The Poison Thread

by Laura Purcell

  A tear slides down my cheek and I let it fall, clasping my hands together, as if I might squeeze a sense of God from them. Grant me the fortitude to bear this trial, I repeat. Somewhere in the prison, a bolt clangs.

  Papa must discover the truth eventually. Sir Thomas sought his permission prior to writing his proposal. Surely he, or perhaps Lady Morton, will reveal that I have already refused the offer of marriage. What shall happen then? Will I be punished like a child? Or will I have already fled my own home to make way for Papa’s new wife?

  ‘You will not tell Papa,’ I begged Tilda last night. ‘Promise me that whatever happens, you shall never tell him about the offer, or about David, or—’

  ‘Miss Dorothea.’ The minx was rude enough to interrupt me. ‘In all the years I’ve worked for you, you might be good enough to note one thing: I can keep a secret. Whatever you may think of my hairdressing, or my sewing, you know I can at least do that.’

  She does have a fair point. But that point was eclipsed when she went on to perplex me with a piece of advice – a servant, advising me!

  ‘Mind yourself, miss. I’ve no complaints about your father; he’s always been a fair master. But everyone downstairs knows, he’s not a man you want to cross more than once.’

  Whatever can the goose mean? I have always been able to turn Papa aside with a smile, a well-placed witticism. I have defied him merrily for years. Yet when Mrs Pearce becomes his wife . . . perhaps that shall change. Perhaps those grey eyes will cloud over when they observe me, as they do whenever I mention Mama.

  Oh, if only confirmation of David’s post would come through! We could then wed and seek out accommodation in London . . . But I know in my heart that Mama’s house will always be home to me. And I shall never rest content in the capital while affairs here wallow in such a state.

  I bow my head. My own life is an awful thicket of brambles; how much I should prefer to focus upon Ruth.

  In these sober surroundings, I find it even harder to credit her far-fetched claims than usual. Both God and Ruth seem distant from this place. No wonder she struggles to repent, in prison. I should struggle to breathe.

  Yet there is sorrow in her story! She speaks of regret as one who has truly felt it. I am at a loss to explain. She must have known that Catherine Metyard instigated the arrest. The papers were awash with it. Catherine was the chief witness; it was largely upon her evidence, which was quoted in detail, that the mother was convicted at all! Indeed, there was a moment when it seemed Catherine might stand a trial of her own. Few people could believe she had no involvement in the atrocities committed at Metyard’s. It was only the proof of Catherine’s own abuse that put a stop to that line of inquiry.

  Ruth is purposefully ignoring the facts to suit her own narrative. What does this make her? A liar? A fantasist? I do not know. I do not seem to comprehend the true nature of anyone, nowadays.

  A door opens. Startled, I look up to see the chaplain walk in with a book tucked under his arm. He is as nondescript as his chapel: dark, almost-brown hair; regular height; sparely built with plain features. But his smile appears genuine.

  ‘Miss Truelove. I did not think to find you here. I hope I do not interrupt you?’

  I sigh, climbing to my feet. ‘I was seeking counsel from Our Lord, sir, but you interrupt only His silence.’

  He returns my sigh. It is a comfort, a kind of handshake we have performed. ‘It is difficult for us mortals. We desire responses immediately. But to God, a thousand years are as a day . . . Do not lose heart. He shall answer you in time.’

  ‘So I trust. Time is running short for me.’

  The chaplain seats himself on one of the plain wooden chairs. His smile softens at the edges. ‘I am but a poor substitute, Miss Truelove, but if you desire it . . . I shall be happy to listen and offer my own advice?’

  I hesitate. This is no priest; he cannot absolve me. Yet there are a multitude of thoughts spilling from my brain, and such palpitations in my chest! This man knows God, knows Ruth. He can offer an informed opinion, at the very least.

  Inclining my head, I walk towards him and sit in a chair next-door-but-one. My movements echo horribly around the empty room. ‘You are most kind. I fear I have forgotten your name?’

  ‘It is Summers.’

