The Poison Diaries. Maryrose Wood

they will be planted, in the garden where I am not permitted to go.

      I lift the lid and lower my candle so I can see inside.

      The bucket is dry and empty. The belladonna seeds are gone.

      My first, horrified thought: Has someone stolen them? Father will be furious!

      But then I listen again: the cottage is silent, but there are noises coming from outside. Dull, digging noises. The sound of earth being turned.

      Now that I no longer need its light, the moon has risen and bathed the courtyard in its soft glow. But I do not have to see my way. I know exactly where to go. Past the courtyard, past the fishpond, past all the garden beds, up the narrow winding path to the left that leads to the tall, locked gate.

      I lay one hand on the rough metal chain; with the other I clasp the lock. I press my forehead against the cold iron bars, and peer through the dark forms and moving shadows of a mysterious world I will never be allowed to enter.

      Father is at the north wall, bent over in the moonlight, digging. Whistling softly. Happy.

      Silently I return to the cottage. I stand by the back door, my head hanging down in defeat.

      Without my bidding, my foot lashes out and kicks over the empty pail.

       Will everything I care for be taken away from me?

       Chapter Four

       23rd March

      AFINE, CLEAR DAY, BUT A SHARP METAL SMELL IN THE air warns of a coming storm. I planted more radishes in the morning, also set bulbs of onions and garlic. The bulbs overwintered nicely in the cellar; they were dry and firm, with no sign of mould.

       Took out my mending basket to repair torn stockings and found a

      The sound of hoofbeats seems to come from nowhere, and gets louder so quickly I drop my pen to the floor in surprise. Father did not say that we would be receiving company, and now I cannot recall if the beds are made—

      The hoofbeats get closer by the second. They must be headed here, for the nearest farm is two miles in the other direction.

      “Father!” I call, as I half run to the kitchen to put away the breakfast things. “Someone is coming! Shall I prepare a meal? Shall I make tea?”

      It has been almost a week since Father stole (for in my mind he did steal them) and planted the belladonna seeds. We have not spoken of it, nor have we spoken of much else in the intervening days. But the excitement of an unexpected guest makes me forget my resolve to punish him with my silence.

      “Father!” I call more loudly. “Are you expecting company?”

      We do not get many visitors at the cottage, only the occasional tradesman trying to sell us tin pots, or a matron from a neighbouring farm seeking a cure for the toothache. But every now and again the duke himself will appear, unannounced, with a small hunting party in tow. This land is the duke’s land, as is most of the acreage in Northumberland, and the fields and forests that spread over the site of the old monastery have long been the duke’s favourite hunting park. After an afternoon’s shooting, he and his guests have sometimes stopped here to gaze at the ruins, water their horses, and brag about the day’s kill.

      Father lurches into the parlour with his hair standing every which way, as if he had spent hours running his hands through it in deep concentration. “I expect no one. And I do not wish to be disturbed, so whoever it is, bid them be gone.”

      “But what if it is the duke?”

      He listens. The hoofbeats are insistent, a hard gallop coming straight this way.

      His face turns grim. “Whoever comes travels alone, and at reckless speed. It is not the duke, but it might be a highwayman. Stand back from the door, Jessamine.”

      Father grabs his gun from the wooden box on the floor beside the entrance to the cottage, and unbolts the heavy arched wooden door.

      He steps out into the courtyard. I am frightened, but my curiosity is greater than my fear, and I follow. We emerge just in time to see our visitor gallop up and pull his horse to an abrupt stop directly in front of our door, raising a choking cloud of dust.

      The horse has been ridden too hard for too long; its mouth drips foam, and its neck and flanks are flecked with sweat. It whinnies and rears high in complaint at the brutal pull on the reins. The rider curses and yanks the horse’s head hard around.

      I sneak closer behind Father so I can get a glimpse of our uninvited guest. He is a long-limbed, pock-faced man. Lashed to the saddle behind him is a large, shapeless bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket and tied around with rope.

      The man slips off the horse’s back and lands heavily on the ground. “Thomas Luxton?” he barks. “The apothecary?”

      “I am he.” Behind his back, Father’s hand tightens on the gun.

      “May I speak to you, sir?”

      “You already have, sir.” Father seems to double in size until he fills the doorway. “What is your business? You arrive like a fire wagon racing to put out a blaze. But as you can see –” Father gestures in such a way as to reveal his weapon – “we have no need of assistance.”

      At the sight of the gun, the man steps back. Then he sees me hiding behind Father. For a split second our eyes meet. I know mine are filled with fear.

      He sighs and stamps the mud off his boots, then reaches up to remove his three-cornered hat. He wears a wig, as is the fashion, but when he takes off the hat he knocks his wig slightly askew. Suddenly I am no longer afraid, for how can one be afraid of a man in a crooked wig?

      “Forgive me,” he says gruffly. “There is no need to defend yourself; I mean you no harm. My name is Tobias Pratt. I am sorry to disturb you and will not stay one moment longer than necessary. But I ask that you let me enter your home briefly, so that you and I may speak – in private.”

      When he says “in private” , I think he must mean out of my hearing, for who else is here but Father and me? But the bundle on the back of Pratt’s horse stirs.

      “Water,” it moans. Whether the voice is young or old, male or female, I cannot say.

      “Shut your mouth, boy. You’ve had plenty of water today.” Pratt turns back to Father. “What I have to say will be of interest to you, Luxton, I swear it. Will you hear me out?”

      Father says nothing, but stares at the pitiful, rag-swaddled creature on the horse.

      “Water,” it moans again, but this time quite low and sad, as if it has no hope of being heard.

      I would fetch the creature some water; what harm could there be in that? I am about to ask permission to do so when Father speaks.

      “As you wish,” he says abruptly. “Come inside and say what you have to say. The sooner you are gone, the sooner I can get back to my work.”

      “Father, ought I to get some water for…?” I nod my head in the direction of the horse and its strange burden.

      “Leave the monster be for now,” Pratt interjects. “After you hear my tale, you may do with it what you will.”

      

      “Tobias Pratt – your name is familiar to me; why is that?” Father and our visitor are seated at the table. I have already made the tea. Quickly and silently I put some biscuits on a dish, and stand aside to listen.

      “I am the founder and proprietor of Pratt’s Convalescent Home,” Pratt says proudly as he shoves two biscuits at once into his mouth. “I imagine you’ve heard of it. It is a respected establishment here in the north.”

      “Indeed