Pretty Poison (3 page)

“Fears?” her father repeated in surprise. “What are you going on about, Em? I thought…you’ve been so quiet, so calm, I thought you’d come to see the wisdom in this journey, the benefit of making a match with Margaret’s young man. What have you to fear?”

Emily ignored her father’s question, resolutely looked away from the concern she saw upon his weathered, freckled face. He wouldn’t understand and she’d be damned if she spent even a single second pleading with him to abandon his scheme of seeing her married to an aristocrat’s son.

Without a word she pushed open the carriage door and jumped to the ground, her boots sinking into the muck of the stable yard, her hem trailing along behind her as she turned and marched off toward the small village.

“Miss Emily!” Tilly struggled to catch up to her mistress, her little hands clenched in her skirts to hold them above the mud. “Lord above, what’s come over you, hollering at your father that way?”

“Do not start in on me, Tilly,” Emily warned with a glare over her shoulder. “You’d do well to remember your place.”

“My place?” the girl repeated as she caught up and fell into step beside Emily.

“You are my servant,” Emily answered even as she cringed at the malice that dripped from her voice, swirled in her head. She felt mean, mean and nasty and cruel. “We’re in England now, Matilda Calvert. I’m to be a
lady
now and you had best learn to curb your tongue and behave as a lady’s maid ought to.”

“Why’s everyone staring at us?” Tilly asked, ignoring Emily’s words entirely.

“They’ve likely never seen a dark-skinned girl like you before,” Emily replied. “Drop your skirts, Tilly, you’re showing off your ankles.”

Tilly dutifully complied, her wide eyes taking in the village and the people who’d stopped to stare at them as they passed. “I think it’s you they’re eyeballing.”

“Why on earth would they be looking at me?” Emily demanded.

“I don’t think they’ve ever seen a lady marching down the street with her hair falling from her pins and fire shooting from her eyes,” Tilly answered with a grin.

“Well, let them look,” Emily muttered as she reached up to tuck a wayward curl back into place.

“Where are we going?”

In answer Emily stopped before a little shop wedged between a milliner and a curio shop. The door was painted a bright green and flanked by two large multi-paned windows through which she could see row upon row of bottles stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. Above the door hung a weathered sign carved with a mortar and pestle.

The proprietor, a stoop-shouldered man with a shiny bald head and trim beard greeted them, his welcoming words tinged with a faint Prussian accent.

Wasting little time on pleasantries, Emily ordered a bottle of the apothecary’s own special recipe of laudanum, one he’d only whipped up that morning.

As she waited, she looked about the long, narrow shop, entranced by the odd assortment of goods stored on the shelves and on tall rotating display cases. The air was redolent with myriad scents, from lavender to ginger, frankincense to eucalyptus, all combining into an exotic, spicy aroma that somehow soothed her frayed nerves, calmed the rapid beat of her heart.

“Oh look at all the pretty little bottles!” Tilly cried from across the room.

Emily joined her before one of the windows where the girl had discovered a display of colored glass bottles of all shapes and sizes. A bright blue bottle with a round base and a long, elegant neck sat on the edge of the shelf. Emily tilted her head to study the bottle that was as pretty and dainty as any porcelain statue that had ever graced her mother’s front parlor. It was shaped almost like a woman, the base the bell of her skirts, the handle a long elegant arm cocked out with hand resting along a trim waist. Deep within the fluted neck sat a stopper decorated with pretty blue, red and green gems.

“Pretty little things,” the apothecary said as he joined them. “My wife, she says the ladies prefer their tonics in pretty bottles, thinks they make the taking of them less onerous.”

“I’ll take this one.” Emily lifted the dainty blue bottle, surprised by its near weightlessness. The bottle was only slightly larger than her hand and even lovelier up close. She held it up to a stream of sunlight, amazed by the way it glowed, by the blue beam that shot through it to dance along the warped wood floor, as if the little bottle had captured the sunlight and turned it into a moonbeam.

“Shall I fill it for you?” he asked with a nod.

