Cupids (10 page)

I watched a raindrop disappear into the earth, walked a little farther and felt the crack of the shell as it splintered beneath my bare heel. Bartholomew's words returned —
do we
not tread upon ants and spiders when we make our way through
the market?
Here I was already a murderer and all I had done was tread upon the ground. Raising my foot, I heard a multiple crack as the shell fragments fell upon themselves.
Inevitable
, was the word that sounded in my ears, a term of fragile constancy. Everything crumbles. Mr. Egret would certainly die one way. Ten years, or five, or three would be too late for some.

But what had it to do with me? I continued circling the house, my feet scratching against the pebbles, the rain seeping at last through Bartholomew's coat. I thought of my mother, betrayed by his secrecy; I thought of myself obscured by his shadow; I thought of Mrs. Egret, her late husband, Mr. Guy, and Bartholomew, each of them journeying to unknown shores, risking themselves for every gain. Mr. Egret seemed like some giant carrion bird which preys not upon the dead but upon the living.

I reached the spot where I had crushed the snail. The ridges of its shell fragments caught the moon.
Inevitable
, the jagged edges seemed to spell. The reins of all knowledge — Bartholomew's plan, Mr. Guy's hope, my mother's death, and my likely paternity — had all been drawn together and placed neatly in my hand, and as fate, or providence, would have it, I also had easiest access to the target. Why should he live to thwart so many?

“YES, YES,” HE SAYS, rising, shuffling around the table, shoulders oddly stooped. “It's the course we must take.” He picks up a log from the pile, though the fire is burning warmly enough, and hurls it over the grate. The new log dislodges one already burning, sending a swirl of sparks into the room. The glowing underbelly of the upturned log fades into grey. Slowly, as I watch in silence, the first timorous tongues of new flame tease their way around the base of the fresh wood.

“How?” I ask his back.

His feet and shoulders do not move, but his head flicks in my direction. I can see his high cheekbone, the tip of his nose.

“
Atropa belladonna
,” he mumbles, and then turns. I've heard the phrase before. It tumbles from the mouth like a snatch from a love sonnet, caressing and smooth. He stares at me now, his face a mask, drawn and unmoving.

“What?” My question comes out like a cough.

“Deadly nightshade.”

The voluptuous phrase dissolves, falling in soft leaves to reveal a blade.

“A poison?”

He nods and then comes to the table. He sits close to me again, body hunched, elbows on knees, hands over his mouth as though preparing to catch whatever words might be spoken. “We must plan carefully,” he says. I'm surprised at the whiteness of his face and at a slight tremor of his fingertips as they stroke his light, boyish beard. “I will collect it, of course. You must make sure it finds its way into his food.”

The chain of guilt is oddly comforting. I imagined the plunge of a knife, the drop of an ax blade. This way the murder is shared. Who is more responsible: the supplier or the one who applies the poison? I was readying myself for the title.
Murderess! —
the word hurtled through my brain as I saw the sea of shaking fists, and the stones hailing down upon my head. Now I can apply a prefix
: semi-murderess!
Which mob could squeeze vengeance into such a cumbersome chant? Only half of my soul will be damned. Hellfire will last only half an eternity.

His right hand falls from his young beard and comes to rest upon my knee. Is the brain behind those distracted blue eyes aware of it? Does he know his fingers are working at my nightdress for the second time tonight, gathering fabric as before, then dropping those same folds, then beginning afresh? It's curious, this compulsive, repetitive action. I can feel his breath on my face, but it seems to contain the heat of agitation, not of lust. I sense that for the moment I am an extension of him. My leg, my nightdress is of no more consequence than the beard that he smoothed with those fingers.

“When?” My voice is sharp, urgent to rouse him. I shift my knee. His hand drops without protest.

“When,” he repeats like a distant echo.

“I don't want to wait. The crime will grow larger and larger until the moment it's committed.”

“Yes,” he whispers like a man emerging from a dream. “We must overtake remorse before it swells and forbids action.” His eyes, rather bloodshot and tired, meet mine now, and I see the tensing of his jaw as he raises himself in his chair. “We must act,” he says.

