Betraying Justice
Betraying Justice
I woke up in the early hours before dawn, in that eerie transition between darkness and light when the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten but the birds are singing in merry anticipation. I stared blearily at my bedside candle that burned throughout the night; I never slept in the dark. It seemed to burn with an anticipation of its own, and altogether different from that of the birds. Day was coming and the flame would be extinguished. Would it ever be lit again? In a day’s time, perhaps less, I would know. I had planned this day for the last several months, and dreamt of it for years.
Today I would kill my husband.
I rose slowly from the marriage bed we shared so blessedly infrequently; he was more often than not out in pursuit of riches or glory, usually both. I donned the exquisite robe and slippers of satin he had presented me with following his last excursion. They were beautifully embroidered with golden thread and jewels. He had always treated me well, even more so in the beginning, lavishing me with gifts from far off lands, rare fabrics and exotic caged birds. He showed his affection for my beauty by presenting me with beauty, in almost every available form. To be perfectly honest, I always understood that I was ornamental, but I never minded it. What ornament would complain of being so richly decorated? This was the custom between highborn husbands and wives, at least the respectable ones. No, I wasn’t going to kill him for attending the woman and ignoring the wife, though that was one of his shortcomings I intended to exploit.
I rang for my personal maid, Genevieve. I knew she’d be sleeping at this hour, but I needed to make sure preparations were in place. She came hurriedly through the door, mouse-brown hair disheveled and still in night clothes. She was never much to look at, but she was tight-lipped and so I valued her service.
“Is all in readiness for this evening?” I asked her.
She replied, “Yes, Lady Bingham. All of the. . .items you asked for,” at this she lifted her eyes to meet mine and quickly dropped them down again, “have been retrieved and stored as you instructed.”
“And my luggage?” I inquired.
“I packed it last night and it’s been loaded already. The new carriage driver arrived two days ago and will be ready at your leisure.”
“Thank you, Genevieve. You may return to your bed.” She turned at my dismissal and left the room quickly and quietly, shutting the door behind herself. I thought perhaps she suspected, but if she did, I knew that she would understand my reasons. Despite her youth, certain things were understood and forgiven among women. Genevieve was the daughter of my old nursemaid, both of whom had come with me when I entered into my husband’s household, I a flushing sixteen and Genevieve a small child of two. She had served me her entire life and there was trust, of a sort, between us. If she indeed knew my purpose, she would not betray me.
I lay down again, trying to control my quickening pulse. Whether my heart raced from anxiety or excitement, I couldn’t say. I thought, as I lay in the dim light the candle cast about the room, that I should go visit my son. I hadn’t seen him in some time. Since he had reached adulthood, he had been granted a small plot of land quite close to home, but upon achieving this bit of independence, he began to eschew me. Stricken, I undertook to discover from a reluctant maid that he had resented me since his youth and now saw it only proper to publicly dissociate himself from me. Without asking, I had known why.
There was a scandal, or so it was said, shortly after I was wed. I bore my first child into the world only seven months after being joined in holy matrimony. Being a young bride, and this my first child, it arrived early and only survived a handful of days, but the damage was done. Word spread that I was ruined goods, and eventually, to protect his own good name, Lord Bingham declared that he was aware of my alleged condition before the wedding but refused to tarnish his honor by rescinding his word. Thus, he saved face and I was sacrificed to the masses. Even this, this falsehood and atrocity, I could forgive him, were it not for what came of it.
I should have paid closer attention after my second and only surviving child was born. I should have listened to the whispers that still followed me down the corridors. By the time he was old enough to comprehend such matters, my son had heard every twisted version of the tale that had run rampant round the surrounding towns. It seemed anyone with ear to hear and tongue to lie told it differently. Yet he excelled at hiding what he thought of his mother, fashioning himself into a model of propriety. I was blind to the way he saw me, and would happily have stayed that way.
