The Poison Diaries (12 page)

This is wrong,
I think, but I have no wish to stop.

I love you, Weed; how I love you—

And are we not wed, bound by the secret only we two can share?

Together we sink to the floor. Weed whispers my name against my flesh. I feel his breath come faster. I want him to kiss me again, and say so. This fierce longing flies beyond the wildest notion of what is
proper, yet we are swept into each other by a relentless current—
the rush to fertility triumphs over all—

I hear a distant thud, like a heavy door closing.

Stop,
I whisper, but no sound comes out.

Weed freezes in my arms. He hears it too: the sound of a man’s boots walking deliberately across ancient wooden floors. The footsteps get louder as they approach.

I hear Weed scramble to his feet. I reach down and try to smooth my skirt by touch alone. I can feel that one of my shoes is gone, but how will I ever find it without the use of my eyes?

A familiar creak; it is the door to Father’s study opening.

There is a sharp intake of breath—an anguished cry—

“Father?” I stretch my arms forward, clawing at the dark fog that surrounds me. “Father, is that you?”

I
T IS HOURS—DAYS, WEEKS?
I have no way of knowing—before the darkness begins to lift.

My head aches. So do my wrists. I am slumped in a chair, but I cannot tell where I am. I seem to be restrained, somehow.

“Forgive me,” Father’s voice murmurs. “You have been wild, running blindly, crashing into walls, tripping over furniture. I feared you would do yourself harm.”

I blink, and blink again. The pitch-black night of my blindness has thinned to a pale gray fog that strips all color from the world. Through its mist I can begin
to make out shapes.

There is the dining table, and the light slanting through tall, arched chapel windows. I am in the parlor, in Father’s big chair that is usually pulled near the hearth. I try to move, but my arms are fixed tightly to my body.

Father looms before me.

“Now you have experienced, firsthand, the dubious charms of belladonna,” he says flatly as he frees my bound limbs. “My countless warnings, ignored. And these are the consequences.”

“I am so sorry, Father.” I begin to weep.

“Why, Jessamine?” He leans close to me. “What if I had not come back when I did? A broken carriage wheel postponed the coach to London until morning—” His voice catches. “If not for this random circumstance that interrupted my journey, where would you be right now?”

Father straightens. Now I can see Weed, slumped at the far end of the table. His face is a wary mask. I open my mouth to speak his name, but I stop. The
truth is I cannot fully remember all that happened between us. Memories, sensations, all are shrouded in fog—surely it was only a dream?

“I was young once, too,” Father says. “I suppose it was inevitable that you would someday disobey me. I hope that this bout of painful blindness will teach you a lesson, Jessamine. One that could save your life—though I fear it is too late to salvage your virtue,” he adds pointedly.

Weed shakes his head vehemently, and my heart swells with relief. I pray that he will deny that anything untoward happened, for even if I did lose my mind temporarily, I must believe that Weed would only protect me, and not take advantage—

“It was not the belladonna,” is all he says.

“Is that so?” Father moves toward Weed so forcefully he knocks a chair to the ground. “Or is it possible that you do not know everything after all, Master Weed? It blinded her, though it seems she will recover, thank God. And, judging from what I witnessed when I walked into my study, it also seems to have removed
some—
inhibitions.”
He turns away from me; his voice is suddenly cold. “I must confess: I did not know that belladonna could have that
particular
effect. I will have to make a notation about it in my book.”

Father addresses Weed. “Can you two be trusted alone together? Or would it be wise to tie you to a chair as well, Master Weed?”

Weed clenches his jaw and turns away. Satisfied, Father leaves the parlor.

I am too mortified to speak. Weed cannot bring himself to look at me. The air between us is thick with shame.

It was not the belladonna….
I remember, now—yes, there was some strange abandon, a fever of recklessness that began to sweep over me, well before those cursed drops ever went in my eyes—before we had even entered the study. Weed and I were sitting at the table, sipping from those carefully chosen cups—

Put it this way, Luxton: The boy seems to know a thing or two about brewing a pot of tea….

“No!” The cry rips itself from my throat. Weed is
at my side in an instant.

“Are you all right?” He kneels next to me. His hands hover around me, longing to comfort me but afraid to touch. His whole being seems to throb with concern and devotion.

I look at his face and will my raw, stinging pupils to focus, so that I may search for the truth in his eyes. unfathomable moss green pools—surely that is love I see shining in their depths? Love, and worry, and nothing else but that?

Or have I been blind all along?

Remember, Jessamine—the tea was already made when you entered the kitchen—

No, no—

Weed would never do something like—like
that.

“I’m convinced the brat put something in the tea.” Wasn’t that what Pratt said?

No!

Weed has trusted me with his darkest secret. And I trust him with my life.

But should I?

“Jessamine, my Jessamine,” he whispers desperately, again and again. “Are you all right? Are you all right? Are you all right?”

All day and all night I worry—will Father send Weed away?

It is like waiting for a coming storm, but there are no shutters I can bolt fast against the wind. When the
gale comes, I fear it will blow my chance for happiness far, far away, never to be seen or heard from again.

Weed and I are so careful with each other now. We no longer take our walks together, for such luxuries of intimacy are no longer possible. The whole day long we live like brother and sister, chaste and respectful. But at night, I close my eyes and the dream that was no dream comes rushing back, its power undimmed. Then I toss in my bed, restless, exhausted yet unable to sleep.

Sometimes I think we ought to run away and marry. Sometimes I do not know what to think. Especially when I am alone in the kitchen, preparing tea. My hands shake as I pour the water. Now I can see that Tobias Pratt’s accusations are the true poisons, for they have infected my thoughts with mistrust and suspicions that must be scrubbed away, again and again.

