The Poison Diaries (3 page)

He looks angry at first. Then his face softens.

“I am sorry if you were anxious, Jessamine. I was called away to deal with an urgent medical matter. It took up all of my attention; if you had asked me how many days I had been absent from home, I myself could not tell you.”

“Called away to where?”

“I have been in London.”

“London! why? where? why did you not take me?”

He holds up a hand to stop my questions. “I have been places I hope you never go, and seen things I hope you never see. I was in London. That is all I will say, and even that is saying too much. Now forgive me; I must get back to work.” He turns to retreat to his chair, then stops. “How are the gardens, Jessamine? Are you tending them well?”

“Of course. I have turned over all the beds, and planted the lettuce and radishes, and—”

He interrupts. “And the belladonna seeds?”

“I have changed the water every day, exactly as you showed me. Tomorrow they will be ready for planting.” On a foolish impulse I add, “May I plant the seeds myself? I have taken good care of them this far.”

“No. I will do it.”

“But, Father, why not?”

“You have already done too much.”

“Soaking seeds? I’ve done nothing! How I wish you would let me into the apothecary garden! I could help you with your research, your cures—”

“No! You must not. Swear to me, Jessamine. Even
when I am not home—and I may have to go away again, and soon—swear that you will not go in there.” Father walks toward me step by step, forcing me to retreat until I stand in the doorway to the study once more.

“You needn’t make me swear. The gate is locked, remember?” I sound sullen and sarcastic; I cannot help it. “For I am only a foolish child who cannot be trusted to have sense enough not to poison herself. Isn’t that what you think? But you are mistaken, Father. I am not a child anymore.”

“You are a child,” Father says flatly, “until I say you are not. Now leave me. I will see you at supper.”

He steps back, and the ancient door shuts in my face.

Out the front door of the cottage, through the courtyard, past the ruins and the outer wall, to the footpath, the crossroads, the world. I walk quickly, until my breath comes fast and my heart pounds.

I may not go back. No—I
will
not go back. If Father
can disappear for three days, so can I. For three days, or three years, or three lifetimes.

You are a child until I say you are not.

Am I really? What child would leave home as I do now, with no destination except away from you, penniless and provisionless, with only the shawl around her head for shelter?

When I grow hungry I will find roots and berries to eat. Perhaps it is out here, in the wide, wild, unchained world, that I will finally taste all the forbidden fruit you keep under lock and key. Perhaps there are fresh mysteries growing in the woods, delicious, dangerous poisons that even you do not know exist!

In this way my spiteful, wounded thoughts circle round and round, erasing the passage of time. Am I a mile from the cottage? Five miles? Ten? I break into a half run as the path veers into a downhill slope, and spread my arms like a sail to catch the wind. If only the currents of air could lift me and carry me! How pleasant it would be to fly on that wind, like the tuft of a dandelion. How much easier it would be to soar,
weightless, than to trudge across the countryside dragging the bulk of my long skirt and petticoat, with my feet bound into heavy boots that seem to have grown too small, again.

I pause to catch my breath and to still my whirling brain. My thoughts trip over one another, vying to be heard, like many voices in a shouting mob. My hair has come loose and the stinging tendrils whip into my eyes. The hem of my skirt is heavy with mud; my sleeves are damp with the tears I have been wiping away since I bolted from the cottage. I did not think to bring water with me—I was not thinking at all when I ran out in the heat of fury—and now my throat is raw and dry.

It would serve Father right if I sated my thirst from the ditch where I poured the belladonna water,
I think bitterly.
Let him find me dead under the gorse bushes. Let him bury me deep in the ground, my arms twined around the bones of that soft, orange-furred cat.

Exhausted, I let myself fall to the ground in the sheep meadow that borders the path. I lie with my back pressed to the earth and feel the dampness of the
grass seeping into my clothes.

Above me, high in the cold blue sky, a black dot moves, first one way, then another, making wide, deliberate zigzags toward the earth. As it descends, it grows larger, grows wings, grows a voice.

