Pride prejudice and pois.., p.2
Pride, Prejudice and Poison, page 2
Hetty was full of stock phrases, this latest one coming from her devotion to the popular television series Downton Abbey. The implication, of course, was that Sylvia was promiscuous, a topic Erin had no wish to delve into. She’d finally had to hustle Hetty off the phone so she could wait on her sole customers, a charming octogenarian couple from Perth looking for a book on the area’s Viking past.
Swathed in the mysterious, layered vocals of Josquin’s music, Erin popped the chicken tikka masala into the microwave. The phone rang as she pressed REHEAT. She let it ring four times before picking up, resolving to unplug the phone afterward.
“Hello?” she said, turning down the music.
“Erin. What. On. Earth. Was. She. Thinking.”
“Hello, Farnsworth.”
“The woman is out of control, Erin. Totally mad. Get down from there, Wickham!” Farnsworth commanded. Her cats were all named after characters in Jane Austen novels, and Wickham was an especially naughty tabby who enjoyed testing the limits of gravity. “Someone’s got to stop her, Erin.”
“Many have tried; all have failed.”
“And poor Prudence—Sylvia actually spit on her.”
“Those two have never gotten along.”
“It’s common knowledge Pru had her eye on the presidency and Sylvia just swept it out from under nose.”
Erin sighed as she pulled her tikka masala from the microwave, wondering when she would get a chance to eat it.
“And how could she treat Jonathan like that?” Farnsworth continued. “Good of you to defend him, pet,” she added slyly.
“Anyone would have done it.”
“Ah, but you’re the one who did.”
“I’ll tell you what, Farnsworth. If I decide to pursue a romance with Jonathan, I’ll send you a text message. Oh, never mind—you don’t have a mobile phone.” Erin liked to tease her friend, calling her the only person in Yorkshire without a mobile.
“By that time half the village will know anyway. You know how gossip travels round here, pet.”
Erin gazed longingly at her chicken tikka masala, the sauce becoming gelatinous as it cooled.
“I was surprised to see Owen go after Kurt Becker like that,” Farnsworth continued.
“I never took Owen for a bigot. I wonder what’s going on in his life to make him behave like that.”
“Now that you mention it, he does seem quite stressed out lately.”
“And why wasn’t Carolyn there?” Erin said, reaching for a bag of crisps on a high shelf. “She’s keener on the society than he is. I always thought he joined because of her.” Pulling the bag open, she stuffed a couple into her mouth, biting down with a satisfying crunch.
“What are you eating?” said Farnsworth.
“Crisps,” Erin mumbled through a full mouth.
“I thought you were trying to cut down on them.”
“I keep them in a high cupboard.”
“Apparently it’s not working. What flavor are they?”
“Cheese and onion.”
“I like prawn cocktail.”
“I have those too.”
Farnsworth sighed. “Why must crisps be so delicious and celery so vile?”
Erin laughed. “I like celery.”
“Then apparently you enjoy chewing on tree bark. Because that’s exactly what it’s like. And that’s obviously why you’re so thin and I am not.”
“You’re just right. Zaftig, I think they call it.”
“When you start nattering nonsense like that, it’s time to ring off.”
“See you at the meeting tomorrow.”
“I’m telling you, Erin, heads are going to roll!”
“I can hardly wait.”
Erin finished the crisps greedily—her stomach was contracting with hunger pangs. She ate her chicken tikka at the round kitchen table with the blue-and-white cloth she had brought back from the Quimper region of France last year.
Erin Coleridge was the kind of person people turned to for comfort. They flocked to her bookstore not only to browse her eclectic collection and enjoy her excellent tea and pastries but also to feel better about themselves. That was her gift, her father always said, making people feel better.
She didn’t mind—she liked feeling useful—but before trudging up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, Erin unplugged the landline and turned off her mobile phone. She’d had enough of the rehashing and recrimination that had followed the contentious meeting—and she knew there was more ugliness ahead.
