The Lovesick Maid Read online

  “Leave some out?” Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “You are not there when Mr Booth collects the bottle?”

  “No. But he cannot possibly take the wrong one. It is the only bottle I leave on the table and the one missing when I return.”

  “Which is when?”

  “Later. Sometimes the next morning. Unless I am needed upstairs, I spend my evenings in the kitchen with the other maids.”

  “So another servant could come in while you are gone and replace the contents of the bottle?”

  “In my still room? They would not dare…” Sarah’s face darkened as she spoke, her tears and uncertainty seemingly forgotten. “And why would they do so? Perhaps we should talk with Mr Hutchins or Mrs Twitchen.”

  “It would be improper to make accusations we cannot prove. We do not even know if the infusion is to blame for Mary’s condition. But if my concerns are justified, then we must assume this individual will try once more. You say you will prepare another infusion tomorrow?”

  “Yes, ready for when Mr Booth goes home.”

  “Then we shall wait and see who arrives at your door. But not a word to Mr Booth. If he suspects anyone of trying to harm his daughter, who knows what revenge he might seek. We cannot tell a soul until we know more.”

  “But who would do such a thing? Why would any of the servants want to harm Mary Booth?”

  “That is what I hope to discover tomorrow.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The walk back from Rosings took longer than usual—Charlotte’s feet were tired, her thoughts distracted. All she wished for was a cup of tea and perhaps a slice of Molly’s sponge cake. As she approached the last tree before the parsonage, a figure emerged from behind the thick trunk of the elm. Tea and cake would have to wait.

  Frank Wilson did not share the rotund build of his innkeeper father. Quite the opposite. He was not ugly, but all his features stopped on the edge of ugliness; his forehead was almost too high, his thin nose almost too hooked, his chin almost too long.

  “Is my husband not at home, Frank?”

  “He is, Mrs Collins, but ’tis you I came to see.”

  “Then you should come inside.”

  Frank did not move, seemingly unwilling to leave the cover of the elm. “Do not want to put you or Mr Collins to any trouble.” Or, more likely, he did not want to risk inflaming the dispute between Mr Collins and the innkeeper’s family.

  “Very well, how can I help you, Frank?”

  “It was Pa who sent me. Said you’d been asking about a merchant by the name of Ferrell.”

  Charlotte straightened, all tiredness forgotten. “Your father said no one of that name has stayed with you. Do you know different?”

  Frank scratched at his temple. “When Pa first asked I could think of no such man having been a guest. It is just…” Charlotte stood quietly to let him collect his thoughts. “Well, it were just a feeling. Can’t say I can be certain.”

  “Go on,” said Charlotte, sensing he needed encouragement. “I know you to be a fine young man, Frank Wilson. I would trust your feelings as much as those of any other in Hunsford.”

  The innkeeper’s son seemed to grow an inch or two taller. “There was one merchant. Pa was busy elsewhere that night.” Charlotte did not ask where. When an innkeeper, even an honourable one, is abroad of an evening, he is often involved in activities it is best for a rector’s wife—and the exchequer—not to know about. “Did not call himself Ferrell. Name was Smith, but, when I think on it, he was mighty eager for me to notice his name. Kept repeating it, talking as if he were someone else—‘Mr Smith does like the Hunsford Square’ or ‘Mr Smith enjoys an ale of an evening’—that kind of thing. I know some folk talk like that, but it is not common. Was passing through, staying a night. Late in and early on was his wish. But I know what he was selling. Pa likes us to keep an eye on the belongings of our guests, just in case they run up a bill they cannot pay. This one’s cart was covered, but inside was like Mr Hayward’s house, Mrs Collins. Pa said you were looking for someone selling draughts and brews or the like. He would fit that description well enough.”

  “And can you say what he did that evening?”

  “Kept mostly to himself. Ate a little, drank a little, then went upstairs to his room.”

  “He did not speak to anyone?”

  “To me and Annie, who was serving him. And he did sit with some others for a while, after finishing his meal.” Frank shrugged.

  Charlotte leaned in closer to the young man. “This is most important. Can you remember who he sat with that night?”