But the pleasant haze of ignorance cannot forever go unpierced by the harsh ray of truth. When I came upon the two of them, the father discreetly fortifying this odious untruth to the eager and trusting ears of the son, I felt utterly betrayed. They were closeted together in the parlor, the door nearly closed. I approached the door, meaning to say something I forgot almost immediately when I heard what the conversation entailed.
“. . . couldn’t leave her in disgrace. It was the only thing a real gentleman could do,” I heard my husband saying. Then my son’s voice, hushed and self-deprecating,
“So. . . whose bastard am I?”
“Truly, I don’t know. But you will always be my son.”
I backed away in horror. I was torn between weeping and a rage I had never felt before. Always my husband had seemed to believe in the truth of my innocence, though society had demanded he make some excuse publicly. I never knew he believed his own lie. And then I realized that my son believed it, too, and resented me as well as himself for it.
They were unaware I had overheard them, and afterwards my son still played his part, but I knew the lies with which his father filled his head. I should have expected the public repudiation that eventually followed. Still, it hurt. Even now, knowing what I did, it hurt.
That was when I embraced revenge.
Unable to find sleep, I rose again and opened a window. The horizon blazed a deep scarlet. All of nature rejoiced with the rising of the sun, all unknowing of what the day might bring. But I knew. Possibilities raced through my thoughts more rapidly than they yet had, in every scenario a lifeless husband, and in some a wife of like condition. Whether I lived or died, vengeful justice would be served this day.
Eventually, I decided to spend the morning walking about the grounds, under pretense of admiring their superior artisanship and landscaping, but truthfully I needed an outlet for the energy and tension that had been building in me. After breakfast, I took to lacework in the solarium, a mindless exercise that allowed me a temporary respite from my own thoughts. While there, the expected announcement came. A servant approached to tell me.
“I beg your pardon, my lady, but his lordship has been seen on the road and arrives presently,” he said, and without waiting for my dismissal turned and left, presumably to make ready to receive him. I contemplated doing the same, but decided against it for the first time ever, allowing myself this small, open rebellion that my husband wouldn’t understand.
He came looking for me, of course.
He entered the solarium in travel-worn clothes and covered with road dust, bedraggled and bewildered.
“Why was my wife not present with the rest of the household?” he asked roughly, both offended and irritated.
I looked up from my work and feigned surprise, then spoke pleadingly, “Forgive me, my lord husband, I did not mark the passage of time. I should have been more attentive,” I finished sweetly.
“No matter,” he smiled and softened, “look what I’ve brought you.” Two men came in then, one bearing an elegant gown, the other a gilded cage containing some sort of lizard-like creature that could scarcely be seen among the branches.
“It’s lovely,” I admired, commending him for his ever-flawless taste in women’s fashion, “but what sort of exotic captive have you brought me this time?”
His vigorous brows shot up. “Ah, that,” he said, in real excitement. “I bartered with a rather churlish old sea merchant to procure it for you. It doesn’t look particularly spectacular at the moment, but its novelty lies in its ability to change with its surroundings, altering its appearance every time it changes location. You’d have to cross an ocean to find another like it.” He beamed at me as I examined the odd creature. “Well, what says my lady?” he asked, as eager for praise as a hound. I would oblige him, for now.
“It’s charming,” I lied, then added in earnest, “and quite unique.”
“I’m pleased that you like it,” he replied. “Have a bath drawn for me. We’ll dine in an hour.” He stooped to kiss my hand. “It is good to be home,” he said, then left. I smiled at his back until he was gone. Once the door shut, all spurious emotion fled my expression and I set my focus on betrayal.
“Draw a bath for my husband,” I flippantly commanded to no one in particular, knowing that someone would assign themselves the task rather than risking reprimand. My next command I gave to Genevieve. “Have a strong pitcher of spiced wine brought to the bedroom after dinner. His lordship will be weary.” She hurried off without a word to see to it.