It is a raven, and its raspy cry mocks my own dry sobs. It lands on a fence post by the path, ten paces up the slope from me. Proudly it flexes its great black wings; when fully open, they span nearly as far as I can spread my own two arms. Its sleek head gleams with an iridescent, oily sheen.

I lift myself up on my elbows. In answer, the bird cocks its head to the side so I can admire its lifeless black eye, set like a black pearl in the side of its skull. It repeats its raw cry—a terrible, merciless cry.

Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

The sheep bleat in fear and move away. The raven hunkers down into itself and gathers its energy to spring. It has decided on a target, chosen a vimtim—a young lamb that has wandered too far from the flock—

In a flash I am on my feet, a stone in my hand. With all my might I hurl it at the raven. My aim is low, and the stone hits the post with a sharp
thwack.
The bird flaps its wings clumsily in surprise and rises on taut, wiry legs. It swivels its head to look at me full on.

I hurl another stone. This time I hit the bird squarely, right on its oily black chest.

KRAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The raven screams in fury and takes flight, circling around and swooping low over my head. I fall to the ground and curl in a ball, covering my face with the shawl.

Go ahead, wicked bird,
I think,
try to peck out my eyes if you can. Even blinded, I will grab you by the throat and never let go. I am that angry and reckless now, and I care nothing for what happens to me.

As if hearing my thoughts, the raven retreats, still complaining, until its furious cry fades into the sky.

I uncurl my body and look around. The sheep stare at me, their limpid, nearly human eyes wet with gratitude.

I shiver with cold and fatigue, and my knees weaken with the relief that comes when danger has passed.

It has passed for the lamb, perhaps. For now. But not for me.

Finally I let myself feel all the fear and sorrow in my heart, and my tears are set loose once more.
I am easy prey,
I think,
a motherless lamb, alone in the world. No flock, no friends, no green field I can call home. And the skies are full of ravens.

I have no choice. I must go back to Hulne Abbey.

During my wild race from home, rage and hurt blotted out all sense of time passed or distance traveled—but now, on the shame-filled journey back, the movement of the clock resumes with vengeful slowness. It is a full three hours before I reach the cottage. For the final torturous hour I must pick my footing step by step in the pitch dark, for of course I have no lantern. Twice I stumble and catch myself on my hands, leaving my palms scraped bloody from the gravelly path.

Easy prey,
my fear whispers to me with every step.
Remember what you are.

The cottage is cold and dark when I finally cross its threshold, with only a few glowing remnants of a fire glowing among the ashes in the parlor hearth. If there has been a supper I have missed it, but with no one to cook or call him to the table, Father may well still be working, reading and muttering, oblivious to all that has taken place outside the locked world of his study.

I light a candle and rummage in the pantry until I find a leftover boiled egg and some cold cooked potato. I wrap them in a linen napkin to take upstairs with me. I will eat them in private and then go to sleep, to put the memory of this awful day behind me as quickly as I can.

The house is so quiet; perhaps Father has already retired to bed. Out of habit I pause to check the pail by the back door, the one marked P
OISON
that holds the belladonna seeds. Tonight is their last night soaking in this watery womb. Tomorrow they will be planted, in
the garden where I am not permitted to go.

I lift the lid and lower my candle so I can see inside.

The bucket is dry and empty. The belladonna seeds are gone.

My first, horrified thought:
Has someone stolen them? Father will be furious!

But then I listen again: The cottage is silent, but there are noises coming from outside. Dull, digging noises. The sound of earth being turned.

Now that I no longer need its light, the moon has risen and bathed the courtyard in its soft glow. But I do not have to see my way. I know exactly where to go. Past the courtyard, past the fishpond, past all the garden beds, up the narrow winding path to the left that leads to the tall, locked gate.

