Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
‘Are you going out again?’ Archibald scowled upon noticing that Gwen had her coat on and was pinning her hat firmly into her rolls of hair.
‘I haven’t been out all week, apart from going shopping,’ Gwen said mildly.
She felt for the bottle in her pocket. A new batch of the tincture, ready to be sold to Miss Rosewood’s rich acquaintances today.
The inaugural meeting of Miss Rosewood’s salon was a welcome relief from the dullness of everyday life, and the money would go into her shell box to help speed Archibald’s operation.
Archibald put down the magnifying glass he now used to read and gave another scowl.
‘I suppose you’re going out spending more money now? Are you determined to deprive me of every penny I need to pay the surgeon?’
Gwen drew a sharp breath at the unfairness of his accusation.
The January weather was vile, with almost constant sleet that made the barely light daytime seem shorter than ever, and Archibald’s temper had become more changeable.
Since Christmas had passed, he would lapse into silence, staring at the fireplace for hours on end before abruptly snapping at Gwen if she interrupted whatever thoughts he was having.
She’d walked further afield in driving rain (which had resulted in wet feet) to buy the weekly meat from a cheaper butcher, but there was no point in telling Archibald that.
‘I’m visiting Miss Rosewood. I won’t be spending any money as I’ll walk there. There’s a stew in the oven and I’ve put the peppermint and capsicum to macerate in the ether and chloroform. I’ll be back in time to make a pot of tea before dinner.’
His face took on an expression of self-pity. ‘Then I shall sit alone and contemplate the bane of my existence. Give my regards to Mr Rosewood.’
‘Why don’t you pay him a call soon? I’m sure he’d be glad to see you,’ Gwen suggested.
‘Why don’t I just declare my blindness from the rooftops?’ Archibald snarled. ‘Then I could speed the inevitable moment when he throws us onto the streets. No, you go and enjoy yourself.’
Gwen buttoned her gloves then walked over to give him a kiss goodbye, but he turned his head from her abruptly as she approached and she was left feeling foolish. She backed away and left, unsettled by the extent to which their warmth had deteriorated.
Christmas had come and gone with still no word from Archie.
Gwen didn’t know whether Christmas cards were common in Saint Helena, but she had not received one.
Now it appeared that her husband was spurning her affection, too.
She didn’t think she had done anything to warrant it, but perhaps she was wrong.
The January salon had four attendees, which was promising, but only two of the four had attended the first time.
Mrs McAllister and Mrs Dowson the curate’s wife, were there, however Mrs Browne, the young mother and Mrs Casper were not.
For returning customers, only half the originals was not a great advertisement for the product, though Mrs Casper had apparently sent her apologies to Jenny and sworn to attend when she could.
Miss Rosewood introduced Gwen to Mrs Verne – who was Mrs McAllister’s sister-in-law – and Miss Salisbury, who, she explained, was an acquaintance of Mr Rosewood.
Mrs Verne was a cheerful redhead, but Miss Salisbury was a formidable-looking woman.
Gwen estimated she had probably bidden farewell to fifty a few years previously, but she had a wonderful mass of chestnut hair piled high in curls and rolls and wore a cream blouse with elaborate lace covering the front in ruffles that looked very expensive.
‘I have a suggestion that I would like to make,’ Miss Rosewood said. ‘We all know why we are here and what you hope to take home, but if anyone wishes to partake of shared enjoyment and take it here in company, we have the house to ourselves until four.’
There were a few murmurs of surprise, then Mrs Dowson sat forward. ‘What an intriguing idea!’
Gwen produced the small bottle, to which she had affixed a handwritten label bearing the inscription: ‘The Woman’s Friend. Enhanced disposition and peaceful slumber guaranteed.’
‘May I see that?’ Miss Salisbury asked. Gwen handed it over and watched, slightly apprehensively, as the woman held it up to the light between thumb and forefinger, uncorked and sniffed at it, then put the cork back in.
Thanks to the label, it looked more like something one might buy from a shop and less homemade, but Miss Salisbury had an air that reminded Gwen of the teacher at her dame school, who had been rather too firm with the girls who were not neat with a needle and thread.
She had the distinct feeling that getting on the wrong side of Miss Salisbury could be unwise.
