We shall stay in fine rooms and go to all the balls and assemblies. Would you like that?’
I nodded, but still resisted the arm that tried to coax me closer.
‘It is a pity,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘that we have started married life under this strain. But in spite of all, you have always shown yourself to be the best of women. Too good for me. You are a worthy mistress of Delafosse.’
‘I thought you wanted to leave Delafosse?’
He gave a resigned little shake of his head. ‘I have made a search. At present there is nowhere sufficiently grand within riding distance of Whitelow.’
‘We could live in a more modest home.’
‘You could,’ he quipped. Then, seeing my face was still serious, he leaned towards me and tried to kiss me, though I turned my face aside.
‘I should rather not,’ I said feebly, pulling away.
‘Oh, you are not such a wanton as before. I wonder why?’
He grasped my wrist tightly and kissed me violently on the mouth. With strength I didn’t know I had, I pushed him away, very hard, so he almost stumbled. For a long moment he stood blazing before me, very still, his fists clenched.
‘I’ll see you regret that one day.’ Then turning on his heels he marched rapidly away.
24
Delafosse Hall
December 1792
∼ Minced Meats for Tarts ∼
Take your beef or other meats and tripes and scrape free from skin and gristle; mix with the same weight of suet picked and chopped, then add double of currants, raisins and prunellas, nicely cleaned and perfectly dry, some chopped apples, the peel and juice of two lemons, sweet wine, nutmeg, cloves, mace, pimento, in finest powder; when well mixed, keep it covered in a dry cool place.
Mother’s Eve’s Secrets
The skin around Peg’s nails had started to bleed from stoning all the heaps of raisins and prunellas. No doubt little specks of her own blood were passing into the tarry vat of minced meat. Now wasn’t that true to the proper old receipt? Aunt Charlotte had once said as much, about minced meats being where all the bloody scraps were thrown: raggoty mutton, offal, all the guts and stringy bits. Sweeten it all up and them upstairs would be none the wiser. Fob the scrapings off as a bit of fancy; that was Aunt Charlotte’s creed. Your eyes might feast on her flim-flams and flummeries – but your mouth was generally disappointed.
Peg hummed to herself as she sniffed the concoction; fragrant as muscatel and black as the Earl of Hell’s boots. Nan was well on with the savoury roasts, the brawn and the Yorkshire Christmas Pie – soon she would have the great turnspits spinning before a roaring fire. Nan and the ugly sisters could see to that death-dealing contraption while she enjoyed herself baking macaroons and gingerbread from Mother Eve’s Secrets. Yes, and she mustn’t forget the makings of a big inviting Salamagundy salad. Whoever would have wagered on her getting back home to an English Christmas? Hell’s teeth, she knew how to survive.
The canoe had carried her, the savages, and dear Jack’s body, up river to a great stone hill, crowned with a village guarded by row upon row of spiked palisades. As she was prodded and pushed up the steep path, every chance of escape vanished away.
Inside the compound she was jostled by mobs of half-naked men, women, and children, who jabbered and laughed in her face. Her new mistress yanked off her blood-stained shift and draped it about her own broad shoulders, her strong teeth bared in victory. She, meanwhile, was left to stand naked before that crowd. Never before had she felt so keenly her bluish-white skin and carroty hair. Bear it, girl, she told herself as they prodded her breasts and sniggered at her privities. A violent tug to her head sent her flying – a leash had been woven into her hair. Henceforth she was to be led, like a bridled horse, behind her new mistress.
The chieftainess, who she learned was named Areki-Tapiru, lived in a carved hut at the summit of the peak, waited upon by a retinue of maids. It was one of the grandest huts of the fort, or Pa, with carvings of pot-bellied manikins on its roof, and walls covered in woven mats.
That first fearsome night she was dragged out to a great gathering, and sat through hours of war-like dancing and stamping. Would she be sliced to bits, or tortured in a drawn-out spectacle? She quivered in continual terror that her own execution would form the high point of the night’s entertainment. Lying down that night on the earth floor of the hut, she was astonished to find her head still attached to her shoulders. The next night her luck continued, and then the next. Straining her wits, she watched, learned, and survived. Whenever Areki-Tapiru asked for something – her taonga, the treasure box in which she kept her white feathers, or her korowa royal cloak – she practised the word silently until it stuck like fish glue. Soon, her cleverness was rewarded, with her own rug to cover her nakedness, and then a greenstone teekee that Areki-Tapiru ceremoniously hung around her neck. Knowing that faking a thing is best achieved by sincerity, she made it her creed to admire Areki-Tapiru, ever mindful of the woman’s great mana, the power she carried within her spirit. Even when her mistress returned to the hut with her face as fat as a gourd from hours of torture under the tattooist’s chisel, she praised her beauty as if she were Venus herself.
The chieftainess had other exotic pets in her menagerie of maids: a Ch
inese woman with hair that fell to her knees like a horse’s tail, and a child with skin like soft black leather. She liked to collect curios: a dancing yellow-eyed kauri dog, and a razor-beaked eagle. But most prized was her greenstone knife, edged with the sharpened, pearl-like milk-teeth of all the babies she had borne. Areki-Tapiru believed it to be a living thing; she talked to it, and laughed as she tickled the dog’s nose with it, or used it to nip her women’s flesh. She herself was bitten by it once, as punishment for dropping a pin; the gash it left festered with pus for many a week. ‘Look!’ her mistress squealed. ‘The ghost has red blood, just like us.’ She hated that baby-toothed knife, and wondered if it would be the death of her.
She strove to remain the chieftainess’s favourite. Secretly she practised, and then performed, the old three-cup-and-ball trick, using dried berries and nut shells, all the while pretending to hearken to spirits who told her where the balls were hidden. Any flash trick would do – pulling an egg out of her mistress’s tattooed lips made her gape with astonishment, before she heaved with incredulous laughter. That was how she got her new name, ‘Kehua’, or ‘ghost’; both for her bloodless skin and for her supernatural skills.
By slow degrees she earned the trust she needed to wander at will in the village, exploring tracks and byways, drawn always to the ocean that shone, blue and green, like the inside of the paua shells the tribe prized higher than jewels. Her new friends teased her, calling her ‘the woman whose eyes are blue from long looking at water’. She laughed back, copying their words, their expressions, their way of standing. All the time, one of Charlie’s sayings guided her: ‘Wear the mask of a friend on the heart of a spy’. When on errands, she learned the trails from the kumara fields to the cookhouses and the hangi pits, where the bountiful food of the place was artfully steamed in pits underground. She learned that she was fortunate to be Areki-Tapiru’s special mokai pet. Other captives were hunched and beaten creatures, who dropped their eyes to the ground as she sauntered past.
A Taste for Nightshade Page 28