by Jane Steen
* * *
LEX
* * *
TALIONIS
* * *
“The only word I recognize is ‘lex’,” I admitted. “It means ‘law’ as far as I know. I don’t have a clue about the others.” I shrugged apologetically. “I’m not terribly bright about words myself.”
“You’re cleverer than you think you are.” Michael looked away from me as he spoke. “You just didn’t get much education. Girls don’t, do they? Mama had to teach herself a great deal.”
“Blanche has already warned me against becoming a bluestocking,” I said.
“You’re fortunate.” For the fraction of a second, Michael’s blue gaze met my own. “Education just made me unhappy. I’m not making my sons learn any more than they want to.”
“Poor Michael.” I frowned. “But I could do with someone educated right now. On the other hand, the thought of taking this to just anyone makes me uneasy somehow.”
“You have to show it to someone you trust completely,” said my brother.
And oddly enough, I could only think of one person who fit that description.
“I am in equal parts surprised and delighted at your summons, Lady Helena. Thank you for putting your trust in me.” Fortier bowed as he said the words.
I blinked. “Actually, my first thought was to turn to Sir Edward, but he’s in London. I need someone with an education, you see. And obviously someone I can trust to be discreet.”
Was it my imagination, or did Fortier’s face fall? I bit my tongue at my tactlessness. But he recovered quickly and turned to Guttridge.
“Miss Guttridge, I haven’t had the opportunity to express my happiness upon learning that you’ve become Lady Helena’s assistant. I can’t think of anyone more suited to the task in terms of intelligence and aptitude.”
I was amused to note that Guttridge, not given to outward displays of emotion, actually blushed. I invited Fortier to sit on one of the Morris chairs.
Guttridge, seated at a stool at the large table, industriously pulverized orris root while simultaneously performing the valuable office of chaperone. The heady raspberry and woody notes of the orris root soon mingled with the aroma of strong coffee, which I had ordered to be brought up as soon as the French physician arrived. Scotty, having greeted Fortier with a great many wags of his plumy tail, settled down near the Frenchman with an air of contentment.
I poured the coffee myself, handing a cup to Fortier before placing another next to Guttridge’s elbow along with a few of the thin almond biscuits we both loved. I offered the same to Fortier, who took some with a smile. Once again, I experienced the odd feeling that he was substantial and solid while the rest of society lacked reality. I could still feel the tiny brush of his carefully trimmed mustache and beard against the back of my ungloved hand. I took a rather too large sip of my coffee, which, although well improved with cream and sugar as I liked it, was still hot. I coughed and put my cup down.
“I have something I must ask you in strict confidence, Monsieur Fortier. But first, let me reassure myself as to the main point. Are you conversant with the Latin language? I thought you might be, as a medical man.”
Fortier relaxed into his chair. “I am. My acquaintance with the Romans and the Greeks long predates my medical studies. I had what you English call a thorough grounding in the classics. You wish me to translate something?”
“Precisely. Guttridge, how are you getting on with your work?”
This was our prearranged signal for Guttridge to make herself scarce, and she didn’t miss it. She slid off her stool.
“I need some more almond oil, my lady. I’ll go and get some from below stairs.”
“As long as you’ve finished your coffee.”
“I have, and very good it was too. I’ll be back soon.”
She would be back in exactly twenty minutes, as arranged. I waited until she had left the room, leaving the door ajar for propriety’s sake, and I’d heard the telltale creak that meant she’d reached the corner of the passageway. Then I took from my pocket the piece of paper on which I’d noted the Latin words. The drawings were piled on my desk, awaiting the visit from the framer.
I’d had Michael look through the rest of the watercolors and sketches in the map chest, but, although he’d found one or two hidden dates and the full name of his oldest son James, nothing more of any import seemed to be contained in Mama’s illustrations. We had also found the date 1876 in pencil on the back of the foxglove painting, but that bore little significance to us other than being the year of Michael’s marriage to his first wife, Cecilia. Some of the other drawings were also dated 1876 and 1877, but there were none dated later than 1877.
“The first line is the title of a painting,” I explained as I handed the paper to Fortier. “The other words were discovered by Lord Broadmere in the painting itself.”
Fortier frowned. “May I see the painting?”
“Of course.” I fetched it from my desk and gave it to him, noting the lift of his eyebrows as he took it in his hands. “You don’t see the words my brother found, do you?”
“Not at all.” Fortier turned the watercolor this way and that in an evident attempt to find them. “Where are they?”
“Lord Broadmere says they’re in this leaf here, and this one—there—and these two.” I pointed, standing close to Fortier. “It’s quite the finest thing Mama ever produced. Apparently, she amused herself by hiding names and dates in some of her pictures. She discovered upon Michael’s return from his tutor in Somerset that he could see them.”
“The science known as steganography—literally, concealed writing. I certainly can’t see anything other than a picture. Your mother must have been exceptionally talented.” Fortier’s face was grave. “Can you tell me why you wish this consultation to be on a confidential basis?”
“Not really. An instinct, perhaps.”
