* * * *
Gemma took
the tray of shaving things and hurried out. Her face felt unusually warm, and
she could not get Raffendon's words out of her mind.
We have something in common then after all,
Miss G. Groot. It seems we're both in need of a little excitement.
He wasn't
in the least horrified to hear that the murderous Vengeful Venetia was her
relative. The man didn't even blink, but let her continue running that sharp
blade around his face.
She took
the tray through the kitchen and into the scullery. A little speck of Raffendon's
blood remained on the razor's gleaming blade, and she lifted it to the lamp
light.
What would
the gossips of Withering Gibbet— the vicar's wife included— have to say about
Gemma Groot being asked to shave the face of a bachelor in her father's
library? They would be shocked, of course, not only by the degree of
questionable propriety, but by his bravery in letting her near him with a sharp
blade.
What a
strange creature he was. But people thought that of her too, of course.
There was a
surreal air to the house this evening, she mused, and he'd brought it in with his
laughter.
Gemma
placed the blade against her palm, took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and
closed her hand around it. Oh, that
she felt. She gasped, opened her hand and her eyes, and looked down at her own
blood now mingled with his.
Why had she
done that? Who knew. Why did anybody ever do anything? Perhaps so that they
could be sure they were alive. Sometimes pain was important. A reminder.
Pain. She
heard the scream of wood on stone, a long drawn out, shuddering howl. She saw
flour flying through the air like snow. Blood, a bright red petal blossoming on
a soft, gasping lip. Fat, red fingers squeezing around a slender wrist.
Gemma
dropped the razor and stared out through the small scullery window. The stars
were out now, just visible, winking through the dusk. On this night, fourteen
years ago, Venetia Warboys, a woman who could never bear the butchering of a
pig, had calmly slaughtered her husband.
Why did she
think of the word "calmly"? She had no evidence of that. Must be
thinking of the way her aunt had acted when she was arrested three days later—
almost nonchalant, resigned to her fate. Even relieved. As if she were already
dead, or dying, but she couldn't feel any pain.
Of course,
thought Gemma, they were all dying. From the moment they were born it was all
downhill, heading inexorably for the grave. Well,
that's a cheerful thought, she could hear her mother exclaim. But the
daughter of an undertaker had more opportunity and cause to consider the
brevity of life and certainty of death.
Today new
life had invaded their world, and for once it seemed to outweigh the other side
of the scale. The balance had shifted.
"I
hear we've got a guest for dinner." It was Mrs. Cuttle, the cook, banging
her pots around grumpily as usual. She came to the scullery door with a ladle
in one hand, her face mottled pink from the heat of the fire, bristles of grey
hair poking out of her white cap. "Another mouth to feed."
"Yes,
Mrs. Cuttle. Unless, of course, we eat him.
He's nicely tenderized after his fall and should go well with some boiled
potatoes." She couldn't help herself. These opportunities fell into her
lap and it felt remiss of her not to make use of them. It was all the fault of
that mischievous, dark sense of humor.
Mrs.
Cuttle, having eyed Gemma's bloody hand, went hastily back to her work. The woman was, quite probably, the worst cook
in Cambridgeshire, but they hired her because they had no other applicants for
the post and Mrs. Groot liked to say, "We keep a cook". It made her
feel slightly better than middle class, even if she could have cooked a more
appealing meal herself.
Gemma held
the damp cloth to her cut palm and looked out at the evening's sky again.
If she
closed her eyes, she could hear Aunt Venetia whispering in her ear, as she did
when they arrested her, "For these
three, my most beloved."
The words
made no sense to her fourteen years ago. Even now she was at a loss, other than
to realize that her aunt thought she deserved an explanation when nobody else
did. Gemma had studied poetry, wondering if it was a quote that might lead her
to a clue, but it was not. At least none from any book she'd yet read.
For these three, my most beloved.
She
remembered the flour on her aunt's gown. It stuck in Gemma's memory because it
was unusual to see Venetia with any sort of mark or dirt about her person. She
was always well dressed, not a hair out of place, and one never saw her without
powder and rouge to cheer her complexion, despite her elder sister's
disapproval of cosmetic artifice. But the first thought that came to young
Gemma's mind, as she watched the police constable lead her aunt through the
crowd at the county fair, was that Venetia must have made those pies in such
a distracted hurry that she hadn't thought to put on the pinafore she usually
wore when baking. Nor had she changed her frock before she carried her wares to
the common on unsuspecting Bill Downing's cart.
Later Gemma
gleaned the full story from overheard snippets of gossip, and realized why her
aunt had made that pastry in haste.
The patches
of flour clung to her blue skirt like frost, shimmering in the autumn sunlight
as she passed.
And then,
seeing Gemma at the edge of the crowd, she had bent and whispered those words,
"For these three, my most beloved."