All during supper I barely spoke a word. Even had I wished, I scarce had a chance to open my mouth for all of my husband’s rambling of his latest profitable accomplishments. Occasionally, I would offer an inconsequential remark of assent, but my mind wandered toward the surprise that awaited him when he had finished gorging himself on food and my pretended affection. My husband truly was guileless as a half-grown pup and twice as gullible. One might never suspect that he planted the seed of disdain that our son now nurtured in my name. The lie that issued from his lips with such ease would seal them again forever.
I made my excuses and left the table somewhat early, heading in the direction of the bedchamber we would share for a final time. Once there, I locked the door behind myself. Kneeling, I pried open the floorboard where I had stored the means of my revenge; though Genevieve had hidden it once, I had brought it to this place myself, trusting the knowledge to no one. I brought out a small bag of sackcloth. It looked far too small to be so deadly, but I knew its potency. Poppy. A pinch would leave a man unconscious for hours. Any more than that. . .
Along with the poppy, I had obtained a thick, sugary syrup that would help to hide the taste. Spiced wine was strong, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I hastily poured myself an untainted glass and set it aside, noting which it was so as not to confuse it later. Then began the real treachery.
I slowly poured the entire bag of poppy into the pitcher, knowing I poured his death as I did. I relished every moment of it. I poured in the thick syrup next and began to stir the pernicious concoction. This would be justice meted out. He could not but deserve it for the turning of my own son against me. No mother should have to endure the abhorrence of her own child. Yet I bore it in spectacular fashion, and I intended to avenge myself. I stared malice into the ruddy wine, seeing his lordship’s peaceful, unmoving body, his trusting expression frozen in death’s mockery.
Pulling myself forcibly from this perverse trance, I went to unlock the door. I kept the key in my hand so that I could lock the door once more when we were alone, then arranged myself appealingly on the bed. Let him think I remained the loving wife. Let him die, secure in that belief; I had believed in my son’s love long after I had lost it.
The door opened. In walked the man I had suffered to be married to but had never before deplored with such fervency. I detested him. I rose to greet him. His eyes were those of a weary man who had already been drinking.
“Clorette,” he slurred huskily. Then he grabbed my face, like it was so much of yesterday’s laundry, and kissed as a man does who hasn’t seen a woman in some time. He backed me toward the bed. I pulled away with an effort.
“Wait,” I stalled, “I forgot to light my candle.” Before he could object, I found a taper and lit my bedside candle from one of the wall sconces. Evading his grasp admirably, I made my way to the far table where the pitcher stood. “I called for some wine. Won’t you have some, my darling?” I plied him with a sensuous sip from my own glass, then filled the other from the pitcher.
He walked slowly over to me, losing much of the drunken stagger he had walked in with. His innocent, brown eyes now held something new, something foreign to them. I couldn’t place it.
“Are you sure you’d like wine?” he asked, “Now?”
“Just enough to relax me a little. You ought to have some as well. It’s the best vintage.” I reached up to caress his face now, placing the glass in his hand when he reached for me.
“Very well,” he said, with such sadness and resignation that I might have sworn he was about to die willingly at that moment. Instead, he pitched his voice across the room and shouted, “Nicholas!”
I froze. The door opened and six people rushed into the bedroom. One of them was my poor son, Nicholas; he was holding Genevieve’s hand tightly, protectively. The other four were armed men and looked ready for trouble. I couldn’t speak. There was nothing I could say.
I set down my own glass of wine; it’s a wonder I didn’t drop it. I reached for my husband’s. Taking the pitcher in my other hand, I filled it to the brim. In all the scenarios I had played out time and again in my mind, this had never happened.
I made no excuses. There were none asked of me. Only the accusing stares of seven people. I walked over to the bed and sat down. I looked mournfully once around the room. I had been deceived.
At a gulp I swallowed down the contents of the glass, then set it down and moved quickly before it began to take effect. I lay down and arrayed myself with all the glory life had afforded me. I closed my eyes, and a pleasant warmth soon seemed to surround me. Before it could engulf me completely, I leaned over and blew out the candle.