  “Important, Mrs Collins? I hope nothing bad—”

  “No, no, nothing like that. There is no need for you to be concerned. I simply wish to discover if any of his wares stayed in Hunsford. Perhaps he passed something on that night?”

  “I couldn’t say. We were busy and the light is not so good. He drank with a party from Rosings Park. We don’t see ’em often. Seems a few footmen had permission to go out on their half-day and enjoy an ale before Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived.”

  “And can you remember which footmen might have been there?” Charlotte tried not to let her voice betray any excitement. She was already almost standing on Frank’s toes.

  “Might have been Arthur Webb and young Noah Stone. One of them gardeners, too, but I would not know his name—he’s not from ’round Hunsford. Oh, and William Pike, of course.”

  “William?”

  “He was loud, angry even. Some men get like that when they’ve had too much to drink.” Frank closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, those two definitely got together. Because I remember that merchant coming over and saying, ‘Mr Smith would like to purchase an ale for this fine fellow of a man.’ And he meant William Pike.”

  Charlotte watched Frank amble off back along the line of trees in the direction of the square. She leant against the trunk of the ancient elm, her mind returning to that day at Rosings when the two footmen had argued on the stairs outside Mrs Jenkinson’s room. “Jealousy is indeed a powerful emotion,” she said, before leaving in search of the long-desired tea and cake.

  Setting a Trap

  “I will not be home for supper, husband.” Charlotte peered around the door to the study. Mr Collins sat surrounded by far more parchment than he was entitled to on a rector’s income—another reminder of the beneficence of his patroness.

  “Why ever not, my dear?”

  “I shall be at Rosings.”

  “Rosings? Alone? For supper?” Mr Collins’s face fell, as did his pen, the latter leaving a trail of ink over the paper. “Have you had a particular invitation from Lady Catherine? Am I not to be included in the party? This is most disagreeable news—such severe misfortune!”

  “It is nothing like that, my dear. Do not trouble yourself.” Charlotte came into the room. “I merely wish to visit Sarah Littleworth and see if she might have something for the Booths’ daughter.”

  Mr Collins’s relief turned into a frown. He stood and placed his hands on his hips. “My dear Charlotte, your concern for my parishioners does you great honour. But have you not done enough for Betty Booth? We must be equitable in our attentions. You cannot be expected to provide such care for the whole village. And we must preserve the distinction of our rank. If Lady Catherine were to know of your continuing and intimate involvement with this footman’s family…” He clasped his hands and shook them gently at his wife. “You must stay at home. Mr Booth is at Rosings; he may visit the still room maid himself.”

  “A wise suggestion, husband, as so often.” Charlotte rubbed her chin in thought. “It is a difficult matter, though. One which Mrs Booth has entrusted to me as the wife of such a pious clergyman, knowing you and I are the only individuals in Hunsford capable of managing this affair with the delicacy and discretion required.”

  “Delicacy and discretion?” The frown faded from Mr Collins’s face. “I flatter myself that I possess such qualities in abundance. Perhaps, then, I was too hasty in my dismissal of the matter.
Perhaps I should visit Rosings myself? Is it not my duty as rector to see to the welfare of those less fortunate than myself? And I am sure Lady Catherine would understand if I were to appear so unexpectedly. With her affable nature, she may even invite me to take supper with her.” He began to tidy away his papers and ink. “I should set off forthwith. Excellent. I am a master of circumspection, my dear. Mrs Booth is right to place her trust in me.”

  “It concerns that time when a woman, well, you know…” said Charlotte. Her husband’s blank expression declared that he did not. “When a woman…” Charlotte coughed. “You know. When we are ‘indisposed.’ Every month or so.”

  “Ah,” said Mr Collins. “Of course, the health of my parishioners is very close to my heart. But their spiritual health is of even greater importance.” He pointed at his desk. “I have not yet finished preparing for Sunday. The Harvest Festival means we shall have more than the usual number among the congregation.”

  “So you must ensure your sermon is one of your very best?”

  “Precisely my thoughts. How well you know your husband.”