My stomach suddenly churns and certain knowledge descends. The wheel is already turning; the operation to which he refers will not be commenced next week or even tomorrow, but now.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Guy

H
OW DID ELIZA COME
to be in my bed? The question surfaces again, but I push it down until it sinks under and Eliza's soft, white arm emerges from the folds of linen. Her skin, unaccountably wet, hisses as it slides against the sheets. Ridges of foam appear and disappear with every movement, and the taste of salt comes and goes in my mouth.

The sweetness of it all is almost beyond bearing. Any more pleasure would surely tilt into pain. Still, I am worried. What about her reputation? Bartholomew, the young rogue, comes freely into my chamber whenever he pleases. The thought of Eliza sullied by smirks and whispers distracts me. The ebb and flow of her movements, though delightful to me now, would be branded in scarlet shame if revealed to the light of day.

For the second time I try to tell her.

“Eliza . . .”

And for the second time her forefinger presses my lips closed. She holds me with her smile, teeth dazzling white, eyes defying the dark by catching pools of fire from no source at all. Her face plunges into my neck and sweet breath rises to my earlobe.

“No words,” she whispers.

But I can't help trying to speak, although I give up the idea of voicing anxiety.

“I can't believe it,” I say.

My eyes, opening once more, catch the wriggle of her tail as it disappears beneath the sheet ripples.

“Nor should you,” she whispers, her head rising and falling close to my other ear. “I am merely your dream.”

I laugh at the idea as her tongue touches the hollow beneath my lobe. I know dreams. They can't enliven all the senses at once, elevate the spirits to heaven for so sustained a period. This plane of existence is more real than any I have ever lived through. If there is a portal to another world, then it is that other world, not this one, which is a dream.

“Sure, it's true,” she says, her breath now dancing across my forehead in search for fresh zones of pleasure. “I cannot be real because you've done nothing to deserve me. If you let others take your risks, you must expect others to gather your rewards.”

My eyes open again and I see people in a horseshoe circle around the bed — Bartholomew, the dark-haired Helen, Mrs. Egret, Mr. Whip leaning on a stick, and even Mr. Egret — all gazing at our writhing bodies, faces impassive.

“Rewards,” I repeat. Her face travels down my chest now, her tongue marking each rib, lips touching like the warmest of summer rains. The moisture from her skin drips upon me now and the sweetness of the fluid intensifies the tremors already overtaking my flesh.

“Rewards,” she repeats. Her breath gushes hot down my body. Thunder growls in my ear and rumbles down my spine and legs and across my arms. Everything flexes at once, every muscle and bone, every finger and hair, the bedposts, the walls, the shutters hiding the window. My blurred vision scans the expressionless faces gazing down upon me. In unison each of them breaks into laughter. Hands are thrown together in mad applause: Mr. Whip ignores the stick that clatters to the floor as he beats his palms in celebration; Bartholomew, jumping madly, strikes his hands together over his head; the maid dances a jig around him; Mr. Egret nods and cries like some bird for its mate. The noise is tumultuous, like a playhouse crammed to the rafters. My legs kick against my will like a man condemned after the stool is pushed from under his feet.

A second wave follows — clapping, cheers, foot-stamping — in power diminished from the first. It comes a third time but, like a flapping wing of a storm-threatened crow, the sound is muffled and ceases too soon. Finally each of the spectators is still. Mr. Whip groans and falls to the ground. Helen yawns and sags at the shoulders. Even Bartholomew sinks, sighing as though worn out by the very same drama that had captivated him a moment before.

The weight of Eliza on my chest is suddenly gone. Everything is dark. My hands rise, rummaging through blanket and sheet, but only the hiss of twisting linen and the scratch of wool greet my blind search.

“Eliza!” I call.

