The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  At every opportunity she studied books which would help her to achieve a standard of perfection in her wifely duties that Harding would be bound to admire. By her every action and attitude she would convince him that she was indispensable and irreplaceable. Handbooks like Whole Duty of Man and Lady’s Library advised her that if her yoke-fellow proved unfaithful she should ‘affect ignorance of it’. If he were ‘choleric and ill-humoured’ she should avoid any ‘unwary word’ and placate him with smiles and flattery. But the smiles and flattery came hard to her. In struggling to act in a way so alien to her nature she only increased the anguish of her spirit, as well as Harding’s disdainful attitude towards her.

  Desperately she clung to the thread he had spoken of, trying in every way to increase its strength. Her pride died a thousand agonising deaths when she went to his room at night and allowed him to indulge in every sexual whim, knowing all the time that he was only insulting her. He would not expect his precious ladylike Annabella to behave in such a way or put up with such behaviour. Yet in her confused extremity of mind and spirit, she was not able to stop. And all the time hatred for Annabella boiled up in the background making her soul like a witch’s cauldron. That spoiled, selfish, cruel madam had always been a thorn in her flesh for as far back as she could remember.

  Often, as time relentlessly passed, and the three crucial months trickled away like her life’s blood, she would wrap herself in her cloak and go walking on her own around the plantation. She would nurse bitter, resentful thoughts about Annabella. What had that petted creature cared when she had dragged her off to the Highlands and separated her—forever, for all she knew at the time—from her brother? She had separated her from her brother all those years ago without a qualm and she would separate her from her husband now with no more conscience than she’d had then. Annabella was a wicked woman. Someone to be guarded against at all costs.

  On these lonely walks, hugging her cloak tightly around her, as if hoping it might give her protection from the fast approaching then overdue danger as well as from the elements, her mind roamed more and more back to the past. It seemed as if the present horror of her life was like a magnet drawing to itself all the other horrors she had ever experienced. She remembered the French soldiers. She remembered the harlots. She remembered the dominie at the school.

  Suddenly she stopped in her tracks, wondering why she had suddenly thought of the dominie, vaguely aware that something had reminded her of him. For a minute or two she stood very still, head lowered, the hood of her cloak hiding her face. Then she retraced her steps, stopping when she came to a cluster of plants growing in the shade of an old fence amidst some rubbish. The flowers of the plant were large, bell-shaped and brownish-purple in colour. Its berrylike fruit was deep purple, almost black. She was seeing it not only growing at her feet but in her mind’s eye. The dominie had shown it to all the pupils. He had told them it was commonly used by Italian women for cosmetic purposes because it could enlarge the pupils of the eyes and was thought by these women to make them appear beautiful. It was thus referred to as Herba Bella Donne and from that came the name ‘belladonna’. The dominie had concluded the lesson with the warning that they must never eat the berries because they were dangerous and would make them ill.

  She stared down at them. She kept being frightened by little fountains of panic. She kept thinking that the three months were up. She was existing on borrowed time. Even as she stood here, Harding might already have Annabella’s letter. Already he might be riding away to the settlement and, by the same ship that had brought the letter, he would voyage to Glasgow, to Annabella, and to his son.

  Annabella was a wicked, devious woman. She was making Harding prove his devotion by journeying from one end of the world to the other at the mere scribble of her quill.

  All Annabella’s life she had used this coquettish, teasing, tormenting manner with men. She played games with them. But Harding, fool that he was, could not see this. He refused to see it. He refused to listen to anything against Annabella. She had tried to tell him what Annabella was like but he would not listen. She had tried everything. Her mind was beginning to spin with panic. Any day now, any moment now, the letter would come and he would go running and her whole life would collapse. Yet even as she thought about Harding going to fetch Annabella she knew that she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, let him.

  Then it came to her. If she could make him ill, if he could be sick enough not to be able to take the journey and the ship left without him, then the problem would be solved. At least it would be solved for the present, and the present was all she could cope with now. She had vague, confused ideas of nursing Harding and him being dependent on her and grateful to her and not having the heart or the conscience to leave her after all her care and devotion while he was sick.

