A Taste for Nightshade (12 page)

A metallic jingling alerted me to movement below. Crossing silently to the far side of the roof, I spied a horse tethered to a tree, but no rider. I listened hard, and heard someone moving noisily below me. I cannot say why, but I felt a powerful instinct to keep myself hidden. Standing at the low doorway where the stairs emerged, I listened.

Suddenly the top of a head with bronze curls appeared in the doorway and the strain of my long night's waiting overcame me.

‘Michael! How could you leave me like that?' I ran towards him and buried my face in his shirtfront. I cannot recollect what else I mumbled, some of it furious, but no doubt some of it weak and shameful. Firm hands reached out, pushing me gently away.

‘Grace, it is I – Peter.'

Peter's boyish features were flushed with embarrassment. Instantly I jerked away and turned my back to him. My face was hot with shame. ‘What in heaven's name are you doing here? Is it any surprise I thought you were Michael?' I was so mortified I wished I could run away.

‘I am sorry—' he began.

‘Sorry?' Fury overwhelmed my disappointment. ‘Did you call Michael away? It was you, wasn't it? Have you seen him?'

He took a step backwards, lost for a reply. Then reluctantly, he nodded. ‘I did see him.'

‘Is he home yet?'

Looking at the ground, he said in a low tone, ‘I left him at the inn.'

‘Why? Why is he still at the inn?'

‘He was rather foxed.' He met my eye, then slid his gaze back to the ground. ‘But I'm sure he will be home soon. I can understand your being alarmed.' An attempt at sympathy was written on his boyish features. ‘Listen, Grace. Michael does not make it easy—'

I shook my head. ‘I will not listen to excuses. What are you doing here in any case?'

‘I called at the house, but there was no one in to receive me. I decided to look about before riding home. Truly, I did not intend to alarm you.'

I could not look at him, but said to the floor, ‘I must go back now.' I was suddenly desperate to be at home when Michael returned. ‘And you should leave,' I added unpleasantly.

Peter returned obediently to his horse, but picked up the reins to lead it, insisting on walking beside me. All the way back I didn't speak. Slowly the house came into view, and I looked for signs of Michael's return.

‘What on earth were my parents thinking, sending you to this tumbledown pile?' Peter said, with annoying amiability.

‘I find it enchanting.'

‘Grace, it is ridiculous. It is too big, too far, too—' He stopped and touched my arm. ‘Listen to me,' he said with sudden seriousness. ‘You should find another place. Don't settle here. You must overrule Michael and move away.'

I looked up at him sharply. ‘But I don't wish to.'

Again he was lost for words, then sighed. ‘If I can be of service, in any way, Grace, I will. I'll walk back with you. You have had an unpleasant surprise.'

I stared at him, a sickening reflux of anger rising within me again. ‘An unpleasant surprise?' Was that what he called keeping Michael away from me on our wedding night?

He bit his lower lip – a gesture of uncertainty I recognised from Michael. ‘I see we have not begun on the best of terms, Grace, but I would like very much to be your friend.'

I stopped stone still; feeling as if I might burst. I narrowed my eyes, and said with a deal of directness, ‘That is a peculiar thing to say.'

We were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the gravel.

‘There you both are.' It was Michael, his hair rumpled, his angel's face even more bruised about the eyes. ‘Grace, would you kindly step inside. Peter, a word before you leave.'

I opened my mouth to protest, but at a gesture from Michael, Peter turned away smartly and they both disappeared down a path into the woods.

Inside the Great Hall the fire had been rebuilt. Tea was set out on a table, and I drank it greedily. Gradually, my fury abated, replaced by pathetic relief. All I could think was, at least Michael is back so we might still mend our future.

It was a long time before Michael came indoors, and by then I felt too weak to remonstrate, as if I had already lived ten lives that day. Cowardly though it was, I did not reproach him. Nevertheless, when he sat down beside me, my spirits quailed.

‘I have not behaved well,' he said gruffly. ‘As I told you beforehand – I suffer from a breed of melancholia. Yesterday, being an object to be stared at, quite undid me.'

I nodded, looking away.

‘I can only account for it by blaming the insupportable strain of the day.'

That was true. With hindsight the day had been an ordeal for both of us.

‘Peter has gone now, and we must start again. It was a bad beginning, but we will proceed from this hour onward. Are you agreeable?'

I gave a slight nod. Compared to my fears of complete abandonment in the night, these were welcome words indeed.

‘And we must live more comfortably. Look at this place, it is almost a ruin. You are sensible, Grace. Tell me, what do you need?'

Here, at last was a straw to grasp. ‘We must employ servants, Michael. I must have staff to bring this house back to life. I believe Mrs Harper was not suitable, so at least we are saved the trouble of dismissing her.'