After a long, sinfully luxurious bath in her lion-pawed tub, she snuggled deep into the double bed with the brass frame and down comforter, clutching an annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice. Some questions had come up at previous meetings, and though by no means the leading Austen scholar in the society, she was keen to look up some of the answers. Outside, an owl hooted softly as she dug eagerly into the pages, and soon she was lost in the past, swallowed up in a world of carriages, waistcoats, and silver tea services as a light rain pattered against the windowpanes.
Chapter Three
Prudence Pettibone was in a bad mood. The source of her malcontent was not the dolorous drooping of her prized Dracula simia orchid, or the unexplained chip on her Royal Doulton teapot—she was convinced that was the work of Hannah, her clumsy oaf of a maid. Nor was it the unrelenting string of dull, rainy days hanging over the village of Kirkbymoorside with the grim stubbornness of the Yorkshire countryside and its people. Prudence rather liked wet days, as they were an excuse to sit inside with a cup of tea and a book—preferably something by Jane Austen, about Jane Austen, or inspired by Jane Austen.
The source of her irritation wore absurd feathered hats and floral print dresses more suitable for upholstery than haberdashery, had been recently elected president of the Northern Branch of the Jane Austen Society, and went by the name of Sylvia Pemberthy, née Westcraven. It pleased Prudence to think of Sylvia’s maiden name, because the first Westcravens were peat farmers, and she liked to picture Sylvia’s ancestors bending over soggy fields of sod. In spite of her posh airs and affectations, Sylvia sprang from lowly harvesters of dirt, a fact that delighted Prudence to no end. Sylvia’s presence in her consciousness was like a slow leak in a bathroom faucet, wearing away the enamel of her patience with its insistent drip drip drip.
The first thing Prudence did after supper that night was pick up the phone and call Hetty Miller, her closest ally in the society. After half an hour on the phone with Hetty, Prudence was relieved to find she wasn’t the only one who couldn’t abide Sylvia—according to Hetty, she had plenty of enemies within the ranks.
“She just ignored you when you tried to get a word in edgewise?” said Hetty. “Who does she think she is? And what on earth was she thinking, picking on Jonathan like that? The last thing she should be doing is alienating someone like him.”
“Exactly!” Prudence agreed. “Such bad manners.”
Jonathan Alder was one of the few single men in the society, and the reason for the regular attendance of more than a few female members. It was Prudence who had convinced him to accept the post of chairman of the Events Committee, and now Sylvia was about to chase him away with her ridiculous nattering.
“No wonder Owen and Kurt went at it,” said Hetty, “with her setting the tone like that. She won’t last long as president at this rate.”
Prudence could hear the sound of running water and clattering pans in the background. Hetty was probably making tea, and that made her want some, to stave off the creeping chill of the October night. She padded into the kitchen and switched on the light, cold and bright on the tile counters. She hated the new energy-saving light bulbs her husband had talked her into buying, which brought out the thick blue veins in her hands.
She opened the tea cupboard warily—as usual at this time of year, there was an infestation of field mice, as they crept inside in search of a warm place to ride out the winter. She had been nagging Winton to pick up some poison at the store, but the poor darling was so tenderhearted she supposed she would have to do it herself.
She smiled when she saw the plate of homemade brownies on the counter, with a note from Winton. THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE PECKISH WHEN YOU GOT IN. XOXO WINTY. He was such a dear, always looking after her.
“How can she get away with such behavior?” said Hetty.
“It’s shockingly uncivil, if you ask me,” Prudence replied, cradling the phone on her shoulder as she held the teapot underneath the faucet. Of course she owned a mobile phone like everyone else nowadays, but there were precious few cell towers this close to the moors. Reception was spotty in the village, and most people still relied on their landlines.
She chose a decent if undistinguished Darjeeling, warming the pot before pouring in the boiling water.
“Thinks she’s high and mighty,” Hetty said.
“A regular Lady de Bourgh,” Prudence agreed.
“And she’s doing us such a great favor by holding the meeting here.”