Silence and darkness are my only answers. The name of my lover feels suddenly foolish on my lips. There is no Eliza, no audience either. While part of me is grateful for the latter, there is the smartest of pangs for the loss. If Eliza was not here, then the sensations were a lie. The love and desire that seemed more real than life itself exist not at all beyond the boundaries of my skin. The self-trickery seems cruel beyond understanding. I have been here before, of course. I am not the world's first dreamer and this is not my first dream.

It is not only loss which I fear. One part of the dream, dismissed at the time, is gathering itself afresh in the darkness. Like moles' tunnels which may be viewed by the mounds they make upon the surface of the earth, the pattern of my worries weaves itself through my imagination.
If you
let others take your risks
, my dream-Eliza told me,
you must
expect others to gather your rewards.

What others?

There is a creak from Bartholomew's quarters below, and the answer, I decide, is already here. I waste no time.

“Bartholomew!” I bellow into the darkness, sitting up. In swift response there is another creak, a short pause, and then I hear him climbing the stairs, a tread more cautious than usual. Is it guilt that weighs upon him? I try to envision what this, the worst of my fears, would look like turned into the flesh of reality. Eliza, voluptuous as I have just experienced her, not for myself but for the weasel Bartholomew. Do such unspeakable horrors really lurk in the recesses of night? Does decorum and restraint turn to bestial depravity when no witnesses can see?

The crack of light appears, intensifies, and the door swings open. Bartholomew stands in the frame, face and form burning in the candle flame. There is indeed something different about him, I can tell. The bounce and weightlessness of his gait is altered. With shoulders more round, he looks older. This reassures me. He fits not with the image of secret triumph.

“You called me, Mr. Guy?” he says with no effort at pleasing.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“About your business, sir.”

Is it my imagination or is there resentment in his tone?

“Where, precisely?”

“The Egret home. The Crossroads Tavern. The woods on the Avon's north bank. The Crossroads Tavern again.”

“This is merely a list, boy!”

“I am merely answering your question, sir.”

There is a pause. This is as plainly insolent as he has ever been, and suddenly I realize I don't know what to do about it. I have no hold over him, other than the promise of advancement, and with the dexterity of his brain he might easily achieve that without my help. He is free because I made him so.

“Stay here for a moment, please.” I can hear weakness, like some fever, creeping in my voice. Eliza's words from the dream crash over me in a wave:
I cannot be real because
you've done nothing to deserve me
. I try to shrug them away as I throw off the rumpled sheets and swiftly begin to dress. “Give me an account of your actions so that I may plan.”

“It's done; everything,” he says, still at the door. His words, normally mellifluous and floating, drop like heavy weights to the floor. It is very strange.

“What is done?” I ask, fastening my belt. The disingenuousness of the question twists around me like my hastily assembled garments. I know my own instructions. I wonder if the cartwheel-motion in my bowels is the herald of some cowardly impulse to deny them.

“If everything goes to plan, he should be dead before the next nightfall.”

The silence is thick as I fasten the buttons of my jacket. I try to fill it with a cough, but it's like a grain of sand in a barrel. Beneath the panic, indignation rises.

“Where's your discretion, man?”

“Discretion, sir?”

“Do not make plain and vulgar that which should be subtle.”

I try to stare him down.

The hint of a smile curls his lips.

“The event that you ordered to have brought about, sir,” he says more deliberately than I would like, “should be achieved by nightfall if all goes to plan.”

“What is your method?” I ask, heat rising around my neck. “Answer in a single word only.”

“Belladonna.”

“He has taken it already? Yes or no, please.”

He pauses. “No.”

A number of possibilities, all of them uncomfortable, dance about my brain.

“Answer in a word if you can: how is he to take it without your presence?”

“Helen.”

I turn, go to the blinds, and pull them open to skeletal branches, black against the bluish dawn. I turn again to face him. The candle still burns, but he is washed in grey light.

“Answer yes or no: is Helen the innocent, or does she know what she is giving him?”

His tired eyes are filled suddenly with a bitter amusement.

“I cannot answer that question yes or no. It is two-sided.”

I feel a rumble in my ears, this time of growing anger.

“Damn you, boy!” I whisper. “Does she know?”