  ‘Mr Summers.’ I look down at my hands. How different they are to Ruth’s: the lily skin, the clean white crescents of nails. ‘Mr Summers, I am rather ashamed to confess that I have been doubting the judgement of my father.’

  He releases his breath. ‘I see. Ah. Well, I am sure I do not need to remind you of the commandment to honour our parents.’

  ‘No indeed.’

  ‘And yet . . . Forgive me, Miss Truelove, for an indelicate question. Might I enquire . . . Would you kindly tell me your age?’

  ‘It is five and twenty.’

  He nods. To my eyes, he appears younger than this himself. ‘I have always felt it is a natural progression, for a child to question those around them. It shows the development of the mind, that they are preparing to judge for themselves – as we all must, at some stage. So it may be with you, Miss Truelove. Not a sin, but a sign of maturity. Your mind finds itself ready to rely upon the judgement of a husband, rather than that of a father.’

  Heavens, yes. David is ten times the man of Papa. And while I do not like to imagine myself under anyone’s direction, I will surely do better, be worthier, with a guide such as him? ‘Tell me, Mr Summers, do you believe that people can change? Truly change. A criminal to a saint, a good man to a villain?’

  He pulls back in his chair slightly. ‘Do you consider your father to be changed?’

  ‘No. Not in the least. He is . . . much as he ever was. This is something beside the point, a matter of my own interest.’

  ‘Well, Miss Truelove, I think you know my answer. Would I be working as a chaplain in a prison if I did not believe that man can reform?’

  ‘No, you would not. But prison, most of all, poses the question to me: at what stage do we cease to be merciful, and become fools? I have been ridden over, roughshod, by those I have shown only kindness to. I always trusted that they would repent. But now . . . I do not know how I should act.’

  He steeples his hands together. He was not anticipating me and my challenges today. ‘All can be forgiven, Miss Truelove. But not all will choose it. God holds out His grace, and we must point towards it too. Yet some people will be lost. They will go their own way, there is no preventing that.’

  How useless I feel, how thoroughly impotent. All my science, all my theology, and this is my reward: the shape of the skull does not change; the Word of God is not guaranteed to transform. Each instrument snaps when I wield it in my hands.

  Must I accept this? That some people are born bad, and will remain bad?

  ‘But what of those that fall from the path, Mr Summers?’ My voice sounds fragile. I am a girl again. ‘Those we cannot lead back? What happens to them?’

  He looks at me sadly. ‘I am afraid it is the same with God as it is in the prison, Miss Truelove. The wicked must be punished.’

  47

  Ruth

  Love. Kindness. I’d felt them once, hadn’t I? Long ago, in the mists of time, there’d been forgiveness, and a part of me that was tender.

  I needed to find it now.

  My needle burrowed through the chintz, searching. Again and again it resurfaced without a catch. Healing. Health. They must be in there somewhere.

  Twilight groped its way in through the window of our room. The glass gaped bare, since I’d hauled the curtains down. Only a few lamps glimmered outside, complemented by bobbing scullers upon the river.

  How could I have known? She was always so brusque and snippy. The way her nose tilted up, as if she could smell something unpleasant, and that smell was me . . . I couldn’t think of that now. Only happy, kind, thoughts; gentle stitches
.

  ‘Ruth, what are you doing? We need you.’ Billy opened the door, startling me. Dark marks sat beneath his brilliant eyes. He’d rolled his sleeves up, revealing tanned, lightly haired arms. ‘Kate’s very bad.’

  ‘I’ll be along in a moment.’

  ‘Mammy wants you to . . . Wait, what are you doing? Are they the curtains?’

  Tingling shame, throughout my body. How could I explain? ‘I’m making a shawl. For Ka – for the mistress.’

  ‘She has shawls, Ruth.’

  ‘She needs – she . . .’ I shook my head. Useless. There was no time left for excuses. ‘Tell me, sir,’ I demanded, ‘was it really her? Did Kate send the police to Metyard’s?’

  He stared at me for a moment, as if he’d never seen me before. A sigh left his mouth. Then he ducked his head, came inside and shut the door behind him.