I could have said a feeling of dread. When I looked at the words, I felt like the heroine of a chilling ghost tale, confronted with a door that almost certainly held something unspeakable on the other side, but obliged to open it notwithstanding. Fortier was wrong about me—I did not wish to turn a blind eye to all unpleasant things. Or had I changed since the day of Susan’s death?
Fortier was silent for a few moments, clearly ordering his thoughts.
“Well,” he said eventually, “the title is a familiar enough Latin tag that most doctors know. It’s generally attributed to Paracelsus, who was a great botanist with a particular interest in toxicology. ‘Sola dosis facit venenum’ simply means that some poisonous substances are only dangerous if a large enough dose is administered. That’s certainly true of foxglove.”
“Mama used foxglove as a remedy for heart trouble,” I said.
“Quite so. It’s a valuable drug if used with care.”
I took a very deep breath. “But it’s played all too prominent a part in my recent history, hasn’t it?” My voice was a little unsteady. “I think that’s partly why I took so much notice of this painting in the first place.”
I raised my eyes to Fortier’s, and what I saw in his expression was—confirmation. He had the same suspicion I had.
“Susan learned about foxglove from Mama.” I could feel a slight tremor in my limbs. “More specifically, she learned how to poison with foxglove—from Mama.” I closed my eyes, trying to still the thudding of my heart. “And she learned it when she was a child. Dear heaven.”
I could feel Fortier close to me, feel the warmth emanating from him but also the concern for me.
“A large dose may slow the heart to the point where the result is a fatal attack.” His voice was low, but it, too, held a tremor. I heard him swallow. “The plant is also an emetic. An accidental poisoning often leads to vomiting, thus ridding the body of much of the toxin.”
“That’s what happened with Justin. She said she got the dose wrong. Which means she had been taught about the right dose. One that would remain in the stomach so that t
he poison would be efficacious.” I opened my eyes. “Tell me what the other words say.”
He hesitated.
“You know what my suspicions are,” I said. “You have them too. Tell me.”
I could see the reluctance in Fortier’s eyes, but his voice strengthened as he spoke. “‘Ab irato’ means, literally, ‘by an angry man.’ It’s a phrase used in law to refer to an unreasonable action brought on by anger.”
“Because anger can override common sense and caution and—love.” I whispered the words. “And ‘lex talionis’?”
“You will know that one, in its biblical form. An eye for an eye. The law of retribution.”
“But that’s not fair. It’s not an eye for an eye. When someone causes you pain, I would understand the instinct to hit back—but not to kill them.” My throat was hurting me, and I coughed to clear it. “I’m sorry. I don’t suppose I’m making sense to you.”
“I do understand. At least I’m almost certain I do. I haven’t forgotten the sketchbook with the many poisonous plants, you see. I thought then of the power the dowager countess must have once held in her hands. And she was not bound by the ethical and moral principles that we physicians regard as axiomatic.”
“And do you understand whom she killed?” My voice was just a thread of sound.
Fortier nodded. “By deduction, yes. You believe she may have killed your father.”
“On the very last day of 1875,” I said miserably. “I don’t think it’s by chance that Susan used a cup of cocoa in her attempt to poison Justin. Mama and Papa always took a cup of cocoa together before bed. The pleasant evening ritual of a devoted couple.”
I was glad to note I was not going to cry. Anger had begun to course through me, drying up my tears and cutting through the rawness in my throat.
“This painting is my mother’s confession.”
30
Arrivals and farewells
I would have avoided Hyrst if I could, but by the next morning I had a more than pressing reason to visit my family home. I found Julia sitting up in bed with my new nephew in her arms.
“No wonder I couldn’t eat a thing.” Julia grinned broadly as she handed the small bundle to me. “Now I’m ravenous. I ate breakfast at four o’clock and another at eight.”
“When was he born?” I put my lips to the baby’s head, so warm under his silky hair.
“At one in the morning.” Julia smirked. “I didn’t even feel any pains until late in the evening. I went to bed at seven, quite downcast from having no appetite and fiercely uncomfortable. At nine or so, I awoke from a doze to discover my waters had broken and I was well on my way to giving birth. Fortunately, Mrs. Kenny was at home, although she said she had almost nothing to do to help me along. Like shelling peas, my dear. I’m rather pleased with myself.”
“I can see that. What are you going to call him?” I smiled as the baby opened his eyes for a moment, screwed up his face, and sneezed twice in quick succession.
“I wanted Michael for a boy, but my Michael won’t hear of it. He doesn’t want the baby to turn out like him. Although he might in looks—Gerry was here a short while ago and swears this little man’s a true Scott-De Quincy in every respect. I don’t know how she can tell since newborn babies are always such puckered little things. He does remind me a bit of Annabelle Alice though. Definitely not like Quentin, who took after me from the beginning. Anyway, Michael favors Julius. He says it’s a logical name for a baby born in July, just like his Mama.”
“Julius. Well, it’s a noble name for a very sweet little boy.” It was such a delight to feel the solid, warm body of this child wriggle inside his blanket, his tiny face contorting as he dealt with some intestinal struggle or other. One small hand waved in front of his face, and I put my finger into it, thrilled to feel the miniature digits grasp at my flesh, relax, then grasp again. Knowing that there was little hope of having children with Justin, I had tried—rather unsuccessfully, I realized—to distance my emotions from Julia’s children, but now I felt once again the visceral longing for my own baby. I sighed.