“Thank you,” Emily replied with a trembling smile, her eyes fixed on the package he held out to her in exchange for the blue bottle. The paper-wrapped parcel was heavy enough that Emily suspected the contents would last her to London, would see her cocooned in oblivion through her first meeting with her aunt, through her father’s departure to join up with a group of train-mad gentlemen to tour the country’s fledgling railways, perhaps even through her first introduction to her future husband.

If she was very lucky she might even manage to make it through her first London Season in quiet contentment, might avoid thinking of her future, a future that held no resemblance whatsoever to the one she’d imagined for herself.

“Now mind me, young miss,” the apothecary cautioned as he handed another, smaller wrapped parcel into her hands. “Every apothecary brews his own variety of laudanum. This here that I’ve given you might be a bit more potent than what you’re familiar with. You be sure to take care with how much you take until you’ve accustomed yourself to it.”

Emily nodded, barely hearing his words as anticipation shivered up her spine, finding a nest at the nape of her neck where it settled like a faint beat, a warm, whispering tingle.

It was an odd sensation, anticipation coupled with a sort of jittery restlessness, and one she would come to both welcome and dread in the months that followed.

Chapter Three

London nearly shocked Emily from the near stupor she’d been in for the final two days of their journey south. The carriage rumbled through narrow streets lined by tightly packed houses rising three and four stories and seemingly built expressly to block the weak rays of sunlight from landing on refuse strewn streets and the people who scurried over them in every direction.

“Lord above,” Charles Calvert grumbled from the seat facing his daughter. “I’d forgotten what a cesspool London is.”

“And yet you intend to abandon me here,” Emily softly rebuked without looking away from the open window and the sights and sounds beyond their carriage. In her elixir induced state, with her eyes heavy lidded and her mind enshrouded in cotton batting, she imagined herself floating over those scurrying masses, invisible and untouched by one and all.

“You’ll hardly be abandoned,” her father replied gruffly. “Margaret will see you settled, see you introduced to the best people. And I’ll only be gone two months, three at most.”

“Gallivanting across the countryside while I languish in the stench of coal smoke and unwashed bodies,” Emily accused, her slurred words drifting out the window.

Da reached past her and wrenched the window closed. With a final look at the streets crowded with people hurrying by in worn, ragged clothing, Emily fell back onto the padded seat to find him staring at her with a frown.

“This is not Mayfair,” he explained with forced patience. “You will not be surrounded by coal smoke or unwashed bodies. Your aunt’s townhouse is in Hanover Square, one of the finest areas of London. While I am gone Margaret will take you in hand.”

“I’m to be taken in hand like a child?” Emily whispered as her eyes drifted closed. “I’m not a child.”

“Then quit acting like one,” Da rumbled. “I’ve tolerated your sulks these last weeks but no more.”

Emily peered up at him from beneath heavy eyelids before looking away from his angry gaze. The carriage turned a corner and the road widened into a tree-dappled street lined with neat little houses with bright white doors behind small gardens.

Tilly shifted beside her and Emily turned to watch as the girl obeyed the silent command of her master and rose to trade places with him. Da settled in beside her and reached for her hands, taking them into his big, calloused paws with a gentleness that might have brought tears to her eyes had she not been enveloped in blessed oblivion.

“Listen to me, Em,” he pleaded softly. “These English aren’t like us. They’re a stuffy, proper lot, puffed up on their own consequence. This Mr. Avery is a gentleman and likely as starched and stiff as Pearl’s meringue. You don’t go showing off your wit to the man, Em. You got to hide your light under a bushel.”

Her father paused and looked into her eyes.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but this might well be your last chance to marry, to have children of your own. I know you, girlie. I know you want a family. If you scare this Avery fellow off with your wild ways, you won’t have another chance. I don’t say it often, but you know I love you, Em. You know you are the light of my life. T’would break my heart if you don’t find happiness in this life.”

“Oh, Da,” Emily whispered as his words penetrated the fog that swirled around her.