‘Good.' He reached out to my hand and squeezed it. I nodded, overjoyed that at last we were in harmony. He mused a moment, then pressed his lips tightly together. ‘I did see something in the village – a bill stuck on a wall.'

‘Tell me.'

‘A hiring fair in the town square tomorrow. It will no doubt be a rough sort of proceedings. But, if you can bear it, you may find a new housekeeper.'

I was aware of his fingers caressing me, moving his thumb along the top of my hand, provoking an unfamiliar excitement. ‘I will go. I will make our home comfortable.'

His smile was celestial. Then it wavered, and a frown creased his brow. His thumb ceased its delicious reassurance.

‘There is a small difficulty, Grace. A business matter I have overlooked. Forgive me, for I do not like to ask.'

I begged him to explain, longing to prove my worth in some practical fashion.

‘In all the bustle of the wedding, I have foolishly overlooked the provision of ready money.' He laughed; an embarrassed little cough. ‘My mother paid the treacherous Mrs Harper for the coming year, but we now face unexpected expenses. If you, dear Grace, could sign a simple paper, we may proceed at once.'

Dear
Grace – so tight-wound were my nerves that the words were like balm to me. I told him I would.

While he fetched the paper, I recalled Mr Tully telling me that I alone must be signatory to any transactions. And, less comfortably, I remembered his insistence that I consult him before raising any loans.

When I glanced at the paper placed before me, I quailed to see the large sum named:
To draw the sum of One Thousand Pounds upon the account of Mrs Michael Croxon, at Hoare's Bank, London.

‘Of course, such a sum will allow us to begin the building of the mill,' he said, looking pained at the need to speak of it. I did a rapid calculation. Using one thousand of my three thousand pounds to build the mill would use a third of my capital. Still, I felt a powerful need to prove myself a support to Michael in setting up the business. I signed my name, but remembering Mr Tully's warning about the value of my signature, I then ensured it had my own seal upon it. I was rewarded with another radiant smile.

‘Now let us get out of this gloomy place. Until more servants are found, shall we stay the night at the George? What do you say to some good food and company, Grace?'

In truth, I should rather have gone up at once to our chamber. But our boxes were still close by, and he was already searching for a better coat. With a heavier step I rummaged in my own trunk for a clean gown. In a dusty antechamber I pulled on a puce-striped gown that his mother had thought fashionable, but that I considered rather bold. When I returned, Michael eyed my costume critically.

‘You need a reliable maid to help you,' he said, straightening my sash, and then kissing me as lightly as a pecking bird.

So he does care for me a little, I thought. He took my arm and led me to the door, opening it most gallantly. Not since John Francis had left, had I felt the protective care of a man. That morning I found it irresistible, like having a soft-spun blanket wrapped about me, that promised warmth and ease for the rest of my life.

 

 

In the street below Peg's lodging house the Michaelmas hiring fair had started up. She watched a line of men gather, each bearing a sign of their calling: shepherds bearing crooks, cowmen a tuft of cow's hair in their hat brims. Farmers moved appraisingly amongst them, questioning and prodding them. Across the street the women stood at the Market Cross: a motley huddle, from sulky girls with their mothers, to crooked old granddames. Most were hardened domestics, women with brawny arms and drab hand-stitched costumes. The only other women carrying ladles were a dirty-looking blubber-guts and a wretch with the look of a gin-biber. Those who met success headed straight to the ale benches, eager to spend their bond money as fast as they might.

Peg was amused by a buxom girl fending off a farmer. ‘Me wife be on her last legs,' he pleaded, so loudly she could hear every word through the open window. ‘Come wi' me, and once she's out t'way, I'll hire thee for life at t'altar.'

‘Tha's old enough to be me grandfather,' she laughed, tossing her head.

Just then the door barged open; it was only Sue, who'd been sharing her chamber.

‘Me feet are murderin' me.' Sue flung herself onto the edge of Peg's bed and started hauling off her boots. Grimacing, she inspected the purple toes peeping out of her stockings. ‘I must have carried near a hundred dinners today. I hate fairs even more 'n market day. I've had enough, Peg. I'm going for a place at that Miss Sybilla Claybourn's. Housemaid, it is, but easy work for just one lady.'

‘That's a pretty name, Sybilla Claybourn. Who's she?'

‘The one what has Riverslea out by the river. Next to that Delafosse Hall you was asking about.' Sue prattled on about her new mistress, the chance to make a life of ease, the petty tricks by which she might add to her own purse. ‘And t'other news is that Harper woman's gone and bolted from Delafosse Hall.'

‘Where's she got to?'

‘Got a better place somewhere else, they say. Took her year's wages, too. Can't say I blame her, that place's been empty for years; only them town-bred blockheads would rent it. Oh, and you'll like this, I seen that Delafosse woman in the square.'