Most general meetings were held in the city of York, thirty miles away, but as newly elected president, Sylvia had persuaded the members to meet in Kirkbymoorside, where she and her husband had recently relocated, presumably to live a quieter life than in the bustling university town.
“Lord it over us, she does,” Hetty continued. “But she’s no better than she ought to be, if you ask me.” Hetty was rather common and had a vulgar way of speaking, which made Prudence feel better about herself by comparison.
Tea tray in hand, Prudence tiptoed back to the living room with its low-beamed ceilings and rough-hewn stone walls. The house was one of the oldest in the village—possibly in all of Yorkshire—and her husband was inordinately proud of its historical significance. Legend had it that Robert the Bruce had once stayed there while fleeing English soldiers. Like many Yorkshiremen, Winton was no great fan of the British Crown and loved to regale people with the Scottish rebel’s exploits. He had already gone up to bed—a creature of habit, he was rarely awake the other side of ten PM. The air rippled with the sound of his gentle snoring from the upstairs bedroom as she settled herself in the tattered green armchair before the fire, the phone handset cradled on her shoulder.
“She’s just plain selfish, if you ask me,” Hetty said.
“‘Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure,’” Prudence replied. She prided herself on her arsenal of Austen quotes, distributing them liberally like conversational jewels whenever possible.
Sadly, it fell on deaf ears. Though she and Hetty had joined the society together, Prudence sometimes wondered if her friend actually read Jane Austen—or anything else, for that matter. Hetty Miller did not possess the town’s most bracing intellect.
“What do you suppose Sylvia is on about?” asked Hetty. “Could she possibly view Jonathan as a threat to her power?”
“Mind you, he is very popular,” Pru replied. In truth, Jonathan Alder was the subject of more than a few feminine fantasies within the society. But he remained steadfastly unattached, causing Prudence to wonder if perhaps women were not his cup of tea. She hoped that was not the case. Of course, she knew that even without the loyal Winton by her side, she was hardly a natural love object for Jonathan, but she enjoyed the frisson of her fantasies, which she liked to think were the product of her exceptional imagination.
“… I think she’s preparing herself for a coup,” Hetty was saying, and Prudence realized she hadn’t been listening.
“Mm,” she murmured, stirring her tea.
“What do you think?” Hetty asked, and Prudence felt like a naughty child caught out by the teacher for not paying attention. But Winton always said, When in doubt, agree.
“You could be right,” she said.
“That would explain her extreme behavior,” Hetty rattled on, oblivious to Pru’s attention lapse.
“She was so mean to poor Farnsworth, I was afraid she was going to burst into tears.”
“Poor Farnsworth,” Hetty sighed.
“Sylvia is vain, and ‘vanity working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief,’” said Pru, proud of herself for so deftly squeezing an Austen quote into the conversion.
“Well, that’s plain as the nose on your face.”
Prudence wondered if that was a dig at her own rather pronounced proboscis, inherited, alas, from her father.
“What have you heard?” she asked, taking a sip of tea, hot and strong and sweet, just the way she liked it.
“Surely you’ve heard the rumors swirling about?”
“Of course,” she lied, feeling left out once again. After all, she was the club treasurer and secretary, and a member of the Events Committee. Why did Hetty always seemed to know more than she did? She took a deep breath. “Who wants her position, do you think?”
“Some people say you do.”
This quite took her breath away. Winton had said more than once she would be a better president than Sylvia, and he’d been bitterly disappointed when she was not chosen in the last election. She had to admit the idea made her skin tingle, but she tried to console herself with the knowledge that the society was a den of vipers and anyone in power was vulnerable to the fangs of its more toxic members.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said. “How could anyone think I—”
“I’m only repeating what I’ve heard, mind you,” Hetty interrupted. “Don’t bite my head off.”
“Who said it?”
Hetty sighed, and Prudence could feel one of her headaches coming on, a tightening above her right temple.
“I’ve said too much already,” Hetty replied.
“Very well,” Prudence answered huffily. Hetty was her best friend in the society, and if she couldn’t rely on her, there were indeed stormy waters ahead. “I’m tired,” she said. “It’s time I went off to bed.”
