Finally, we get to some (attempted) murdering!
Chapter 4
Lydia hesitated, her hand over the brandy decanter, the small container of belladonna berries on the sideboard in front of her. She tipped one into her hand and held it between her fingers over the mouth of the decanter. An eerie stillness shrouded the dining room, with the only sound being the soft rustle of Lydia's skirts as she nervously shifted from foot to foot.
"This is murder," Lydia said.
"Your husband is killing you bit by bit, day by day," Kitty countered.
"I know." Lydia bit her bottom lip. "You do not think it is a painful passing, do you?"
"No," Kitty said, though the book hadn't been overly specific. She hoped there wasn't a lot of thrashing about. Or vomiting. Or foaming at the mouth or the like. A scene in one of Elizabeth's novels had gone into graphic detail about such things. Kitty had read on in morbid fascination until she'd tasted acid at the back of her throat and felt like the words themselves might be catching. But they would deal with such things as they came. "He should just fall asleep." Kitty tried her best to mimic Elizabeth at her most authoritative. "Then you will be free."
With a nod, Lydia tipped the berries her hand. She took one and then the next between her thumb and forefinger, letting the juice and pulp fall into the amber liquid. Kitty's stomach churned. She tasted the metallic tang of fear on her tongue, felt the clammy sweat beading on her brow. But she refused to let her own trepidation show when Lydia needed her to be strong.
Together, they replaced the decanter. Lydia's hand shook so that she nearly dropped it, but Kitty caught the crystal just in time. Kitty breathed out a sigh as she lifted it onto the sideboard.
Kitty handed her a handkerchief, and Lydia wiped her fingers dry. When finished, Lydia said, "Come." I can make tea."
Thinking of the poison they had just mixed in Mr. Wickham's brandy, Kitty's stomach lurched. "I am not thirsty," she said.
Lydia sighed. "I suppose I am not either. But we have over an hour before Aunt Gardiner returns for you. I am working on a couple of pieces. Mrs. Weber asked me to touch up the sleeves of her gown and her daughter commissioned a new shawl. I know it is not the proper way to entertain a guest, but…"
"I am your sister, not a 'guest,'" Kitty interrupted. It was good to see some sparkle in Lydia's eyes. Some of her old enthusiasm in the set of her shoulders and tilt of her chin. "And I cannot wait to see your projects!"
Lydia blushed. "I know I have neither the training nor skill of a proper modiste, but the other officer's wives say they like my work. Were I not married, I should like to start a shop, though I am uncertain how I would manage with Eugenia and Amelia to care for."
"Lizzy and Mr. Darcy would help." And without Mr. Wickham siphoning off their donations for whatever nefarious purposes he inclined himself towards, Lydia could pay a nursemaid and eventually a governess. As she should be able to afford now.
"They will not. Instead, they will insist I come to Pemberley so they can Lord over me my failures. Both of them think of me as frivolous," Lydia said, dismissively.
With the latter, Kitty could not argue. Mr. Darcy thought everyone was frivolous, and Elizabeth could be rigid in her opinions too. But Jane would set both straight, and once they saw Lydia as she was now, they might not even begrudge it. "They will help," Kitty insisted. "And they would rather you try your hand at being a shopkeeper than shovel money to your husband's gambling debts."
"He is not so terrible."
"He is exactly that terrible, or else we wouldn't have to resort to things like doctored brandy," Kitty said. Not wishing to continue the argument, she added, "Now, let me see your sewing."
In the parlor, Lydia sank onto the worn sofa. She reached for a basket on the side table and pulled out a half-finished gown. The neat lines of Lydia's embroidery ran along the sleeves in a colorful floral pattern.
"It is beautiful," Kitty said. And it was, a pale blue color, the flowers pink, purple and red, a riot of springtime cheerfulness.
"Thank you," Lydia said, reaching into her basket and pulling out a piece of muslin with the same flower design.
They sat together, side by side as Lydia sewed. Her reserve fell away as she worked, and the familiar warmth Kitty had missed so much bloomed in her heart. She watched the rise and fall of Lydia's hands as she worked, the soft sound of the needle slipping through the fabric.
The front door slammed, and both women jumped. Lydia dropped her sewing into her lap, her knuckles white where she gripped the muslin. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Mr. Wickham burst into the parlor, his face flushed with annoyance. His gaze rested on Lydia first. "Sewing again? What are we to have for supper?"