‘What's she like?'

Sue laughed scornfully. ‘You can't miss her. Uppish type, wearing a frock made of thin yellow stuff and a straw bonnet crawling with ribbons.'

Peg finally turned around and affected a smile. Sue looked her up and down.

‘I never knew you had such a green gown afore.'

‘This? I told you. I'm going to get a position.'

Sue yawned, showing a mouthful of black teeth. ‘Left it a bit late in't you?'

‘Oh, there are plenty of positions still going.'

‘Where? That Delafosse Hall?' Sue smirked. ‘We could be neighbours, Peg. Call on each other for a spot of company on our days off.'

After Sue left, Peg returned to the window to see that the buxom girl had not stood her ground against the farmer. Already he eyed her like a fatted calf. She knew that calculating side-glance; when the loins were hot and the eyes were as cold as flint.

Ah, there she was, the woman in yellow who must be Mrs Croxon. All Peg's senses quickened. What a beanpole, she crowed to herself – stooped shoulders, gown ill-fitting. Why, she looked a born bleater – no match at all for Peg Blissett. She picked up her borrowed ladle, went downstairs, and sauntered over to the new mistress of Delafosse Hall. Then, gathering all her sweetness, Peg smiled at Mrs Croxon.

The woman responded with a slight bow of her head, and then said, so quietly that Peg could barely hear her, ‘I see by the ladle you must be a cook. Am I led to believe – are you—'

Mrs Croxon had a nasty rash, and slovenly-dressed hair. But looking more closely she was not so ill-looking. And her voice was so pleasant and genteel that Peg couldn't stop herself aping it.

‘I am sorry, mistress. I am bonded to be Cook Housekeeper to Miss Sybilla Claybourn, of Riverslea House.'

‘Oh, what a very great shame.' The Croxon woman turned aside, then blinked and turned back. ‘And that is a binding agreement?' Her desperation was writ very large across her face.

‘Well, mistress, Miss Claybourn was most satisfied with my character, given by Mistress Humphries – see, it is here.' She pulled her fake paper out, pointing at words and distracting her with patter. ‘Miss Claybourn wants a cook with the art of confectionary, you see, she is such a famous one for company and revels. Trouble is,' she added, ‘I'm to wait here a month – which is a nuisance, especially as there's been no money yet.'

As sure as eggs, Mrs Croxon perked up. ‘I don't know if this is irregular, but I can pay you at once.'

‘But what shall I say to Miss Claybourn?'

‘I see. What a shame. I suppose you have given your word.' She began to walk away.

Peg could barely credit it. Trotting after her, she suggested, ‘If your need is greater, so is mine. I am rather out of pocket.'

‘So if I were to offer you five shillings today, in advance?'

Five poxy bob? She could have got ten times that if she worked the crowd at the tavern.

‘That would suit me well,' she assured her.' Only – Miss Claybourn might think I made it all up, about another offer. Are you acquainted with her?'

‘Not at all. I'm newly arrived here.'

‘Perhaps if you wrote to her? Then we can strike up an agreement here and now.'

‘I believe I shall.' Mrs Croxon was overjoyed.

From this exchange Peg grasped the key to Mrs Croxon's character. She was a follower of that balderdash idol – honourable dealing; and her weakness was a wish to please. To a fly-girl like her, these were the lock-picks to the soul.

Peg's reward was the Croxon's Letter of Credit. At the butcher's, the grocer's, the baker's, Peg set it down on the counter with a flourish. Dishes and receipts formed like starbursts in her mind, trailing myriad ingredients. For one she needed rosewater, cherries, and almonds, for another pistachios, chocolate, and cream – soon she lost her way, and ordered whatever her whimsy suggested. Unfolding her neat credential, Peg looked eagerly for Mrs Croxon's signature but found to her disappointment, the ragged scrawl of ‘Michael George Croxon Esquire'.

By noon the kitchen was half-sorted. For her part, Peg had recruited some local women for the laundry and heavy work, and she directed them to scrub every kitchen flagstone and shelf. With gusto she oversaw the delivery of the first parcels and baskets of food. Some part of her that had gaped emptily for years began to grow easy. This is all mine, she crowed to herself. She sniffed and tasted and arranged her jars, baskets, and vats, all the time sketching out long dreamed-of feasts.

Her first botheration was what to serve the Croxons for dinner. The galling truth came home to her that she must make breakfast, dinner, and supper, day after poxy day. Sweet stuffs were no trouble; she had the makings of custards and a medlar tart, and best of all, a gooseberry pudding. But as for savoury dishes, the last time she had cooked meat was out in the Colony, where kangaroo rats had been top bill of fare. She racked her brain-box for how Aunt Charlotte had kept the Palace fed at all hours. There had been lots of pots steaming and bubbling on the fire, and long hours of peeling, chopping, and beating. She would have to find a slavey down at the village to take it on. Then, luck favouring the brave, the answer appeared before her, in the shape of an ancient baggage named Nan, who seemed to think she had a right to the kitchen fireside. Peg looked her up and down. ‘So what can you do?'

