Chapter 54
“W
hat have you gleaned?” asked Lydia over dinner that evening. She noticed that Thomas seemed preoccupied, playing with the food on his plate and unwilling to engage in conversation. It was not until the servants had cleared away that he felt free to unburden himself.
As they sat by the fire in the drawing room Thomas made known his innermost thoughts. “I believe I know how your brother died,” he said slowly.
Lydia was silent for a moment, shocked by this sudden revelation. “You have discovered the murderer?”
He shook his head. “Edward was not murdered,” he told her plainly.
Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”
Thomas looked at her directly. “His death was an accident,” he said.
“An accident?” repeated Lydia incredulously. “How so?”
All evening Thomas had been wondering how to couch his revelation in a way that did not apportion blame. It would not be easy. “I believe your brother ate some deadly mushrooms, given him in error.”
Lydia looked at him in stunned silence. Thomas could almost see her mind at work, then, in her shock, she mouthed the word: “Mama.”
Thomas nodded. “I am afraid she mistook a death cap for an edible mushroom and Edward breakfasted on it.”
Lydia thought for a moment. “ ’Tis true. He was very nauseous and pale and suffered cruelly with the cramps, but that was a full fortnight before he died.”
Thomas nodded. What he had ascertained that afternoon in the library was that the poison of the death cap took effect up to two days after ingestion, causing vomiting and diarrhea, a terrible thirst, and a haggard appearance in its victims.
“Afterward, a recovery seems to take place and the victim grows in strength,” he explained.
“Yes,” agreed Lydia. “Edward seemed fully restored.”
“But the death cap is a great deceiver and although your brother may have felt well, his liver and other organs would have been damaged beyond repair.
“It can be another ten days before the victim is suddenly struck down again to die in unspeakable agony,” said Thomas with a convincing finality.
Lydia was silent for a while. “My mother must know nothing of this,” she said emphatically.
Thomas nodded, but he also knew he must now reveal Lady Crick’s mystery ailment. “I have also discovered the reason for her strange behavior,” he said. Delving into his pocket he brought out a small mushroom and held it up to the light. “I believe this is the cause of her hallucinations. I saw her pick them in the woods.”
Lydia’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Thomas saw that the simple truth was as difficult for her to grasp as it had been for him to discover.
“I cannot find words,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief.
“You do not have to,” said Thomas comfortingly. He held out his hand and she took it, but said nothing. Both of them knew that silence was the price they had to pay.
Thomas went to Lydia’s room not as a physician but as a lover that night. Not a word was spoken as Lydia pulled back the sheets and he slid into bed beside her. At first they simply held each other, luxuriating in each other’s arms; then, unable to hold back any longer, Thomas began to kiss her chestnut hair before he found her willing lips.
“I have waited so long for this moment,” he whispered. This time he could see no sadness in her eyes, as he had so often before. “I want to make you happy.”
“We shall be happy, my love,” she replied, cupping his face in her small hands. Her gesture was one of such sweet tenderness that he felt his heart would break with joy. He kissed her lips once more and again and again and with each kiss their mutual desire became more urgent.
A knock at the door broke the moment. “My lady. My lady,” came an anxious voice. It was Eliza. “Lady Crick is unwell,” she called.
Lydia covered herself instinctively and rose from the bed. “I shall come,” she said.
Eliza had been charged with keeping watch over the old woman during the night. It was now just past midnight.
Thomas rose, too, and pulled Lydia toward him for one more kiss before the facade was put firmly in place once more in front of the servants.
“I shall come shortly,” he told her.
Moments later he arrived to find the old woman retching into a bowl.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked Eliza.
“About twenty minutes, sir,” came the reply. “This be the second bowl.”
Thomas glanced down at a pail beside the bed. It was half full of cream-colored vomit that reeked of acid. Now the dowager was retching up green bile, voiding her stomach of all its contents.
Eliza stood by the dowager, dabbing her clammy forehead with a damp cloth, while Lydia simply looked on in dismay. She had tried to hold her mother’s hand, but the old woman was so agitated and confused that she had repulsed her.
“Mama, ’tis Lydia,” she cried wanly. But there was no recognition in the agonized look that was returned.
“Are the mushrooms the cause of this?” asked Lydia.
