Page 9 of The Laudanum Ladies' Society

Gwen narrowed her eyes and dismissed the little voice of her conscience. She took a breath and turned back to him with a sweet smile on her lips. ‘You do sound ill, my dear. Let me fetch you a glass of water and a spoonful of headache syrup. You should probably go back to bed rather than attending Evensong.’

She could see him wavering. Archibald attended every church service possible, unlike Gwen, who cared less about worshipping in church. To her mind, God could listen to her wherever she happened to be– if he was minded to listen at all, which she doubted.

‘Please, Archibald. You have such a lot on your mind. One day won’t matter and we can pray together here. It’s such a cold day.’

‘Yes, you’re right. A day of rest will do me good.’

Stealthily, Gwen took down the bottle, relying on Archibald’s poor eyes to make her actions pass unnoticed. She unsealed the wax and dropped the dose of tincture into his glass before handing it to him. Sure enough, before too long his face took on a hazy smile and he appeared fascinated by the patterns of ice on the window, tilting his head back and forth to catch the shades of blue and white shining through the fronds and swirls on what was a rare, clear day.

‘Quite beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen.That’s a sonnet, you know. What would the Bard have thought of the marvels of chemistry?’

A thrill raced through Gwen. Her sensible husband quoting Shakespeare! Who would have thought that! Truly the new tincture was a marvel. Before too long, Archibald grew tired of looking at the patterns. He rubbed his fingertips across his eyes and forehead.

‘I do believe my head is feeling a little foggy.’

‘Perhaps a short nap in your armchair?’ Gwen suggested.

Archibald nodded compliantly and made his way to the chair by the fire. He was soon snoring gently. It appeared from his reaction to the frost and his unexpected poetry recital that Gwen had indeed been successful in recreating the tincture.

Elated, she poured herself another cup of tea and sat at the table, staring at the bottle. She had some thinking to do.

Chapter Four

Despite it being almost Christmas, Uncle Conrad was tetchy. Had Jenny had the bottle of flawed tincture to hand, she might have given him a dose in order to soften his sharp edges before she had to raise the subject of her allowance. It was galling that at her age, she had to go begging to her guardian to buy necessities. If only her father had left the paltry amount of her inheritance to her directly, and not put it in trust to her uncle. But no one would leave money in the control of a thirteen-year-old.

‘Don’t you have enough dresses?’ Uncle Conrad said severely.

‘It isn’t dresses I want,’ Jenny said calmly. ‘I have a need for undergarments. I can explain why, if you require it.’

She managed to keep a straight face as she said it, knowing that Uncle Conrad would find that topic agonising. Fortunately, Aunt Mabel had been alive when Jenny first bloomed into blessed womanhood (to use her aunt’s phrase), so Uncle Conrad had been able to ignore troublesome female conditions.

As she had suspected, the mere mention of what the money was for was enough to secure the necessary amount withoutneeding to go into details. She stood to leave Uncle Conrad’s study, but he raised his hand.

‘Jenny, before you leave, a word on our financial situation.’

She suppressed a sigh and sat back down, wishing that he was less miserly.

‘I asked you to make economies. Did you manage it?’

‘Miss Winchester and I had a long conversation, which I won’t trouble you with, and we believe that some savings can be made,’ she told him.

‘Good, good. If they can’t, then I’m afraid the scullery maid will have to go and the parlourmaid will have to be demoted. I am sure Hetty would not mind doing a spot of dusting and sweeping.’

Jenny looked doubtful. In the household pecking order, the parlourmaid was much higher than the scullery maid. She would hand in her notice rather than pick up a broom.

‘If it costs too much to feed them, they’ll have to go. I suppose Evans could help, too, by filling the coal scuttles and laying the tables,’ she mused.

Uncle Conrad scowled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Evans is my valet, and such work is beneath him.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘Of course. It was just a thought, but I realise now it was a foolish one.’

Seething, she walked into the hall and put on her coat and hat. How typical of Uncle Conrad. Reducing the amount of food or the allocation of coal for the servants’ rooms would soon see them leaving for better employment, and employing new ones would doubtless mean paying higher wages. Really, it was so shortsighted. She jammed the hatpins into her bun fiercely and walked her frustration off on the way to a meeting of the Beautification of Churchyards Society, arriving hot and invigorated.

Sitting in the vestry of the parish church, bored with the genteel disagreements over whether holly should be allowed to grow or whether it was too pagan, she looked around her, wishing she had some of Mrs Walters’ tincture to hand. The talk of flowers and bushes would be more interesting by far!

‘I declare that if my parlourmaid was to appear with red ribbons in her Sunday hat, then I would turn her out without references. It’s a plague on society, that’s what it is!’ said Mrs Richmond, the vicar’s wife.

A number of heads nodded in agreement at Mrs Richmond’s denunciation of the state of girlhood with their flouncing ribbons and deplorable want for petticoats.