“Don’t be cross,” Hetty whimpered, but Prudence cut her off.
“Good night,” she concluded firmly, and hung up the phone.
Leaning back in the armchair, Prudence gazed at the ship’s clock over the mantel, its polished brass reflecting the yellow glow of firelight, the long, graceful hands almost touching as if in prayer. It was nearly eleven. Winton loved that clock, polishing the case until it shone, winding it carefully every night before bed. Comforted by ritual and regularity, he had lived their entire married life contentedly within the triangle of their house, All Souls, and the George and Dragon.
She wondered idly if she would outlive him, and thought longingly of Hetty’s infinitely more glamorous life. The first thing Hetty had done after ditching her last husband was book a cruise to the Canary Islands, celebrating her divorce by dating men young enough that waiters assumed she was their mother (though if they made the mistake of saying so, they saw it reflected in their tip). Divorce was not an option for Prudence Pettibone—but death, well, that was another matter.
Shaking off her guilt at such uncharitable thoughts, Prudence rubbed her right temple. She had hoped to wring some comfort out of talking with Hetty, but now she was in a worse mood than before. She hated the backbiting politics of the society yet didn’t want to capitulate by quitting. She would just have to cultivate a thicker skin. Tomorrow was the monthly general meeting, and she would have to be prepared for the inevitable infighting and squabbling. Sighing, she stood up and stretched, thinking of a quote from a letter Jane Austen had written to her sister Cassandra: “I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.”
In that case, she thought, there would be very little trouble taken at the next meeting of the Jane Austen Society.
Chapter Four
“Order! Please come to order!”
Sylvia Pemberthy, née Westcraven, swung her gavel in an arc like a blacksmith’s hammer, bringing it down sharply on the burnished surface of the lectern. Heads swiveled toward her, eyes opened in shocked indignation at her temerity in treating society members like squabbling schoolchildren.
Erin suspected Sylvia regretted her decision to accept the position of president three months ago. She had put her name forward because of what she saw as the disintegration of orderly behavior among the members, but it had only grown worse under her tenure.
“Could we please get down to business?” she said, affecting a stern air that wasn’t entirely convincing. “Now then,” she said, turning to the society’s treasurer, Prudence Pettibone. “I believe you have a report for us?”
Prudence stood and cleared her throat officiously, and Erin saw her husband Winton squeeze her hand. He spoke little, but he certainly seemed devoted to his wife, gazing at her with adoration.
“Our fund for the eighteenth-century fancy dress ball is as follows: four hundred pound fifty,” Prudence read from the neatly penned black ledger. She had a voice like a potato peeler, nasal and cutting. “Our total cash reserve …”
Erin surveyed the crowded room. The meeting hall of All Souls was bursting at the seams with people, some of whom she had never seen before. She wondered if they were breaking any fire laws, stuffing so many into the room. In addition to occupying the usual rows of metal folding chairs, people leaned along the walls or slouched in corners, some of them glowering at Sylvia. Unrest was palpable in the air, with people shifting in their chairs and muttering as Prudence droned on in the background.
“… the question of raising membership dues was discussed …”
Erin took a deep breath of musty air, smelling of stale coffee, yellowing hymnals, and week-old croissants, served up to the parishioners following Sunday’s service. Word was that several people were “gunning for Sylvia,” so she studied each face to see which ones bore the clearest signs of malice. Last night’s spat involving Jonathan Alder had been unpleasant, and she noticed he was not present. Could Sylvia have chased him away forever? She felt a sharp pang of disappointment at the thought.
Farnsworth was seated in the front row, wrapped in a shawl sprouting cat hairs and looking up at Sylvia with distaste. Kurt Becker sat with his wife, Suzanne, who was tightly zipped into a leather ensemble and looked like a German dominatrix. Her blonde hair was carefully curled and coiffed, as though she were on a fashion runway instead of in a church basement. Erin noticed that Sylvia avoided making eye contact with Kurt.