  He leant against the panels, as if he no longer had the strength to stand. ‘Yes. She did. I never thought I’d live to see that day! But things changed. She changed, after Miriam . . .’

  Whatever I did, I couldn’t think of Mim now, couldn’t risk her soaking into this shawl. ‘You always tried to tell me. You said that Kate wasn’t her mother’s daughter.’

  A bitter gasp of air – it might have been a laugh. ‘Did I? I don’t know if I believed it. I only wanted . . . Ah, but you understand, don’t you? You know how good it felt to take something from Mrs Metyard.’

  I laid my needle down. Our eyes met, and for an instant I saw him as he must have been, back then: fresh from the Foundling, a gangling, scared boy with plaintive blue eyes.

  ‘Did you ever love her?’ I let slip.

  ‘That’s not a question for you to ask me!’

  I bowed my head. He’d never spoken fiercely to me before. In fact, I don’t think I’d heard him angry in all the time I’d known him. ‘No, sir. I’m sorry. I should never—’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Ruth. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just . . .’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Oh God, it’s such a mess.’

  He was my master. I should have pretended not to see his tears. But instead I went to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, as I’d always longed to do. He cleaved to me like a child.

  ‘Ruth! Ruth, the things that I’ve done! I should never have gone back to that place. I didn’t want to! But how could I leave her alone?’

  My pain was so intense that it was almost a pleasure. Crying burnished his eyes a fiercer blue than ever. I would never stir a man to desire, to love, but I’d caused this emotion: I had turned smiling, whistling Billy into a tortured soul.

  If only I could heal him too.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he cried. ‘God, the baby! If she and the baby die, and the doctor thinks—’

  ‘I won’t let them die!’ I promised rashly. ‘I’ll undo it. I swear to you. I’ll find a way to undo it all.’

  His wet lashes blinked at me. ‘Undo?’ he repeated, uncertainly. ‘What do you . . .’

  Strange, isn’t it, how love loosens the tongue? I’d never said the words aloud before, even to myself. But standing there with Billy, his tears in my hair, his smell on my skin, unlocked me. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.

  ‘It’s a power, Billy. Kate’s corset . . . It was my fault. I did it. I wanted her to suffer.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought she hurt Mim!’ I wailed. ‘I made her ill, I made the corset to kill her!’

  When I opened my eyes, Billy’s face spoke of utter bewilderment. It was as if we’d never met. ‘You . . . did what?’

  I grabbed my sewing project, waving it at him like a lunatic. ‘Didn’t you think it odd that so many of our customers fell ill? It’s in my stitches! Look! I can hurt people, I can make them blind.’

  Words flew out and relief streamed in to take their place. Every burden I’d carried alone: Naomi, Pa, Ma – I offered them up to him. With every confession I became lighter. By the time I told him about Mim’s fish inside Kate’s corset, I thought I might float from the ground.

  Billy peered at me from under his lowered brows. The muscles of his face lay absolutely still. I tried to read his expression. It wasn’t horror – no, not that. Disbelief. Wariness. A dawning sense of comprehension.

  ‘You aren’t well, Ruth. This has all upset you more than you realise.’

  ‘No! It’s true. I’ll prove it. When this shawl is finished, it will make her better. I just have to—’

  He held up a hand. ‘Let us understand one another. Are you honestly telling me that you’ve tried to kill my wife?’

  How intently he watched me, breath suspended. In some perverse way, I felt he was willing me to say yes.

  I swallowed. ‘It’s true, sir. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you . . .’

  ‘Good God.’

  Without another word, he left the room. The click of the door sliced right through me.

  Gone. Gone, never to return.

  I hid my aching face inside the shawl and tried to cry.

  48

  Dorothea

  At the prison, I have often heard one inmate inform another that she has ‘a maggot in her head’. By this they mean a curious notion or an idea that cannot be displaced. Ladies of my class would call it a freak or a whim, but I find in this instance the common tongue is more articulate. That is precisely what this feels like: a maggot wiggling deeper and deeper, gnawing at my healthy brain matter.