“He’s a little earlier than expected, of course, but he’s such a good size I think I must have gotten my dates wrong.” Julia shifted a little in her bed and groaned. “Helena, darling, ring for the monthly nurse, won’t you? By the way he’s fussing, he’s going to cry soon, and I need help straightening up my pillows and sheets. I do so dislike bed rest.”
A movement at the door made me turn around. I stood up, Julius still in my arms.
“Help is at hand from another quarter. Michael, I thought you’d be far too busy with the estate to dote over your wife and son. But since you’re here, can you take the baby?”
“With pleasure.” Michael took the small bundle into his arms with practiced ease, shushing the baby while I helped Julia to get comfortable. By the time I had arranged the pillows properly, the Earl of Broadmere was standing at the window, rocking gently with the tiny blanket-wrapped form tucked tightly into his shoulder in a manner that seemed to please both parties immensely.
“You’re rather good at that, little brother.” I cast an approving eye over the tall form of the earl as I went to ring the bell.
“I like babies. They’re very easy to understand.”
“I suppose you’d like to see your Mama now, Helena.” Julia yawned and rested her head on the pillows. “Belming brought her up here very early this morning to see Julius. She seemed to enjoy him, although I don’t think she has the faintest idea who he is.”
“No—I don’t think I’ll visit Mama today.” Moving back toward Michael, I caught the surprised look on Julia’s face, but my sister-in-law had a sharp instinct for knowing when she should refrain from a comment or question. A good trait in a countess.
“Michael,” I said softly, standing as close as I could to him without making him restless. “You know that thing we found out the other day? The words?”
“Of course I do.” The baby twitched a little at Michael’s harsh voice, and he modulated his tone. “I don’t forget things.”
“That’s the point. I want you to forget it. To not tell another living soul.”
“Why should I tell anyone?”
I looked hard at my brother’s handsome profile but saw only complete indifference as he stared out of the window at the marsh. The land was green and vibrant in the sunshine; the river, approaching high tide, reflected the sky’s blue serenity in its fast-moving waters. Knowing Michael, he would still be able to write down the letters he’d found in those leaves twenty years hence; but although he approached some topics with a minuteness amounting to obsession, this did not appear to be one of them. I sent up a small prayer of gratitude for the vagaries of my sibling’s mind.
I would have to visit Mama again soon. Julia’s tact would not prevent her from gently probing for a reason if I, hitherto an almost daily visitor, suddenly abandoned my attendance at my mother’s side. I could cite Mama’s increasingly eccentric and downright unpleasant behavior as a reason for staying away, but that wasn’t like me, and Julia would know it. No, I’d have to overcome my anger fast or risk having to explain myself. And that I didn’t want to do.
“I’d better go.” I planted a gentle kiss on the baby’s head and another on Michael’s cheek before he could move out of the way. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Hmph.” Michael cradled his youngest son more firmly with his long-fingered hands.
“And you too.” I bent over Julia and hugged her. “Send a note if you need anything, and I’ll be back in a day or two regardless.”
First, there was someone I needed to talk to.
The walk from Hyrst to the cemetery was less than a quarter of a mile, but by the time I arrived I was hot in my bombazine walking dress and heavy veil. Also, I had a headache, and guilt at not visiting Mama wasn’t helping. I tried to think pleasant thoughts about my tiny nephew, but instead all I could see in my imagination was Susan, handing a poisoned chalice to Justin. And, much farth
er back, the ghostly figures of my mother and father settling down to drink cocoa together, one of them bent on murdering the other.
“Hello, Justin.” I sighed as I contemplated the rectangle of clay before me.
My husband’s grave was still only distinguished by a temporary marker. The ground had settled almost to the point where the large monument I’d ordered could be installed, but the stonemason was a cautious man and preferred to wait another month. Today’s wreath was orange lilies rather prettily set off by small sprays of roses. The plot was carefully trimmed and free of weeds.
“We have a new nephew, my dear.” I spoke to Justin about little Julius, trying as hard as I could to imagine I was talking to the real man and not think of the corruption taking place six feet below. Such a feat of deliberate ignorance was becoming harder to accomplish. Perhaps that was part of the process of releasing Justin into death that had been working itself out in me for the last nine months.
But I kept talking behind my veil, frustrated at not being able to see clearly down the hillside to where the opposite side of the valley rose up, green and fertile. Far down the path, I could make out two women in black, tending a grave. A breeze gusted from seaward at intervals, pushing my veil against my face and bringing the sound of the women’s voices to me. They were matter-of-fact, conversational voices, suggesting that their dearly departed had not recently quit this life.
Before long, I realized that, almost without volition, I had passed on to the subject of Mama.
“Did she give the cup to Papa herself?” I asked my dead husband. “Or did she have the footman bring it? But I would think she’d be afraid he’d mix up the cups, wouldn’t you? She’d have to have the cocoa brought up and then pour the poison in herself.”
Or have someone else do it, rose the thought in my mind, and there was only one candidate.