“ ’Tis difficult to say,” replied Thomas, taking the dowager’s pulse. “If they are, their effects should wear off in a few hours and she should be restored by tomorrow.” He gave Lydia a reassuring smile.
But Lady Crick’s agonies continued into the night. She became doubled with the cramps and her bowels emptied themselves in a continuous stream, so that Eliza had to bring towels to cover the mattress. The stench became almost unbearable and all the casements had to be opened wide.
When Thomas examined the dowager’s abdomen he found it completely rigid.
Défense musculaire,
he believed the French called it. He could have bounced a farthing off it. The slightest pressure from his hand caused the old woman to let out a cry, raising her skeletal hand in a forlorn effort to ward him off.
As the night wore on, Thomas grew increasingly concerned about her condition until, just before three o’clock, there was a sudden change in the old woman’s demeanor. Color began to return to her ashen cheeks and her fever seemed to subside. Her labored breathing became softer, easier, and the eyelids that had been clenched tight in agony now opened, fluttered gently, and then closed in a sublime rest.
Lydia, who had been sitting anxiously outside at Thomas’s request, entered the room when she heard the noise had died down. She feared the worst, but Thomas reassured her.
“The pain seems to have eased. We must let her sleep now,” he urged.
“I will stay here with her.”
“But you need to rest.”
“I cannot,” she replied. “I will call you if she wakes.”
Knowing it was useless to try and persuade Lydia to take to her bed, Thomas nodded and smiled. He found himself utterly exhausted and was grateful for the promise of rest.
Chapter 55
A
s the young doctor had predicted, Lady Crick was indeed over the worst. In fact, later on the following day, she was sitting up in bed taking broth and on the third day she ventured to walk around the room, albeit on Lydia’s arm.
“Your mother makes excellent progress,” noted Thomas as he and Lydia watched the old lady walk around her bed unaided two days later.
Lydia smiled. “Yes. She talks of going out into the garden tomorrow.”
“That is good news,” said Thomas, but Lydia could tell there was a certain distance in his voice.
“What is it, Thomas?” she asked.
She was aware from his pained expression that he had bad news to impart. “Your mother’s recovery means I have no reason to stay here at Boughton Hall,” he told her. “I’m afraid I must return to London.”
Lydia looked at him with large, sad eyes. “I dread that day,” she said softly.
“You know I do, too, but there is no other way,” countered Thomas. “You have your mother and I have my work. For the time being we cannot be together. But perhaps later... .” His voice trailed off.
“I pray God it will be so,” replied Lydia.
For the remaining few nights Thomas shared Lydia’s bed, creeping into her room at night, then leaving with the first rays. For the first time in his life he felt truly happy, but they both knew it was a happiness that needed to be interrupted, for a short while at least.
On the morning of October 11, 1781, Thomas made ready to leave Boughton Hall for what he envisaged would be the next few months, or at least until the spring had thawed out treacherous roads and banished icy puddles.
He hated protracted farewells, so he had decided to leave early so as not to prolong the sadness of his departure. He kissed Lydia on her forehead as she slept and it was only young Will who was on hand to see him leave Boughton Hall for what he assumed was a very long time.
“We shall miss you, sir,” said the youngster, helping Thomas into the saddle of a chestnut mare.
“And I you, Will,” replied the doctor, “but I shall return as soon as I am able.” And with that he pulled on the reins and began the journey to Oxford to catch a coach.
As he rode down the drive on that chill autumn morning, Thomas felt a great sense of sadness and of loss. The thought of not seeing Lydia for another four or five months was difficult to bear. They would write, but cold parchment was no substitute for the touch of her hand or the warmth of her smile.
He had just rounded the great sweeping drive, lined by the golden-leaved chestnuts and deep green laurels, when something made him glance up toward the pavilion where Captain Michael Farrell lay buried. Perhaps an inner voice was telling him to bid the captain a final farewell, but as he looked up toward the brow of the hill, to his surprise, he saw a figure standing, looking out at the vista.
As he drew nearer he could make out that it was a woman. Straining his eyes, he suddenly realized it was Lady Crick. Urging his horse to canter up the steep incline, he soon arrived at the pavilion. A ghostly blanket of early morning mist shrouded the valley below.
Hearing the sound of hooves behind her, the old woman, dressed in a crimson shawl and a lace cap, turned and smiled calmly when she saw the young doctor.