  “If I were to go to Rosings on your behalf, you would have more time to prepare it.”

  “I would at that. A most felicitous suggestion, my dear. You must go yourself and I shall wait eagerly for your return.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The bottle sat alone on the table, almost as if nothing else dared come close to it.

  “And you would normally leave the still room?” said Charlotte.

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “Once supper is served, I am rarely needed here. Some of my brews require bigger pots and more ingredients, so it is easier to work in the kitchen.”

  “And Monsieur Daminois does not mind?”

  “It is quiet in his kitchen, too, and my work keeps one of his maids busy.”

  “Well, tonight, you will stay with me. We will wait behind the screen and surprise any who enter this room before Adam Booth comes to fetch his infusion.”

  “Is it not dangerous, Mrs Collins?” Sarah rubbed her arms as if cold. “Should we not have a footman join us?”

  “I do not fear trouble inside Rosings Park. Besides, a shout would soon bring someone to our aid. And then there is Walter.”

  “Walter?”

  Charlotte leaned over the work table to rap on the window. Walter Hodge appeared outside, his grinning visage ghostlike through the window. “I am enjoying some conversation with Sarah, Walter,” she shouted. “But stay near in case I need you to fetch anything.” The young gardener went back to his position out of sight of the window. Charlotte turned back to the maid. “I told Ezra I might need help with some carrying from the house and he sent Walter.”

  As the last curl of smoke rose from the doused candles, the two women settled themselves on stools behind the screen. A slit between the panels gave a view onto the table and the infusion bottle, outlined in the faint light of the moon.

  Several people passed by the entrance to the still room, but none paused at the threshold. At each fresh footstep, Sarah whispered what she knew of the owner—a maid, a footman, the skipping gait of Mrs Twitchen, the ponderous walk of Mr Hutchins, who never hurried. As the evening progressed, the footsteps became fewer as the staff cleared supper and saw to the final tasks of the day before Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh retired, though this would be a little later with Colonel Fitzwilliam in the house. Cloud outside turned the still room to darkness.

  “Perhaps they will not come unless they see me first in the kitchen?” said Sarah.

  Then another set of footsteps, slow, heavy, deliberate—a man—slowing as he approached. The steps died at the doorway, a flickering pool of light announcing a visitor. Sarah’s fingers brushed against Charlotte as the light moved into the room. Its bearer set the candle down on the table, the glow revealing a liveried arm. The man’s hand withdrew, returning a moment later with a vial which he set down beside the infusion. The vessel’s squat, dark form seemed out of place next to the clear glass. Sarah’s hand tightened on Charlotte’s arm. Squinting between the panels, they saw the bottle of infusion lifted out of sight. It returned a few moments later, uncorked and almost empty, as if someone had taken a draught from it.

  As a hand took hold of the clouded vial and prepared to transfer its contents, Charlotte acted.

  “Can we be of some help, William?”

  Shattering glass echoed about the room.

  “I don’t think that’s William,” said Sarah.

  Confrontation

  “Tom Calker, how dare you!” Sarah shook a fist at the footman. “I will box your ears all the way to the dining room. And when your ma gets to hear of this…”

  “No, it is not what it seems. Mrs Collins, I—”

  “Not what it seems?” Sarah pushed him away from the table. “Not what it seems, he says! You come into my still room, with your poison…”

  “Poison? I would never…” He turned to Charlotte. “Mrs Collins, why does she think I have poison?”

  “Tom,” said Charlotte. “You have some explaining to do. Sit yourself down. And you, Sarah. And not a word from either of you for the moment.” After lighting more candles, Charlotte walked over to the window and gave it a gentle knock. Walter did not appear. A louder rap brought a yawning gardener peering around the side of the frame. “I will not be needing you after all, Walter,” she shouted. “I have Tom to help me. You may go. Do thank Mr Wilds for me.” Walter disappeared into the darkness.

  “Now, Tom Calker,” said Charlotte, moving back into the room. “This is a serious business. Someone has been poisoning Mary Booth’s infusion—”

  “Poisoning my Mary? I mean—who?” Tom started to rise, all boyish bluster. “I shall knock them in the bracket so I will.”