Mutton chops, braised carrots, fresh bread, and a raisin pudding for dessert. The work occupies me all afternoon. I am elbow-deep in soapsuds doing the washing up when Father enters the kitchen and instructs me to leave the pots and pans as they are, bathe, and change into fresh clothes. “You might want to put on something pretty,” he adds. As if I had a wardrobe of party frocks to choose from! Whatever could he mean?

In spite of my dark mood I grow curious. Surely Father would not make such a request if our guest were the likes of Tobias Pratt? I wonder if the duke himself might be paying a call, though for what purpose I cannot imagine. I have heard no hunters’ guns today.

I follow Father’s instruction as best I can. There is a light muslin dress in my closet that was my mother’s, with a smocked bodice and delicate embroidery at the
hem and sleeve cuffs. The last time I tried it on, it dragged on the floor and was loose in the bodice, but now it seems to fit me well. I braid my damp hair and find a ribbon to tie around it. Even I scarcely recognize the womanly creature who gazes back at me from the mirror.

See?
A memory croons in my ear.
Can you see how beautiful you are?

The thought paints sudden color on my cheeks. Now I have no need of rouge; the heat of shame has provided the finishing touch to my toilette.

I enter the parlor, embarrassed to be seen in my mother’s clothes. To my surprise Father himself has set the table, not with our everyday dishes, but with the fine gold-rimmed porcelain ones that were his and Mama’s wedding china.

And—my heart skips a beat at the sight—Weed is there. Freshly bathed, dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark trousers, and Father’s best jacket, with a scarlet silk lining. Even Father has changed shirts, and an ebony silk tie shines at his throat.

In this way the three of us, dressed as if it were Christmas Day, stand stupefied as mannequins. “Is it the duke who is coming?” I finally ask, unable to stay silent. “It must be; why else all this fuss, Father?”

Father laughs, deep and hearty. “Children,” he says, extending his hands to both of us. “This feast is for you.”

Weed and I look at each other, amazed. Father clasps both hands behind his back and explains. “A week ago today, I left this house with a mind to go to London. Returning only a few hours later, I discovered that in my absence there had been a transgression. We need not speak the details of it again.” Father holds up a hand to secure our silence. “Please, let me finish. In the days since, I have reflected on this incident a great deal. I am sure you have as well. Now, let there be no mistake: My direct orders were disobeyed. For this there is no excuse; but you have repented, and I wish you to know that I forgive you.”

“Father, you are too good—” I exclaim.

“Patience, Jessamine. A moment ago I called you
children, but I think we have seen—the transgression itself offered proof, as it were—that you are no longer children; far from it. I pride myself on my powers of observation, but sometimes a father is the last to see what is right before his eyes. The path ahead is clear: Jessamine, you must embrace the future that has already laid claim to you.” He looks first at me, then at Weed. “It is my sincere wish, and my joyous expectation, that the two of you are betrothed at once.”

Betrothed? To Weed?

Has my father gone mad? Or is he mocking us?
This is my first thought. But no; he beams at the two of us, his hands outstretched in benediction. Kindness and forgiveness are written all over his face—he is like a stranger to me; I cannot remember ever seeing him like this.

Hot tears spill from my eyes. Tears of joy, tears of shock—tears of grief, too, for now I can never know if Weed would have asked me to be his wife without Father’s prompting. Yet I must be grateful, for is this not what I wanted?

With this tumult of emotions whirling inside me, I look to my future husband for some clue as to the content of his heart. Weed’s face remains inscrutable. After a moment he gives a small half bow.

“Thank you. I am glad you find me suitable.”

Father nods. “I had hoped you would feel that way. As for Jessamine—I suppose I need not ask how she feels about the notion of marrying you; the answer is written on her face.”

“Thank you, Father.” My voice is scarcely more than a whisper. Suddenly shy, I wish nothing more than to run upstairs to the safety of my room. How I wish it were Weed himself who proposed! Then I could accept him with an open heart.

Father lays a hand on each of our shoulders. “Jessamine and Weed, my blessings upon you both. We are a family at last.” He turns to me; tenderly he takes my face in his hands. “Jessamine, if your mother could only see what a lovely young woman you have grown to be, I know she would be pleased. How sad it is that she did not live to see you grown, or to see you wed …”

He drops his hands and turns away. “No, I refuse to be melancholy. Tonight is for happiness only, and Jessamine has prepared a wonderful celebration dinner for us. But first, a toast.”

Father fairly skips around the parlor. “Most proud fathers would call for champagne to toast an engagement. But I have none on hand, nor any wine either. Only a rather common whiskey, and my store of absinthe. Ah, wait!”

He turns and reaches up to the small cabinet that hangs above the heavy wooden server. “This too is absinthe”—he cradles the bottle in two hands—“but it is a very special vintage, worthy of the occasion. Jessamine, fetch a pitcher of cold water, please.”

I obey, and return to find Father explaining to Weed: “The duke gave this bottle to me as a gift after I cured his clerk of works of a crippling gout. It had been presented to him by King Louis of France, shortly before the revolution.”

As he speaks, Father gathers three glasses from the server, a corkscrew, and an ornate slotted silver
spoon. “Ironic, isn’t it? King Louis lost his head to the guillotine, but his prize liquor is still firmly in possession of its cork. I have been waiting for a special occasion to open it. How thrilling that the right moment is finally here.”

There is a sharp sound as Father withdraws the cork. He pours a small amount of absinthe in each of the three short, flared glasses, then places a cube of sugar in the slotted spoon and sets the spoon atop a glass. Slowly he drizzles cold water into the spoon, letting it drip through the sugar. As the water hits the syrupy absinthe, it whirls into ribbons, a tiny maelstrom of green.