“You are leaving us, Dr. Silkstone,” she said. It seemed to be an observation rather than a question.
“Regrettably I must,” said Thomas. “But it is good to see you so restored before I go.”
The dowager let out a strange laugh. “Do not be fooled, Dr. Silkstone,” she replied enigmatically.
Thomas frowned, uncertain as to what she meant by these cryptic words. “I am afraid I do not follow.”
Lady Crick turned to look at him. Her face seemed oddly contorted and Thomas noted her skin had a strange yellowish hue. “It was a year ago last week that my son died,” she said.
Thomas nodded. “Yes, Lady Lydia told me.”
“And by this time next week I will have joined him,” she added.
Thomas was uncertain as to how he should respond to this curious statement. “How so, my lady?” he asked, thinking that perhaps the full effects of the hallucinogenic mushrooms had not worn off.
Now, as she looked at him directly, the New Englander noted the old woman’s pupils were fully dilated and her countenance strangely altered. “I picked two death caps the day you followed me into the woods, Dr. Silkstone,” she smiled.
Thomas gazed at the aged widow in silent amazement, trying to comprehend the enormity of her statement. She studied his face as he computed her words and watched as the horror spread across his features.
“Yes, Dr. Silkstone. I will die within the next few days.”
“But why?”
“Because I have failed.”
“In what way?” Thomas needed to make sense of the momentous news he had just received.
The dowager raised her head to take in the vista of the rolling hills that stretched before them in a patchwork of earthy colors.
“Edward was not fit to have all this,” she began. “You saw the sort of women who kept him company. His dear father would have turned in his grave to see how his only son behaved.”
“So, you killed him to let Captain Farrell inherit the estate?” asked Thomas. But the dowager simply smiled and shrugged her narrow shoulders.
“Good God, no. The Irishman was a wastrel, too. Not much better than Edward. He stole my Lydia’s heart and repaid her with his gambling and womanizing.”
Thomas thought for a moment, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. It suddenly dawned on him what the old dowager had planned from the beginning. He stared at her in disbelief, unable to find any words to express his utter shock. The woman who stood before him mockingly had played the part of a senile old widow to a fault, gaining sympathy from all who encountered her. Yet all the time she was watching and waiting, manipulating events in the cruelest and most vile ways. She had planned her own son’s death with all the cunning and guile of the devil himself.
“Francis!” he blurted. “You wanted Francis to marry Lydia and inherit all this,” he cried, gesturing to the lush farmland below.
“Francis. Dear Francis,” she repeated. “He taught me so much on our walks.”
Thomas shook his head in disbelief. “You wanted the captain to be found guilty so that Lydia would be free to marry Francis.”
“But what I had not bargained for was James Lavington,” interrupted Lady Crick.
The doctor nodded. “If only Francis’s jealousy had not got the better of him. Lavington would have hanged for Farrell’s murder and he could still have inherited Boughton.” Everything suddenly fitted into its undeniably awful place.
Thomas stood in stunned silence, contemplating what he had just heard. Lady Crick remained looking out at the view. “Of course,” she said after a few moments, “this could all be yours, if you wanted it.”
Thomas looked at her disbelievingly.
“You love Lydia. She loves you. You may be of lowly birth and a colonist, but I believe you are a good man.”
It was as if the scales had suddenly fallen from Thomas’s eyes and he could see, for the first time, the dark inner core of this outwardly harmless old woman. As she stood on the crest of the hill, surveying the countryside for miles around, it was as if she was some grotesque puppeteer, pulling the strings of her helpless puppets below.
“You would hand me a poisoned chalice?” he said incredulously.
Lady Crick smiled. “Poisoned,” she laughed. “How very apt. No, not poisoned. A little tainted perhaps.”
Thomas felt the anger rise up in him, like a great wave that threatened to engulf him if he did not take control. “I want your daughter as my wife, ’tis true,” he began, keeping his rage in check, “and I believe she would consent, but if we do marry, Lady Crick, ’twill be on our terms and not because you wish it so.”
A sneer curled the dowager’s thin lips. “So be it,” she said, her voice tinged with scorn.
Thomas’s heart beat like a drum in his chest but he tried to compose himself. What he had just heard had turned his world upside down, and if Lydia were to discover what he now knew, it would destroy hers. There was no time to lose.