“You behave yourself, you keep your sassy mouth shut, and you’ll find yourself married to the gent by end of summer. Else, you’ll be an old maid living with me for all your days, nursing me when I’m an old man. This is it, Emily mine, your last chance.”

Emily swallowed, blinked as tears rushed to her eyes, as sorrow and pending loneliness stabbed her. “Yes, Da, I will. I’ll be so sweet, so good, an angel.”

Her father pulled her into his arms for a hard embrace and Emily buried her face against his massive chest, smelled the bay rum he wore, and vowed to herself that she would be good, she would make Nicholas Avery love her.

Emily had fallen asleep in her father’s embrace when the carriage lurched to a stop before a tall, imposing mansion of white stone with immense marble pillars holding aloft a domed portico above a set of massive double doors.

Before her feet touched the ground the doors were thrown open and an elderly man with ramrod straight posture stepped out to meet them.

“Mr. Calvert, Miss Calvert,” he greeted with a bow, his white hair so stiff with pomade not a single lock shifted. He was dressed in black trousers and coat with a stiff cravat tied simply at his throat. His weathered face was without expression, his pale eyes trained on a spot beyond Da’s shoulder. “I am Caruthers, her ladyship’s butler. Welcome to London.”

Emily barely heard him as she looked up and down the street in confusion. This was where she was to live? In this stone and marble wasteland with no greenery but for a miniscule park in the center of the square? The streets were empty of people but for a boy who ambled along lighting the tall lamps lining the walkway at precise intervals. A carriage rode by, but beyond that one show of life, the entire square was deserted.

With a sinking heart, Emily reached into her pocket for the pretty blue bottle and the escape it provided. While her father issued orders to Caruthers and the footmen who’d hurried from the house to unload their trunks, Emily sipped daintily before stowing her precious elixir away again.

“Come along and meet your aunt,” Da ordered, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm to lead her up three shallow marble steps and into the house that would never be a home, into a life she’d never wanted.

Lady Margaret, the widowed Baroness Morris came down the winding stairs to greet the pair of weary travelers but Emily was too muddle headed to offer more than a wobbly curtsey and a vacant smile to the elegant woman who was her father’s half-sister.

With little interest, Emily took in the lavender gown the lady wore, the silver slippers peeking out beneath her ribbon-trimmed hemline, the long white gloves encasing her arms from fingers to elbows. Her red-blonde hair was piled atop her head with two ostrich feathers waving jauntily just over her right eye.

“Emily’s tuckered out from the journey,” Da told his sister. “She’d like to lie down for a bit before dinner.”

“But of course,” Lady Margaret replied graciously, her green eyes intent upon her niece’s pale face. “I’ll show you to your room, my dear.”

Emily followed the woman silently up the grand staircase, carefully lifting feet that felt as if they weighed a stone each, fingers trailing along the curved bannister. Her aunt was speaking to her, her voice crisp and precise. Emily made no effort to concentrate on her words, instead allowing them to rush past her.

“As such, I thought we’d do a bit of shopping tomorrow,” Lady Margaret said as she ushered her niece into a spacious room with buttery yellow walls and spindly white furnishings.

Without replying, Emily wandered across the room and pulled the blue and yellow drapes closed, shutting out both the light and sight of the deserted streets and barren little park.

“Here is your maid,” Lady Margaret announced as Tilly breezed into the room, her eyes taking in the luxurious space. “What’s your name, child?”

“Matilda, ma’am,” the girl answered, a smile blooming on her face. “Most folks call me Tilly.”

“Well, Tilly, see to your mistress,” the lady ordered as she stepped back through the open doorway. “I’ll have a tray sent up shortly.”

“Oh, I’m doubting Miss Em’ll eat,” Tilly said with her customary good cheer. “She’ll likely sleep from now until noon tomorrow.”

“Surely not,” Lady Margaret replied.

Dimly Emily heard the conversation that followed, something about Town hours being all well and good. She made no effort to join in, instead lowering herself to the bed and dropping her head forward. With nerveless fingers she fumbled with the buttons of her cloak, only looking up again as the door closed with a soft click.