"You are home early," Lydia said, her voice wavering. "But the cook has left stew. Shall I heat it up for you?"
Mr. Wickham scowled. "Stew again. Stew four days a week! Are we peasants?" His voice rose.
"There is bread," Lydia said. "And Aunt Gardiner said she would bring treats for the girls."
Mr. Wickham had no response for this. Instead, he stalked to the sideboard, snatching up the brandy decanter and pouring himself a generous glass.
Kitty's heart raced as she watched him raise the glass to his lips, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Beside her, Lydia tensed, her fingers digging into the sofa cushion.
Wickham turned to face them. "What have you ladies been up to today?" He made it sound less an inquiry and more an accusation.
Lydia flinched.
Kitty forced a smile, her mouth dry as sandpaper. "Oh, just a bit of shopping and-"
A patter of tiny feet interrupted her, and Amelia burst into the room, her cherubic face alight with excitement. "Mama! Ma-" She slid to a stop, stumbling a little as her eyes went wide. "Pa-." She swallowed. "Good Af'noon, Papa."
A flash of fury passed over Mr. Wickham's face, but he smoothed his features into a semblance of fatherly affection. "And how is my dear little princess?"
"Fine," Amelia said. In her right hand, she clutched a piece of foolscap. Ink stained her fingers.
Lydia said, "Come here, darling. What have you been up to?"
Amelia glanced at her father again. Mr. Wickham had taken another gulp of his brandy, his jaw working. The girl edged forward, holding out her drawing. "I drawed," she said, holding out the paper.
"You drew, not drawed," Mr. Wickham muttered, his tone derisive.
Lydia leaned over, smiling. "How pretty," she said.
The image on the paper was a clumsy representation of a house. It had three windows and two doors. One door stood open, a stick figure family standing in the doorway. The drawing was not well-done, the stick figures uneven, the proportions strange. The woman, her gown a triangle coming from her waist. She had her arms around two smaller children, Amelia and her sister. The father stood apart, large and looming.
Kitty shivered, her gaze flitting to Mr. Wickham. How long would it take for the poison to take effect? The book had not been specific about that either.
Lydia smiled at Amelia, though there was a stiffness to her expression and a sadness in her eyes that made Kitty think she recognized the same wrongness in the drawing that Kitty had felt.
"Well," Mr. Wickham said, draining his glass and slamming it down on the sideboard.
Amelia jumped.
"Come here," Kitty said, patting the narrow space between Kitty and her sister. As Amelia came closer, Kitty scooped her up and sat her down, keeping an arm protectively around the girl. "That is a beautiful drawing," she said.
"Amelia should not be covering herself in ink. Get her a basin and scrub her hands," Wickham barked at Lydia.
Lydia opened her mouth to protest, then seemed to think better of it. She slipped past Mr. Wickham into the hallway and headed to the kitchen.
Mr. Wickham's eyes followed her, his gaze roving up and down her body. His expression was one of a man sizing up a horse at the auction block, his eyes lingering on her rear. Kitty had to look away, her stomach rolling.
Surely the tainted brandy should be doing something by this point?
At least Mr. Wickham seemed determined to give himself the full dose, Kitty thought, smothering a hysterical giggle as Mr. Wickham poured himself a second glass.
Lydia returned with the basin. She put it on the low table in front of the sofa. "Come here, Amelia," she said.
Amelia handed the picture to Kitty, who held it carefully in her lap. Lydia's gaze met Kitty's, and her brows furrowed. Kitty saw her sister's question writ clear in her expression and body language. Was the poison working?
Kitty gave her a half-shrug.
"This tastes off," Mr. Wickham said, breathing in a long breath.
"Off?" Lydia squeaked. "Perhaps it is a new blend, George? You know how these distilleries are always trying to outdo each other."
"It is not the taste but the aftertaste. I have a sensitive palate, you know. Mr. Denny clearly does not." Mr. Wickham snorted. "This is country swill disguised as good English brandy as I told him. But he insisted, and well, it was on his purse." Though Mr. Wickham complained, it seemed to Kitty the country swill was not so horrible as to prevent the man from taking another long gulp.