There was no sadness in her voice. It was
breathlessly triumphant, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. As
if she'd done a good deed.
The police
constable marched her onward and as she turned her face away, her feet tripping
over a tussock of grass, her straw hat fell. A stray curl of dark hair escaped
its knot, possibly for the first time ever, and caught on the end of her smile.
An
inappropriate smile that made her guilt unquestionable in the eyes of most,
even before she confessed.
But Gemma
wondered who decided exactly how somebody should act when they had just been
accused of chopping up the pieces of their husband.
That was
the last memory she had of Venetia: the dusting of flour on her smart, pale
blue gown, and then, as she bent to whisper, the sunlight basting the side of
her face to reveal a slight discoloration— a bruise— on her cheekbone, under
her eye and not quite hidden by the 'Poudre de Riz' she always wore. Of course,
there was nowhere in Withering Gibbet that sold fancy cosmetics, so she sent
away for hers by post. A needless extravagance, according to her sister. The
box said it came from Paris, by way of Marshall and Snelgrove on Oxford Street
in London.
And as the
constable led her away and she bent to whisper, Venetia's aniseed breath blew
soft against her niece's cheek, mingling with the remnants of cider and Cold
Cream of Roses.
Fourteen
years had passed since then. Sometimes it felt longer; other times it could
have been yesterday.
Now, here
came this man. Raffendon. Another puzzle. It seemed significant that he should fall
out of the sky on the anniversary of Venetia's rampage.
She glanced
back over her shoulder, almost expecting to find him standing there, watching
her. His eyes had a peculiar ability to make her feel as if they left her
marked, the progress of their steady gaze caressing her with the strength and
solidity of a warm, bold hand.
But no, he
was in the library still— a room he had requisitioned as his own domain this
evening. Wretched, interfering, inconvenient man. Her father must be annoyed
too, but he would say nothing about it, of course. After a good squeeze upon the
ends of his moustache, Casper Groot would go on as if nothing different had
happened and there was no handsome stranger billeted in his library.
But
something had happened. Something
terrible and yet wonderful. The air was charged,
"These
apples are all maggoty," Mrs. Cuttle shouted suddenly from the kitchen.
"How am I supposed to make a pie with these sorry things?"
Gemma
smiled at her reflection in the scullery window. "Find something else to
put in it then. As my aunt used to say, the good thing about a pie is that
anything can be put in it. Anything at all. She would know, I suppose."
After a
sharp intake of breath, the cook resumed grumbling under her breath about
having to stretch the budget for another dinner guest without due notice, but
she didn't dare complain out loud again.
Gemma's
mother would tell her to watch her tongue. "You're a wretched, gruesome young lady. It's no surprise you cannot get
a husband."
But really what was the point of
having an infamous murderess in the family if she couldn't make the most of it?
Just then
her mother appeared in the kitchen, hands wringing, head twitching. "Do
get upstairs and change your frock, Gemma."
"What
for? I didn't get any blood on it."
Her
mother's eyes widened as she sucked on her lips, before exclaiming impatiently,
"Change into something livelier for dinner, for pity's sake."
"For
the nine hundredth time, I like
black."
"It's
ghoulish! And that's another thing, young lady! Why would you tell our guest
that she was your aunt? Had to blurt
that out, didn't you?"
"Mother,"
she replied wearily, "he would find out sooner or later anyway." Gemma
was certain that old nag, the vicar's wife, must be restless and whinnying in
her stall waiting to be let out.
Her mother
took her by the arm and pulled her out of Mrs. Cuttle's hearing. "You
always do this!" she hissed. "That's why none of Mrs. Fletchley's
bachelors have stayed long."
"It is
only fair to them. Don't you think they have a right to know the truth?"
"No, I
do not. The truth never did anybody any good." Her mother looked flustered
and felt for her cameo brooch. "Not that sort of truth. Not about that.
And the less a man knows about anything the better. Venetia would agree with me
on that score."
"She
never cared what anybody thought of her."
"Of
course she cared. Why do you think she kept that cottage so tidy? And dressed
herself up with powder and rouge every time she went out, even if it was only
to post a letter? Why do you think she had to win every competition with her
jam and marmalade?"
"But she
always did what she wanted, no matter what other folk thought. Yes, she liked
things to be pretty and in their place, and I suppose she liked to win, but
that was for her own satisfaction, not the approval of others."
"It
seems you forget that she was my
sister and I know how she really thought. Oh yes, I know...we knew each other
better than anybody. Better than ourselves at times. Furthermore, she would
want you well married and settled. She would never want that incident to spoil your future. It is the very last thing she
wanted, you foolish girl. You think you know it all, but you don't. You don't
understand why."
The
sentence ended, yet not in a natural way. The "why" was left hanging
there as if something should come after...
* * * *
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Happy Reading!
JF
Already a fan of Venetia ☺.
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