  Carefully she knelt down, gathered the berries and secreted them under her cloak. Then she returned to the house.

  Blueberry tart was Harding’s favourite and the belladonna berries strongly resembled them. It was easy to mix some into one of the blueberry tarts, although she had to be careful to mark the one which was meant for Harding and to see that only he ate it.

  That night they sat opposite one another at the long dining-room table, and as she watched him eat the tart, she marvelled, as she had done so many times before, how ugly, yet how sensually magnetic he looked.

  He ate every morsel but he gave no sign of becoming sick. Instead his eyes sparkled and he began swallowing down a great deal of wine. A kind of excitement seemed to grow in him which surprised her. He seemed to be getting drunker faster than she had ever seen him before. His face became flushed and he talked a lot in an increasingly husky, rasping voice. She could see that the slaves who were hovering in the background and to whom he kept shouting to refill his glass were getting nervous and apprehensive at his strange behaviour. Anxiety was widening her eyes too and making her heart beat faster. Suddenly he startled her by restlessly pushing from the table, sending his chair and some dishes crashing to the floor.

  Melie Anne and Joseph cowered back in alarm as he lurched past them and with a drunken, staggering gait reached the other end of the table. By this time his eyes were staring like those of a madman and his pupils were widely dilated. He made a grab at her and sent more dishes flying in the process. She half rose.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she cried out.

  He grabbed at her again, this time falling on top of her and making her scream out. Joseph and Melie Anne rushed to her assistance but Harding knocked the slaves aside and hauled her from her chair.

  ‘Dance,’ he croaked. ‘Abigail and Gav are dancing. Everyone is dancing.’

  ‘Oh, Mistress Regina,’ Melie Anne wailed. ‘What you goin’ to do?’

  Struggling and staggering with him she felt frightened at his madness and didn’t know what to do. She tried not to cry out but his grip on her kept surprising her with the pain it inflicted.

  ‘Dance! Dance!’

  Round and round the dining-room he went, dragging her with him, crashing into all the furniture, knocking the candles over, sending bottles of wine cascading over everything and everyone. Other slaves came running through from the kitchen and the women began screaming with terror as Harding careered into the hall still gripping Regina and knocking anyone down who happened to get in his path. His voice was becoming more and more garbled and incoherent. Then, as if his throat were tightening and parching, his words disappeared into horrible whispers and finally into hoarse gasping sighs. But still he lurched about in a wild dance making her shout tearfully to the slaves to help her try and get him to bed.

  It took Joseph and Westminster, with all the women, including Regina, to struggle with Harding and force him upstairs.

  Even after they managed to undress him and heave his big frame into the bed and cover him with the blankets he still thrashed about. His skin, his mouth, everything about him was dry and brightly burning. She kept trying to help him to drink, struggling with him in an
endless nightmare where day merged into night and night into day. She lost all count of time as cups kept being spilled over and refilled and spilled and refilled again. Sponges were dampened, and dampened again, to dab desperately over his face and neck and chest.

  At long last he began to quieten. His limbs stopped their restless thrashing. She became aware of a weeping Melie Anne saying,

  ‘Miss Regina, Callie Mae sent you this tea. Don’t you think you’d better drink it? You’ve had nothin’ all this time. Callie Mae says you’re goin’ be collapsin’ too.’ She wiped her eyes with her apron. ‘And this letter came by special coach for poor Master Harding but he ain’t goin’ be readin’ it now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Regina cried out as the servant put the cup of tea and the letter on to the bedside table. ‘What do you mean he’s not going to be reading it?’

  ‘Miss Regina,’ Melie Anne shook her head and sobbed broken-heartedly. ‘We all think he’s dying.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Regina shouted at her and the other slaves hovering miserably in the background. ‘Of course he’s not going to die. Get out of here, all of you. Where’s the doctor? I told you to send for the doctor, didn’t I?’ she called after the retreating figures.

  ‘Yes, Miss Regina. Westminster went to fetch him but I guess he’s not found him yet. Joseph’s gone looking as well now.’

  ‘Fetch me whisky and honey melted in warm water. Maybe that’ll help.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Regina.’