  The carriage toils up the hills in the direction of Heatherfield, jerking so wildly that I am obliged to hold on to the leather strap in order to keep my seat. Wind sings past the windows and bristles through the trees. So swiftly do the clouds move that the sun comes in fitful bursts. Perhaps it is not wise to attempt the journey in such uncertain weather. It is most definitely unwise to attend the meeting I am jostling towards. But there, you see, I have a maggot in my head. I cannot rest easy until I hear what he has to say.

  I must confess, when the second letter arrived from Sir Thomas, I was perturbed beyond words. The very envelope seemed to tremble with disappointment. I believed the missive inside could run along one of only two patterns: either a wail of despair or pages and pages of furious upbraiding. I was mistaken. Instead, Sir Thomas thanked me for my kind words and requested a private interview, if I did not consider it too mortifying to my feelings. He did not wish to embarrass me, he wrote, but he must urge me in the strongest terms to submit to one conversation. That conversation is to take place in the graveyard of Heatherfield parish church.

  What am I to make of this? For years I have been arranging assignations with David, but my invention never lit upon a destination so morbid. Certainly, it is a location any two persons may have a right to visit without arousing suspicion, and yet . . . Perhaps I am grown too sensitive. My talks with Ruth are making me shrink from anything related to death with abhorrence, where I used to find a melancholy fascination.

  At length the road levels out before us. Hazarding a glance out of the window, I see a grey stone spire reaching for the clouds, its tip as sharp as one of Ruth’s needles.

  ‘We must stop here.’ I knock upon the roof and order Graymarsh to slow the carriage. I do not wish for him to see Sir Thomas. If news of this visit were to get back to Papa, I should have no end of difficulties. As the sound of hooves gradually dies away, I turn to Tilda. ‘You are to remain in the carriage.’

  It is my Mistress of the House voice, the one that brooks no argument, but Tilda has the skull of a person who cannot let any point go uncontested. ‘It isn’t proper, miss,’ she chides. ‘Suppose someone saw you, without a chaperone?’

  ‘Saw me, up here? There is nothing but heather for miles.’

  ‘And what if Sir Thomas were to behave . . . improperly?’

  ‘In a graveyard, beside a church? Upon my word, you have a very low opinion of
the gentleman.’

  ‘I only want to protect you, miss.’

  This catches me. I have spent so much time marking the signs of stubbornness and vanity in Tilda’s skull that I have not dwelt upon her organ for Friendship. Her bonnet hides it at present, but I feel as if I can discern what is written there. The sentiment is manifesting itself not through the head, but in the eyes. Eyes that know something they will not tell, and yet cannot forget.

  It is a landslide of feeling I am unprepared for. I conceal it in my brisk voice. ‘I do not doubt it, Tilda. You are a good creature. Now come along, do as you are bid and there shall be no quarrels between us. Rest assured that if I need you, I shall scream.’

  We have reached a standstill. I open the door myself, not waiting for Graymarsh, and make an undignified exit. The wind is strong here, up in the hills. It pushes me back, tries to prevent me from taking a step towards the church. Head down, I defy it and walk boldly on, but not without misgiving. One could almost imagine it an omen, a sign that I should not proceed.

  As I approach, I perceive that Heatherfield Church and its graveyard are tidy, if ancient. The grass is rough but kept short. Dwarf willow creeps in a pleasant mat over the paths. Tombstones jut at a variety of angles, most of them hazed with moss, and the wind makes a gentle lament as it moves between them.

  Part of me expects to find Sir Thomas prostrate on a grave, howling with sorrow. I have read too many romances. Of course Sir Thomas is standing quite sensibly beneath the porch of the church, the capes of his great coat flapping in the wind. A top hat is wedged firmly over his hair.

  He raises his cane in greeting when he sees me, and begins to walk in my direction. My stomach knots. I dare not observe him too closely, for shame. Even if I were to venture a long stare, it would be of no use: the key to his character, his head, is hidden from me beneath that top hat.