Miss Salisbury handed it back. Her face was so expressionless that Gwen was reminded of a marble statue. ‘I shall abstain today, however please don’t let my presence prevent anyone else consuming it. This is not the first time you have taken it, I believe.’
‘It’s my first time,’ Mrs Verne admitted. ‘Weren’t there more of you last month? Did you all try it?’
‘I don’t believe Mrs Browne took it,’ Mrs McAllister said.
‘She did,’ Mrs Dowson said. She paused, looked around the room as if checking she wasn’t going to be overheard, then leant forward on her chair. Gwen tensed, certain she was going to hear something significant.
‘What I heard from my Nancy, whose sister walks out with the Brownes’ footman, is that she took it on the nursemaid’s day off. Her husband discovered her sleeping while the children played with the coal scuttle, and when they ran to him, his best shirt became covered in sooty fingerprints.’
‘Well, that’s her own fault for picking a bad time,’ Mrs McAllister said crisply. ‘My husband attends lectures every Wednesday, so I simply waited until he was out. It was worth the price alone to be sleeping when he returned so I didn’t have to struggle through his snoring.’
There was general laughter, but Mrs Dowson looked troubled and Gwen, who had taken a seat in the corner, sensed the story was not done with.
‘What did Mr Browne say to his wife when he found her?’ she asked quietly.
Mrs Dowson twisted her hands around each other, and when she met Gwen’s eyes her own were filled with quiet despair. ‘He let his fists do the talking.’
The good-humoured atmosphere evaporated and a hush fell on the room. Mrs Verne muttered something beneath her breath and Mrs Dowson, apparently compelled to defend Mr Browne’s actions, spoke again.
‘He beat her, not the children. He’s not a bad man and a husband may chastise his wife as he sees fit.’
Gwen caught Miss Rosewood’s eye and the women shared a look of concern at the lack of Christian compassion demonstrated by the curate’s wife.
‘Was she badly hurt?’ Miss Rosewood asked. Her lips were pinched, which suggested to Gwen that Miss Rosewood was suffering the same torment of guilt that she herself was, at having been the instruments of the woman’s misfortune.
Mrs Dowson looked a little more at ease. ‘By Nancy’s reckoning, she was in such a state of torpor that she just lay there and accepted the beating and he didn’t bother for too long.’
‘How fortunate for her,’ said Miss Salisbury drily. ‘What a remarkable medicine you have chanced upon if it can render the consumer impervious to pain, Mrs Walters.’
Gwen looked away, wishing she were anywhere else. A cloud had descended on the room, almost as tangible as the smog.
‘Would anyone like to take some?’ Miss Rosewood asked.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t,’ Gwen replied. ‘What happened to Mrs Browne is bothering me. If we hadn’t given it to her, she would never have been in that position.’
Miss Salisbury lifted her chin imperiously. ‘If you hadn’t, then she might have drunk a bottle of gin, or her children’s teething syrup. The responsibility does not lie with you, Mrs Walters.’
‘We will not force anyone to take it,’ Jenny said.
‘I cannot speak for anyone else, but I didn’t come here to simply drink tea,’ Mrs McAllister said firmly. ‘What happened to Mrs Browne is unfortunate, but that is not your responsibility. She was foolish. I intend to enjoy myself and I am certain my husband will not chance upon me here!’
Mrs Verne and Mrs Dowson agreed. While the women placed a shilling each in a china dish, Gwen added three spoonsful of the tincture to each glass and filled them with water before passing them round.
She’d taken on the role of assistant to Miss Rosewood’s role as hostess and was grateful that this gave her the opportunity to refuse her own glass.
Unlike the richer women, she had no private means of getting home and wasn’t intending to risk walking or catching public transport under the influence of the tincture.
No one else noticed she didn’t join in – they were too busy giggling nervously at what they were doing. It wasn’t too long before the effects began to show themselves.
‘This is rather fun,’ breathed Mrs Verne through a yawn. ‘I do feel much more relaxed than I have done for a long time.’
Gwen looked at her. She had arrived with Mrs McAllister. She was young and pretty and did not look as if she had the need for a tonic, but who was to say what hidden secrets a person kept?
‘I feel invigorated. Shall we play some music?’ asked Mrs McAllister.
‘I always fancy myself as an opera singer,’ replied Mrs Dowson with a bright-eyed smile.