Kitty's palms grew damp. Mr. Wickham must feel the effect of their doctoring if it was strong enough to taste. Had they made a mistake? The herbalist had said even one berry was toxic, and Lydia had crushed in the whole five. Did liquor interfere with the effects? Kitty tried to recall the book's instructions, but her thoughts were too scattered.
Mr. Wickham lurched forward, his hand clutching his stomach. Kitty's breath caught in her throat. Lydia's eyes widened as her husband let out a strangled groan.
"Papa?" Amelia's voice was small, uncertain.
Lydia rose, and Kitty caught the flicker of fear in her sister's eyes, mingling with a tentative glimmer of relief. "George? Are you-"
Mr. Wickham took in a long breath and then belched. Loudly. With it came the smell of brandy, wafting strong enough through the air for Amelia to wrinkle her nose. He rubbed his stomach. "Blasted swill," he said, slamming the glass onto the sideboard. The movement seemed to unbalance him, and he swayed.
Maybe the poison was working? Weakness of the limbs was a good sign. Though Mr. Wickham seemed less poisoned than drunk. He reeked of liquor and tobacco smoke, and Kitty wondered how pickled he'd been before coming home.
"Lydia," Mr. Wickham ordered. "Get rid of this swill. Dump it out with the chamberpots. And I'll need some of that bread to so-soaaaagh." He let out another long belch and then croaked out, "Bucket!"
Lydia ran to the kitchen. Kitty heard a frantic banging of pots, and Kitty returned with a large chamberpot. She handed it to her husband.
Mr. Wickham snatched it up, holding it close. His cheeks had gone green, his forehead glistening with sweat. Kitty's stomach roiled. This was not the easy, 'he will sleep and pass in peace' she had promised her sister. Lydia had her lips pressed into a tight line.
Amelia tugged at Kitty's skirt. "What is wrong?"
"Ugghh." Mr. Wickham groaned before leaning forward over the pot and retching.
He emptied his stomach, the noises echoing in the quiet parlor. Kitty covered her nose and mouth, her eyes watering at the acrid stench of liquor and stomach juices.
Unfortunately, when he was done, his skin had lost the greenish tinge. If anything, he looked rather more chipper. "Ugh," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "That's better. Where's that bread and stew, wife?"
"In the kitchen," Lydia said. "It needs heating."
"Get to it, then."
Lydia ran to get the stew. Mr. Wickham stood and leaving the pot on the floor by the sideboard, took a step. Then another. He was steady on his feet. Kitty bit back a curse she should not have known but had heard Mr. Gardiner use once or twice when jarring his toe with especial vigor.
The poison had failed.
Mr. Wickham walked to a large, leather armchair and settled himself on it, hands in his lap, head falling back. Within minutes, he was snoring with enough energy to rival the local blacksmith.
Lydia returned with the stew. She stared at her husband, her face twisted in dismay.
"Is Papa sick?" Amelia asked.
"Not sick enough," Lydia muttered. She placed the bowl of stew and bread on the table beside him. "This is not even his worst bout of drunkenness," she said, glaring at his sleeping form. Her shoulders drooped, her eyes dull and defeated.
"Perhaps the herbalist gave us the wrong berries?" The old woman had looked awfully suspicious of them. What if she'd suspected their intentions and done her best to save them from what she felt were their worst instincts? If so, this was a waste. They could not go back to the shop and complain that the berries had killed no one. Kitty sighed. "The issue is we do not know enough about plants," she whispered. "If Jane were here..."
"Jane!" Lydia laughed. "Jane cannot bear the death of an insect. She would weep for the mice in the barn when the cats had their way. And then weep for the cats for 'they cannot help their nature'." The latter was almost a direct quote from their soft-hearted elder sister.
"But she knows plants and we do not. We shall have to try something else."
"Perhaps I should learn to bear it," Lydia said. "I wanted to marry. I thought, for once, I'd best Lizzy at something important."
"We will try something else," Kitty declared. "I am not ready to give up. Not when we still have a chance." An idea struck Kitty, and she smiled. "We may yet use his habit of strong drink to our advantage."
Lydia's eyebrows shot up. "How do you suppose?"
"First, we will need food and drink for an outing, and then, if possible, a high cliff."
THANK YOU FOR READING! I'm having such a good time writing this! I hope you are reading it as well :)
Next chapter we regroup and maybe see a bit of promise for Lydia's future...