“Now ain’t she a grand lady,” Tilly said as she approached the bed.

“Help me with these button,” Emily replied.

Tilly kept up a string of chatter as she divested her mistress of cloak, boots, gown and stays before tucking her into the big four-poster bed in her shift and stockings. Emily was asleep before the girl had finished her litany of all the wonders they would explore in the coming days.

And the coming days were rather wondrous, especially as Emily spent them in a cozy bubble of laudanum comfort. She dutifully set out with her aunt to pay call after call upon the greatest houses in Mayfair where she sat quietly smiling as gossip was batted about like shuttlecocks.

She rode through the park in an open carriage, smiling serenely at all who approached to greet Lady Morris and her American niece, blithely ignoring the slanted looks she received, the whispers that trailed after her aunt’s friends and acquaintances as they strolled away.

“Funny little creature,” one dark haired man said, his voice carrying on the spring breeze.

“So pale and thin,” replied a blonde woman with dimpled cheeks.

“Quiet as a mouse,” added an older woman who joined them.

Most evenings found Emily wandering around the small garden behind the house, feigning an interest in her aunt’s endless conversations, her ceaseless lessons on the proper behavior of a young lady during the London Season, which would officially begin with Lady Clevedon’s annual ball.

The only time she found herself even remotely interested, the only time she made the slightest effort to push aside the mist of her elixir induced lethargy, occurred when Lady Morris spoke of Mr. Nicholas Avery.

“Nicholas Avery is the most intelligent man I’ve ever had the pleasure to know,” Aunt Margaret proclaimed repeatedly.

“Why, Nicholas sits a horse as if he were born in the saddle. Oh, the races he has won. And never was there been a better judge of horseflesh.”

“Mr. Avery is wonderfully graceful. Surprising for such a large man. Some strong, muscular men are awfully clumsy. Not so Nicholas. He leads a lady around the dance floor as if on a cloud.”

“Nicholas is a responsible man with an astounding head for managing his father’s estates. He is off in Derbyshire even as we speak, seeing to the family seat. You can rest assured that were he in town he would have been knocking upon my door each and every day. He is that eager to make your acquaintance, to win your heart.”

“Nicholas dotes upon his family. He would do anything, absolutely anything to assure their happiness. He was at his poor mother’s side for weeks before she passed on, reading to her, holding her hand, and singing to her. What a voice the gentleman has.”

“Nicholas is not like some young bachelors, out drinking and gambling all night. He’s a good man. I’m quite certain he has never seen the inside of a brothel, nor kept a mistress. He holds women in the highest regard.”

“Nicholas Avery has a gentle, sensitive soul. He likes nothing better than to spend an evening reading poetry by the hearth.”

“Dear Nicholas will make some young lady a splendid husband. You mustn’t allow some other lady to snatch him away from you, dearest. He is perfect for you.”

Until one evening Lady Morris took Emily’s hand as the sun set and they made their way past rose bushes not yet in bloom. “Nicholas has returned to Town. You will finally meet your betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” Emily repeated in surprise. “But we are not yet betrothed.”

“All but, dearest,” her aunt assured her with a smile that held both anticipation and a sly sort of excitement.

As she retired to her room to prepare for the theatre, Emily wished she might borrow a bit of her aunt’s excitement. Shouldn’t she be happy to finally meet the man she was apparently betrothed to marry?

“All but betrothed,” she reminded herself.

Somewhere in the back of Emily’s mind a voice whispered a warning. Why had this epitome of masculine perfection chosen to marry an American lady whom he had never met when London was full of eligible young ladies just clamoring to marry the son of a viscount?

And most importantly, that shadowy voice, that whisper of reason, asked the most significant question of all: Would Nicholas Avery honor and cherish her, forsaking all others for as long as they both shall live?

It took only another dram of laudanum to quiet that voice, to silence it along with all the others that wanted to intrude upon her blessed oblivion, to crash over her in a cacophony of regret and fear and sorrow.