Galloping back to Boughton, Thomas dismounted hurriedly.
“I have changed my plans,” he told the startled Will. “Please say nothing of this to her ladyship.”
So it was that Thomas slipped back into the daily routine of Boughton Hall as if he had never intended to leave that morning, trying to act as if nothing untoward had happened. He ate breakfast with Lydia in the dining room and tried to make pleasantries over plates of bacon and eggs, yet all the time he was waiting, waiting for the first stab of pain, the first spasm to grip, the first sharp intake of breath from Lady Crick.
The old dowager had not joined them for breakfast, but had chosen instead to go for a walk in the woods. Only Thomas guessed her purpose.
“I cannot believe how restored Mama seems,” smiled Lydia as they sat at the table.
Thomas felt a pang of guilt but simply said: “Yes. She seems well enough.”
“And you can rest assured she will never touch those mushrooms again,” laughed Lydia innocently. Thomas merely smiled.
Shortly after luncheon that day Lady Crick took to her bed, complaining of feeling tired. Although Lydia expressed concern, her mother assured her that she should not worry.
“I will see that she is comfortable,” Thomas told Lydia and he followed the dowager a few minutes later.
The bedroom was dark and still. “My time has come,” said the old woman from her bed. Thomas saw that beads of sweat now dotted her brow. “Water. I need water.”
An insatiable thirst was one of the symptoms of the poisoning and Thomas poured her a glass. “Are you in pain?” he asked.
“Does it please you that I am?” she answered.
Thomas felt insulted. “I have pledged to alleviate suffering.”
The old woman let out a contemptuous laugh. “Remember, I heard my son in his death throes. I heard him scream and gurgle enough to chill the blood. Do you think I am prepared to go through that agony?”
Thomas looked at her bewildered before recalling that she had been into the woods for the last time that morning.
“You have eaten more mushrooms?”
“They will soon work their magic,” she smiled, “and I will float blissfully into oblivion.”
It seemed almost too painless a fate for one so evil, thought Thomas, but he held his tongue and began his reluctant vigil. How long it would last, he could not tell, but he hoped it would be swift for everyone’s sake.
As he sat in silence, watching the poison take hold, he imagined the old woman’s liver, crouched like some sleeping cat deep in the abdomen, being assailed by the deadly poison. It would be smothered rather than beaten to death, anesthetized by the toxins in the mushrooms. It may well feel some pain before it failed completely, but just how much and when that would be, Thomas could not say. All he knew was that it was his duty to prepare Lydia for the dowager’s imminent demise. To her it would be wholly unexpected and therefore a terrible blow, but he knew it was a task he had to fulfill.
“I am afraid your mother is slipping into unconsciousness,” he told Lydia gently, taking her by the hand.
She withdrew from his grasp immediately in disbelief. “How so? She was better. What has happened?”
“She suffered a relapse. ’Tis only a matter of time now.” As Thomas watched the grim realization of her mother’s impending death creep across Lydia’s face he felt guilty, for the first time in his life, of a sense of terrible betrayal. Lies and deceit did not sit easily in his soul, but stay there they must to protect Lydia from a truth that would be too awful for her to bear.
The young woman walked to the window and looked out onto the manicured lawns. “Thank you, Thomas,” she sighed. “You have done all you could.”
The pastor was called, but it was too late. There was no deathbed confession, no repentance, no atonement, simply the sound of labored breathing.
It was another forty-eight hours before death descended on Boughton Hall for the fourth time in a year. It had made its presence felt on a few occasions before it finally carried off its prize. Once or twice Lady Crick had let out a muffled cry. Once or twice she had drawn her legs up to her belly and whimpered and once she had even lashed out with her arm, as if fending off the devil himself. Other than those few moments of obvious discomfort, death’s visit was uneventful and relatively silent, just how the dowager had planned it. Not for her the gross agonies and indignities that she had inflicted on her son, thought Thomas. Her body would be allowed to rest in peace and the black soul that surely lurked within it would never be exposed by a surgeon’s knife.
They buried Lady Crick in the crypt next to her husband and son. Thomas remained at Boughton until the interment, hoping that his presence might give some comfort to Lydia, but the time soon came, as he knew it would, for his return to London.