I lay one hand on the rough metal chain; with the other I clasp the lock. I press my forehead against the cold iron bars, and peer through the dark forms and moving shadows of a mysterious world I will never be allowed to enter.

Father is at the north wall, bent over in the moonlight, digging. Whistling softly. Happy.

Silently I return to the cottage. I stand by the back door, my head hanging down in defeat.

Without my bidding, my foot lashes out and kicks over the empty pail.

Will everything I care for be taken away from me?

T
HE SOUND OF HOOFBEATS
seems to come from nowhere, and gets louder so quickly I drop my pen to the floor in surprise. Father did not say that we would be receiving company, and now I cannot recall if the beds are made—

The hoofbeats get closer by the second. They must be headed here, for the nearest farm is two miles in the other direction.

“Father!” I call, as I half run to the kitchen to put away the breakfast things. “Someone is coming! Shall I prepare a meal? Shall I make tea?”

It has been almost a week since Father stole (for in my mind he did steal them) and planted the belladonna seeds. We have not spoken of it, nor have we spoken of much else in the intervening days. But the excitement of an unexpected guest makes me forget my resolve to punish him with my silence.

“Father!” I call more loudly. “Are you expecting company?”

We do not get many visitors at the cottage, only the occasional tradesman trying to sell us tin pots or a
matron from a neighboring farm seeking a cure for the toothache. But every now and again the duke himself will appear, unannounced, with a small hunting party in tow. This land is the duke’s land, as is most of the acreage in Northumberland, and the fields and forests that spread over the site of the old monastery have long been the duke’s favorite hunting park. After an afternoon’s shooting, he and his guests have sometimes stopped here to gaze at the ruins, water their horses, and brag about the day’s kill.

Father lurches into the parlor with his hair standing every which way, as if he had spent hours running his hands through it in deep concentration. “I expect no one. And I do not wish to be disturbed, so whoever it is, bid them be gone.”

“But what if it is the duke?”

He listens. The hoofbeats are insistent, a hard gallop coming straight this way.

His face turns grim. “Whoever comes travels alone, and at reckless speed. It is not the duke, but it might be a highwayman. Stand back from the door, Jessamine.”

Father grabs his gun from the wooden box on the floor beside the entrance to the cottage, and unbolts the heavy arched wooden door.

He steps out into the courtyard. I am frightened, but my curiosity is greater than my fear, and I follow. We emerge just in time to see our visitor gallop up and pull his horse to an abrupt stop directly in front of our door, raising a choking cloud of dust.

The horse has been ridden too hard for too long; its mouth drips foam, and its neck and flanks are flecked with sweat. It whinnies and rears high in complaint at the brutal pull on the reins. The rider curses and yanks the horse’s head hard around.

I sneak closer behind Father so I can get a glimpse of our uninvited guest. He is a long-limbed, pock-faced man. Lashed to the saddle behind him is a large, shapeless bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket and tied around with rope.

The man slips off the horse’s back and lands heavily on the ground. “Thomas Luxton?” he barks. “The apothecary?”

“I am he.” Behind his back, Father’s hand tightens on the gun.

“May I speak to you, sir?”

“You already have, sir.” Father seems to double in size until he fills the doorway. “What is your business? You arrive like a fire wagon racing to put out a blaze. But as you can see”—Father gestures in such a way as to reveal his weapon—“we have no need of assistance.”

At the sight of the gun, the man steps back. Then he sees me hiding behind Father. For a split second our eyes meet. I know mine are filled with fear.

He sighs and stamps the mud off his boots, then reaches up to remove his three-cornered hat. He wears a wig, as is the fashion, but when he takes off the hat he knocks his wig slightly askew. Suddenly I am no longer afraid, for how can one be afraid of a man in a crooked wig?

“Forgive me,” he says gruffly. “There is no need to defend yourself; I mean you no harm. My name is Tobias pratt. I am sorry to disturb you and will not
stay one moment longer than necessary. But I ask that you let me enter your home briefly, so that you and I may speak—in private.”