To her surprise, the old mopsy mumbled about the workings of the great fire, and how to set the horrible, old-fangled contraption in motion.

‘And the pastry oven,' Nan wittered, ‘though it's many years since I had the makings of a pie.'

‘You? Bake, can you?'

‘Aye.'

‘What other dishes do you know?'

The crone scratched her wrinkled cheek. ‘I cannot read or owt, but I do keep them old receipts safe in my noddle.' She began to recite a surprisingly impressive list. ‘White soup, Roast Meat in Crumbs, Mutton Ragoo, Yorkshire Pudding, Chicken Pie, Mint Sauce, Apple Sauce, Bread Sauce, Marigold Tart—'

‘No need for the sweet stuffs, I'm a dab hand at those myself.' Peg put on a hard, considering face. ‘I could give you a trial, I suppose. But I won't have any lazybones in my kitchen, do you hear? I'll give you a test and we'll see how you go. Make that Chicken Pie for dinner and I'll give it a taste. Go on, ready at three o'clock; the makings are in the larder.'

Nan shuffled off, her eyes frightened, but hopeful.

‘And you can move your stuff out of here to the scullery,' Peg shouted after her.

The only other permanent domestics she employed were two ugly sisters, Bess and Joan, who would certainly keep no delivery boys lingering at the back door. As for the other servants, they must come and go from the village as she needed them. She wanted no inside servants tittle-tattling behind her back.

Peg judged the Chicken Pie to be satisfactory, if old-fashioned, the braised chicken flavoured with nutmeg, fresh peas and cream. The Croxons had liked it, too, and most of it had disappeared. Nan would certainly be staying on. That would leave Peg free to make only sweet confections, jellies, and cakes. She had not lost her touch, for the pudding bowls had returned downstairs all but licked clean. She had kept back a second dish for herself, and dug her spoon into syrupy gooseberries inside claggy suet pudding. All she needed was gumption to keep the Croxons sweet. Gumption and a pinch of high-flying trickery.

Leaving the clearing up to the others, she took a stroll outside to clear her head of smoke. Reaching an open glade in the woods, she sat down on a hollow trunk with a satisfied sigh. From inside her pocket she pulled out a short pipe of pale stuff with a brownish tinge, like the stub of a penny whistle. Raising it to her lips, she blew softly against the top until a high unearthly note made the grass, the leaves, and the dusk-heavy air vibrate. Artfully, she stopped the three small holes with her fingertips in an unhurried sequence, casting a mournful phrase into the air. The tone was more husky than a flute's; it was off-key and haunting, a summoning call quite at odds with the gentle English glade. The chirruping birds fell silent. The hairs on the back of her neck rose like startled feathers.

After those eight starveling months, they had finally got to New South Wales – the biggest, most frightening prison in the world. No walls – only the deadly forever of empty bush land; no iron bars – only hundreds of leagues of ocean. It was the end of the earth, the end of all hope. And Botany Bay had lacked those botanical meadows so vaunted by Captain Codswallop Cook. The governor had no choice but to sail on. To everyone's astonishment, the five ships then floated into the biggest and bluest bay they had ever seen. As quiet as the grave it was, as they tacked around the rocky shore; so quiet you could hear the hawsers creaking and the hiss and lap of the waves. The women leaned over the rail, trying to catch the breeze, for the air was as hot as a fiery furnace. Mary spotted some green parrots fluttering from branch to branch, and was just wondering if they would make good eating when a racket broke out ahead of them. A mob of natives were hopping about and shouting something none of them could understand. Buck-naked they were, and black-skinned, with pointy spears and round shields.

‘Don't reckon they'll want our visiting cards,' she said to Janey, who was standing beside her. Instinctively both of them stood back from the rail, glad of the hundred feet between them and the ends of the savages' spears.

‘It's our lot I'm more feared of,' said Janey. Though still tall and graceful, she looked ashen and scabby in the sunshine. Lice moved in her hair, making Mary's own scalp itch. ‘We've only been sent for one reason,' Janey ventured, ‘and that's to stop the menfolk from buggering each other to death.'

There were more than one thousand itchy-loined male convicts to two hundred women. She looked around for Jack Pierce and gave him a hopeful smile. It would be a test for the lad. She meant to stick to him like a limpet. The governor favoured easily-herded sheep types, and as a reward, those who married might build their own huts and live apart. So she and Jack had given the reverend their names, and she was primed to turn an honest woman. She and Jack would play a couple of go-alongers for a while – until she decided otherwise.