  At the mention of death, panic had all but scattered her wits. She struggled to put her arms around Harding’s shoulders and hold him while she stuffed more pillows behind him. Surely no one so big and hard and strong could succumb to sickness, could be destroyed by anything or anyone? It wasn’t possible. He would always be with her. He would always stride about Forest Hall like a brown-skinned giant with black hair tied back and white ruffled shirt unbuttoned. He was her torment, her lover, her hell, her happiness, her husband, her whole life.

  She moaned out loud in the rising panic of her realisation that she loved him. Melie Anne came running with the whisky toddy, left it on the table and flew away again.

  Regina was moaning and kissing Harding’s cheeks and brow and mouth and neck. She felt she was going mad. She could not believe Harding was dying, yet every time she looked at the staring eyes and burning face she knew that he was.

  ‘Robert’ she called distractedly to him, desperate to bring him safely back. ‘Robert, here’s Annabella’s letter. Robert, listen!’ She snatched the letter from the bedside table, tore open the seal with trembling fingers and read:

  ‘My dear Mr Harding.

  What a wondrously pleasant surprise it was to receive your letter. When I hear that a ship or a coach has brought letters for me I am always so prodigiously thrilled, I cannot help jumping up and down and clapping my hands in excitement and joy.

  And there have been so many exciting things happening in Glasgow just now. Only yesterday there was a most wondrous procession through the streets of the deacons and office-bearers of the different crafts accompanied by the members of the several incorporated trades. Oh, what a magnificent sight it was! How you would have been impressed if you had been here to witness it. The office-bearer walked at the head of each craft carrying his insignia. The masons displayed the plummet and the mallet, the wrights the saw and plane, the smith the hammer, the fleshers the cleaver, and so on. And there were also gorgeous flags and painted batons. And at the head of the shoemakers was a tall, handsome man chosen to play King Crispin and magnificently attired in a crimson-coloured robe, shining with spangles and golden ornaments and with a splendid crown on his head. How Mungo and I enjoyed it all. What a gay time we had jostling about the streets getting a good view.

  Talking of Mungo, my dear Mr Harding, how strange that you should concern yourself with such a question after all these years …’

  Through the light prattling tone of Annabella’s letter Regina became aware of silence.

  The hoarse rasping breathing had stopped. Robert Harding could no longer hear Annabella or Regina, yet Regina’s voice trailed on like a trickle of cold water, hypnotised, unable to stop.

  ‘… Of course Mungo is not your son. Definitely not, sir! What a preposterous idea! Put it out of your head at once. You will have sons aplenty, never fear. Your wife will be prodigiously fruitful, mark my words.

  You are lucky to have such a beauty, Mr Harding, and one who so obviously adores you, and works so mightily hard and conscientiously at her wifely duties.

  And what a delightful little daughter you have too! Cherish your wife and family well, sir, you are blessed with much good fortune in your world, as I am in mine.

  Losh and lovenendie, I could chatter on all day, but the time has come to say goodbye. Dear Mr Harding, my kindest regards to you, and my most affectionate felicitations to Regina.

  As ever,

  Annabella Blackadder.’

  Other B & W titles

  by Margaret Thomson Davis

  THE BREADMAKERS SAGA

  THE NEW BREADMAKERS

  THE CLYDESIDERS TRILOGY

  A DARKENING OF THE HEART

  A DEADLY DECEPTION

  BURNING AMBITION

  THE DARK SIDE OF PLEASURE

  DOUBLE DANGER

  THE GLASGOW BELLE

  GOODMANS OF GLASSFORD STREET

  THE KELLYS OF KELVINGROVE

  LIGHT AND DARK

  WRITE FROM THE HEART

  COPYRIGHT

  First published 1994, 1999

  by Black & White Publishing Ltd

  29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL

  www.blackandwhitepublishing.com

  This electronic edition published in 2014

  ISBN: 978 1 84502 807 7 in EPub format

  ISBN: 978 1 87363 133 1 in paperback format

  Copyright © Margaret Thomson Davies 1994

  The right of Margaret Thomson Davies to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay