An Appetite for Violets Read online

  And all the bitter maidens who put it underneath their pillows would be sorrowing to think that Jem was finally taken, bound and married off to me.

  The only sour note that struck was the sudden bang-slapping of a bird against the windowpane. It was a robin redbreast pecking at the glass, his wings beating in a frenzy.

  ‘Scarper,’ I shouted, flapping my hands about. What was it he warned me of, that he stared so hard and tapped all in a frenzy?

  ‘Is it a robin?’ Teg had crept in from the scullery and the fear I felt was echoed in her gawping tones. ‘He be a messenger. ’Tis a famous omen. Death be coming here.’

  ‘That’s enough of your claptrap,’ I snapped back. Risking breaking the glass, I lifted a ladle and knocked it against the pane so hard that the bird flew off on the instant.

  ‘You see. He were only a fledgling tricked by the glass. If you’ve finished the apples there are fowls to pluck.’

  Teg cast me a poisonous glance and swore she had not finished half her chores. I’m not daft, I knew our scullery maid would be off to tell her gossips what a Miss Toity that Biddy Leigh was and how this omen must herald my bad end. She wishes it true, I thought, as I checked the oven’s heat with a sizzle of spit. She is jealous and rankles under every command I give her. But it was only a gormless fledgling. No person who knew their ABC would give a farthing for such a sign.

  * * *

  The tarts were scarcely in the oven when the noise startled me. A right how-row it was: hollering grooms, clattering gates, dogs yelping and barking. Then a fancy hired carriage rolled right inside our yard, the team of horses snorting, the heavy harnesses creaking and jingling. My first thought was, what on earth was I to feed any company with? We had a good stock of provender for the servants, but nowt for the likes of Sir Geoffrey if he’d come up all the way from London.

  Off I scarpered to the back door to see who it was. What with the stable boys jostling and a stray pig upsetting the cider pots, at first I could barely glimpse her. Then I pushed my way through and saw a young woman climb down, no more than my own age, only she was as pale as a flour bag, with rosebud lips pressed tight together, and two spots of rouge high on her cheeks. She stared at the rabble, her eyes narrowing. She weren’t afeared of us, no not one whit. She lifted her chin and said in a throaty London drawl, ‘Mr Pars. Fetch him at once.’ Like magic the scene changed: three or four fellows legged it indoors and those staying behind hung back a bit, fidgeting before this girl that might have dropped from the moon for all we’d ever seen such a being in our yard. What drew my eye was her apricot-coloured gown that shone like a diamond. I drank in all her marks of fashion: the peachy ribbon holding the little dog she clutched to her bosom, her powdered curls, but most of all it was her shoes I fixed on. They were made of shiny silver stuff, and in spite of the prettiest heels you ever saw, were already squelched in Mawton mud. It were a crime to ruin those shoes, but there were no denying it, she’d landed in a right old pigsty.

  I knew she had to be Sir Geoffrey’s new wife, this so-called Lady Carinna we had jawed about since they got married some three weeks ago down in London. One of the grooms had told us she was near to forty years younger than Sir Geoffrey, and hadn’t that set our tongues wagging? While the men made lewd jests, we women asked, what was she thinking, to let herself be married to our master?

  Next, another woman tottered from the carriage, a scrannil-looking creature with a chinless, turtle head. She was waving a big lace handkerchief before her nose as if she might waft us all away like a bad smell. Her mistress never even gave her a glance, only lifted the little dog and made daft kisses at it, like we weren’t even there at all. It were quite a performance, I can tell you.

  Thank the stars our steward Mr Pars came bustling out just then and yelled at the boys like a sergeant to get back to work.

  ‘Lady Carinna,’ he said, bowing stiffly. ‘What brings you here, My Lady?’

  She never even gave him an answer, so I wondered at first if she knew he was our steward, trusted with the charge of everything while the master was away. He seemed suddenly shrunk beside her, with his greasy riding coat and tousled hair.

  ‘My quarters,’ she said at last, avoiding his eye.

  He made a half bow; his face were liver-purple. Then she followed him down the back corridor. The show were over, and I scurried back into the kitchen.

  ‘Get them fowls spitted,’ I yelled to my cook maid Sukey. ‘And a barrel of cabbage chopped right this minute,’ I said to scowling Teg. Then I stood awhile, hands on hips, and pondered what on earth a woman like that would ever eat.

  * * *

  We were nearly shipshape when Jem’s knock shook the door. Even with hands still claggy with flour I couldn’t get to him fast enough, my heart fluttering like a pigeon in a basket. Then there was Jem leaning on the door frame with the afternoon sun gilding him; I am tall for a woman, but his golden hair near touched the lintel.

  ‘Did you see ’er?’ His hazel-gold eyes glinted. ‘Under all them frills she ain’t nowt but a girl. Dirty old goat, he is, to take such a bantling to his bed.’

  ‘She may be fine-looking but she don’t look frisky to me.’ I’d seen her youth, sure enough, but also something tight-knotted in that pretty face. ‘Not like some,’ I said with a prod at his chest.

  He made a grab for my hand, grinning all the while. ‘Yer got flour on yer face,’ he laughed and smeared it so I must have looked worse. ‘Are them pies I can smell?’ He craned forward, stretching the thick tendons of his neck. ‘Give us a taste then,’ he said, so low and slow my belly fizzed. That boy could make me melt like butter.

  ‘You rogue, you’ll have me out the door with no wages,’ I protested, pulling back away from him behind the threshold. We could never forget the rules all we female servants lived under: no husband, no followers, not even a wink. Even Mrs Garland only held her title from tradition, for every cook was Missus, though almost all were spinsters. ‘No callers’ was the rule set by every respectable master. It was the curse of my life, to choose to cook or to choose to marry.

  ‘Now you won’t forget about tomorrow night’s Souling?’ I chided. ‘You will tell Mr Pars we’re to wed?’

  ‘I’ll do it, love. Then we can start up our alehouse and you can get cooking. I don’t half fancy being a landlord.’

  ‘Aye, but we need the means to start it up first. We need the capital, Jem.’

  It was the grand future we dreamed of. If ever we won a bonus or were remembered by a generous master, we would turn the old ruin at Pars Fold into a tavern. It was in a most fortunate place, right by the new highway. With all the new money rattling around from turnpikes and trade, I’d heard travellers would rather eat beefsteak for a shilling than bread and cheese for tuppence. But sometimes I wished I’d never told Jem my notion, for now he talked of little else.

  ‘The time will come, my love,’ I added, then reached to touch his cheek.

  ‘One kiss,’ he croaked. ‘Look, I fetched some Fat Hen for you.’ Jem offered me a bunch of wilting greens.

  I reached for the plants, rubbed the leaves with a snap of my finger and thumb and sniffed. They were as fresh as spinach but not so peppery and warm. And wasn’t that a faint whiff of cat’s piss? Mrs G always said I could sniff a drop of honey in a pail of milk. I used my nose then and saved us all from a night of gripes.

  ‘That’s not Fat Hen, you noddle. That’s Dog’s Mercury. Once I knew a band of tinkers that made a soup of it and near died. If I serve that up to the new mistress I could be hanged for murder.’

  ‘God help us. Give it back here. It’s ill-omened.’ He hurled the plants towards the hogs’ trough. ‘I’ll fetch you whatever you want from the glasshouse.’

  ‘I have fruit by the barrel-load,’ I laughed. ‘Get along now. I’ve Her Ladyship’s supper to see to.’

  ‘Wait, I near forgot my news.’ He held me back with his calloused hand. ‘This footman fellow of hers just come from town. A brown-skinned fellow he
is, a right chimney chops, wearing one of them gold footman’s coats. He’d got a letter from London. Billy saw it in his hand. So maybe the master is coming home after all. Sir Geoffrey might put his hand in his pocket when we wed.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, Jem. When he was younger, perhaps. His bride coming up here on her own, that don’t bode well.’

  Just then a waft of bitter smoke reached me from the kitchen. ‘My damned pies!’ I cried and turned back inside.

  Jem caught my wrist as I turned. ‘Where’s my kiss then?’

  ‘They’re ruined,’ I snapped. ‘Teg must find you a morsel.’ I am sure that’s what I said that day, that I confused his victuals with his kisses.

  When I rescued the pies they were greasy brown and tasted of cinders. ‘You stupid distracted numkin,’ I cursed to myself as I stared at my ruined handiwork.

  But before I could tip them in the trough I felt a shadow at my back. Turning about, I found Teg twitching like a puppet on a string.

  ‘Biddy, come quick. There’s a lady in the kitchen asking for the cook, but I just run off dumb.’

  III

  Loveday dropped down to squat outside his mistress’s door. He didn’t like those chairs that left his legs dangling, and to stand all day made his old wound ache. Squatting on his haunches, as he had always sat with the other men of Lamahona around the fire, he could think. His velvet breeches pulled at his knees, and his gold-trimmed coat dragged in the dust, but his muscles stretched taut. Behind the door Lady Carinna was weeping and shouting, spitting fire like an angry mountain. He puzzled over the words of the letter he had half an hour earlier secretly opened and read:

  Devereaux Court

  London

  27th October 1772

  Dearest Sis,

  I received your letter this morning and must confess to my absolute confusion. Why the devil have you journeyed alone all the way up to rustic Cheshire? Puss, what schemes are hatching in that clever head of yours? If you had but invited me, we might have travelled in style together, but instead you abandon me alone here, subject to the ranting of our uncle. He is not happy, sis, that you have left your husband so soon – but then what did he ever know of the feelings of others? As for me, I at least comprehend that you cannot abide another moment in that old man’s disgusting company. Bravo sister, for reclaiming your freedom!

  You ask for news of Town, so here is what little I have. In short, the gaming table has not favoured me, but I believe one may win as easily as lose, it is all in the turn of a card. My losses are nothing beside Lord Ridley’s; the rumour mongers report it at £10,000, and he has departed for the Continent to escape the consequences. Our uncle laughed to hear Ridley will pass by his old villa in Italy, claiming he will be harried by another stinging plague of mosquitoes.

  Other gossip is that I saw frowsty Sarah Digby about town with your old admirer Napier, who has certainly shown his true colours, as I predicted he would. The story is that they were married last week at the Fleet, all on account of her £30,000. Jane Salcombe is also making a fool of herself, and danced all evening with Col Connaught (only a measly £2000) which is desperate measures indeed.

  I am certain that since our uncle has made a match for you, he plots the same for me. My only saving grace is that he thinks me too much of an idle drone to snare some vulgar heiress, and thank the devil for that. He is still as tight as ever, but did give me £50 to parade myself at the pleasure gardens last week, but instead I went alone to Mr Garrick’s Jubilee at Drury Lane and savoured each word spoken by the divine Prince of Denmark.

  As for the rest of the cash, I am now the possessor of a black velvet coat that I am sure you will like me in well, but with only a modicum of gold, the rest I lost quite heroically at the tables.

  So tell me, is your husband’s estate worth the journeying? Our uncle boasts it is a fine place that brings a steady income. I expect you have splendid horses up there, and judging from your husband’s scarlet Malmsey nose, a fair cellar. P’raps you could invite me to more closely inspect his property while the master continues away? What a jest would that be?

  How soon do you return, sis? If not within the week, might you also send a little ready cash, and kiss it for luck to help me turn our fortunes?

  I Remain Your Ever Affectionate Brother,

  Kitt Tyrone

  The letter was from his mistress’s brother, whom his mistress indulged like a child. Yet the meaning was hard to understand. Ridley, Sarah, Napier, Col: they were names of no meaning to him.

  His letter-reading was a secret, the gift of kindly Father Cornelius from the mission on Flores. Only a white priest would have paid the high price of a Portuguese dollar for Loveday, broken as he had been after living as a slave of the Damong clan. In return for shelter and schooling he had learned to be a good houseboy and pray on his knees before the big stone Mary. But all that Bible chanting and sitting on hard benches could not make him forget who he was. He was Keraf, father of Barut, a hunter of the Lama Tuka clan. He could read and speak some English, but he still secretly honoured the skulls of his ancestors. And when he prayed he did not chant mumbling words as the Catholic fathers did, but let his mind drift on the tides of time, just as his mother, the daughter of a Spirit Man, had always done, and her ancestors before her.

  Behind the door the sounds of shouting and Bengo’s excited yapping quieted. Loveday stared past the flower-decorated papers that lined the corridor and began to still his mind. Since falling out of his old life into this chilly underworld, his habit was to sink into reveries when alone. He recollected his life on Lamahona, summoning his wife, Bulan, and his little son Barut. Was Bulan still as lovely as the moon after which she was named? He wondered if her dark lips still smiled and twitched in her sleep as the baby sucked at her breast. No, Barut must be tall now, he must be sailing his father’s prahu out across the bay. Or so he prayed. Or were Bulan and Barut also slaves? For all the pleasure his visions gave him, their pain pierced Loveday as sharply as the iron harpoon that had once been his greatest treasure. Shifting on his haunches, he set his wits to tackle his problem. How could he return to his own world, to Lamahona and his precious wife and son?

  Willing his breathing to slow, he let his mind slip like a sea serpent, away from the quayside of this cold world. He conjured the beach on Lamahona; heard the hiss and tumble of the waves. Crossing the sugar-white sand, he waded into water that shone like blue glass and was as warm as mother’s milk. Flipping onto his back, he floated like a sea cow in the twinkling, bobbing sunlight. The salt on his upper lip tasted good. Ideas bubbled and popped around him. When he was still like this, alone and untroubled, he could fish for the future as well as any Spirit Man. For a long time he drifted, seeing once again his wedding feast, his son’s birth, his parents’ pride.

  He was lost. This alarmed him, as he knew the ocean as well as any man knows the landmarks of his own country. But as he swam amongst the islands, each scene was unfamiliar. The conical peak of a mountain loomed towards him where he expected to find a jagging reef. Here was another unfamiliar island, and then another. In frustration Loveday searched the horizon, peering through narrowed eyes. Then, glancing down into the darkening ocean, he started back to see a strange boat directly beneath him. It was not a Lamahonan boat at all, but a ship as big as a whale, with pearly sails and pale-skinned men wandering the deck. Loveday peered down, so close that the brine stung his widening eyes. If he could hold his breath like a pearl fisher and explore that magic ship, he would find his journey’s end. He reached down deep into the water and felt the wisp of the ship’s pennant pass between his fingers like a ribbon of seaweed.

  * * *

  Loveday felt a blow to his side that sent him headlong against the hard floor.

  ‘What’s this, you idle heathen? Asleep at your post?’

  He had been kicked by a vast leather boot that stood by his blinking eye. With a lurch he scrambled up and tried to stand poker-straight to attention. The old man Mr Pars stood
over him, his face as grim as a time-worn boulder. This man was Number One over all the servants, he knew that much. Loveday rapidly grasped that his work as Lady Carinna’s footman was an easy post that he must strive to keep, for it promised days of idleness, free of beatings.

  ‘Only one instant my eyes close, good sir,’ he said, his head bobbing like an oar in a storm. ‘On my life, it is the first time.’

  ‘Your mistress has three letters waiting for you,’ the big man said. ‘And I’ve got my eye on you, you cheating ape. Do you understand the King’s English?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I always listen good, sir.’

  ‘Then understand I will have you kicked out on the streets if I find you asleep again. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Loveday scuttled off to his mistress’s door. As he entered, he wiped all expression from his face, so that Lady Carinna would have no reason to shout at him. He held out the silver tray so they need not touch as she dropped a neat new letter. His mistress’s red cheeks still looked feverish.

  ‘Jesmire has left one, too,’ she snapped. He picked up a second, neatly copper-plated letter.

  ‘Mr Pars, he say three letter, My Lady.’

  She stared at the crumpled balls of scribbled paper. ‘The other is impossible to write. Take those.’

  Back outside, he puffed his cheeks out in relief to see that Mr Pars had disappeared. He raced up the stairs two by two, singing under his breath in celebration of the hour of freedom a journey to the post house would earn. He hesitated by the gallery fire, unsure whether to open the letters or not. That fellow Mr Pars had stared at him like a devil man. But his instincts told him that his survival depended on understanding the private thinkings of those around him. Picking up a lighted tallow stump he headed for his garret. Once he was alone in his gloomy room beneath the eaves, he sliced at the seal with his razor and read the first letter.