  “Sit down you fool,” said Sarah. “It is you who’s been doing the poisoning. That much is plain for all to see.”

  “Me? I never did.”

  Sarah used a cloth to hold up a piece of brown glass, liquid still clinging to its side. “What about this?”

  “That’s no poison,” said Tom.

  “Then what is it?” said Sarah, holding the shard like a dagger, just inches from the footman’s face.

  “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  “Tom,” said Charlotte. “You know Mary has been unwell. Very unwell.” He nodded. “We believe someone has been taking the infusion Sarah made for Mary and exchanging it with another liquid, one that might explain her condition. It seems that someone is you.”

  “I am the cause of her illness? That cannot be.” Tom shook his head furiously, cheeks flushed.

  “You had best explain to us what you were about,” said Charlotte. “Or I will have to go to Mr Hutchins directly. And to Adam Booth. And I do not think Mary’s father will spare you a thrashing for harming his daughter.”

  Tom stared straight at Charlotte for a moment, face rigid, then mumbled a word or two.

  “Speak up,” said Sarah.

  “Love potion…it is a love potion.”

  Charlotte and Sarah exchanged glances.

  “Go on,” said Charlotte, relaxing a little.

  “But it can’t do Mary no harm…if I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

  “I will make no such promise,” said Charlotte. “You must tell me the truth, all of it. And if I feel you have acted honourably, I will see what might be done for you.”

  Tom rested his elbows on the table, then rubbed his head in his hands. “I want to marry Mary.” He looked up at Charlotte, his face a picture of earnestness. “And she wants to marry me. Leastways, that is what she said. But Mr Booth, he wouldn’t have any of it. Told me I was wasting my time with Mary as he would never give his blessing. Said she could do better. I could not get near her, Mrs Collins. And I was worried…worried he might turn her against me. Make her fall out of love.” He dropped his head once more. “So I bought a potion.”

  “You daft…oh, I don’t know,” said Sarah.

  “It was just a
potion. The man who sold it promised it was harmless, would just keep her love for me honest, if I was the one to give it to her. Putting it in the infusion was the only way I could think of once she took ill. But, like I said, the potion can’t do her no harm. It is no poison.”

  “Where did you procure it?” said Charlotte.

  “A couple of weeks back, we all went down the Bear, me and the other footmen. Mr Hutchins lets us go once every second month or so, if there are no guests in the house. Got talking to a fellow named Smith. Met him out back later.”

  “Mr Smith?” said Charlotte. “Well, Tom, it seems what you are guilty of is gross stupidity. This Smith is likely a Mr Ferrell and his wares have been setting people ill in Westerham. Your ‘love potion’ has made Mary sick, very sick indeed. You are fortunate she has not died.”

  “Died?” Tom’s eyes glistened in the candlelight. He looked to Sarah, but there was no comfort or sympathy on her face.

  “However,” said Charlotte, “now we know the cause, we can be certain she will recover completely.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Collins. If I’d have known…” He dropped his head into his hands again. “What will she think of me? Will you tell her?”

  “No,” said Charlotte. “I will not. But you will.”

  “I cannot speak to her, Mrs Collins…but I…her father.” He swallowed. “I would like to tell Mr Booth. He should know.”

  “He’ll murder you,” said Sarah. “And he’d be right to. I’d murder you myself, just for what you did with my valerian.”

  “You understand it might well mean the end of your position here at Rosings?” said Charlotte.

  “I have made a mistake, Mrs Collins. It is only right and proper that I make up for it.” Tom stood, smoothed down his waistcoat, and pulled his sleeves flat. “I will start by telling Mr Booth. And if he goes to Mr Hutchins and I lose my position, then, well, it does not really matter. Any life without my Mary is no life for me, whether at Rosings or anywhere else.”

  “But with no reference?” said Charlotte.

  “I could lose myself in London. Besides, like I said, it is the right thing to do. To think I could have killed Mary.” He choked on the last words. “I have to make things better. Then I might leave with a clear conscience.”