Fool Me Once

1.     Miranda Curlew, 1840. Wednesday

Miranda Curlew had prepared with utmost care for her church entrance in the hope eligible men would be on display in St James Chapel By-The-Way where locals were known to sometimes shelter around lunchtime from the shrill wind which screamed through the village of Babbinton, where the ancient stone houses were built in rows of such tight proximity as to provoke long and mean wind tunnels even on a good day.

The heavy door resisted before creaking inward. Miranda allowed her black satin dress to settle over the tiresome wooden hoops. The length of the skirt was hemmed to allow the merest glimpse of shiny boots which made an echoey clack on floors so impossibly gleaming if the men looked they would surely see all the way to her ruffled knickers.

That was the general idea, she supposed, given Eddie had died with woefully less money than she had been led to believe. In the gloom of the church, Miranda saw only three likely candidates spaced out among the pews. Mr Percy Fulsome, widower, old and feeble, but no doubt as to his wealth. Felix Plethergrow, half Mr Fulsome’s age but half the wealth as well. Perhaps the most interesting prospect was Mr Walter Shawcross in his dark velvet coat, self-made businessman of Shawcross Timber and Logging. There was talk Mr Shawcross was about to open his fourth depot, this one all the way away in China. His was a handsome, angular countenance but Miranda had heard him to be a cold man of stiff demeanour and curt conversation. But a man in great need of a wife, or so the gossips of Babbinton said.

Miranda paused halfway up the aisle near to Mr Shawcross, resting a hand for just a moment against the pew, trembling and quivering there as if the rest of the walk was too much to bear. She drew a shaky breath, nearly choking on the rancid odour of the heavy wax polish which encased every bench seat, before bravely carrying on then sinking to her knees before Our Saviour Jesus Christ on the cross beyond the pulpit. She let out a strangled sob and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief embroidered by her own hand, squinting through tears at the writhing figure of Christ who, to her surprise, seemed to wink at her through his grimaced pain and sorrow.

2.     Mr Walter Shawcross

That’s her. That’s the very one Paul was talking about who was married to that corpulent fool Edward Curlew. A wealthy woman, now. She is shapely, I’ll grant her that. Unknown age but young enough. Still a pretty face. Downcast eyes, pale cheeks, rosebud mouth. A fading beauty if I’m honest, but a rich one and God knows, I could do with getting my hands on that fat fool’s money. Stupid of me to open in China. Should have stuck with Canada. Never do business at the club after midnight. It seemed a good idea at the time. China… cheap labour, cheap timber. Didn’t factor in opium and war. Leveraged one business to fund the next and now all are in danger of toppling, like a house of cards. But marriage. The word alone turns me cold. Mother's spending did for Father in the end. She bled him dry with her damn soft furnishings and latest must-have fabrics and finery. Pathetic Papa, a push-over long dead in his icy grave. I swore off any further thoughts of wedlock, but needs must. She's on the move. Reverend Smith is propping her up. She's been wailing as if her heart might break. Perhaps she really loved that idiot. Wait, here she comes. She smells of violets in the springtime. Her waist is cinched to a taut circumference. She is rather a fine-looking woman, possibly 29 or 30 years of age, old for a bride, but not too old. That satin skirt is top notch quality. She’s mourning, but in style. Ah, I see her glance at me as she drifts by, light blue eyes appraising me. Not Mother's feckless green eyes, nor Essie-at-the-dockyard’s wild, abandoned, moaning brown ones. I dip my head toward her, enough to convey sympathy and a shoulder then I get up and follow. I'd best get to work.

3.     Outside the church.

“So pleased to meet you, Mrs Curlew.”

The gloved hand was limp as he brushed his lips across the plush kidskin.

“May I offer my condolences for the loss of your dear husband, a fine fellow if ever there was one.”

She looks young enough still to impregnate. I had best be careful, for I can’t stand the noise children make.

“You are most kind, Mr Shawcross. Did you know Edward?”

“Indeed not. However, I have acquaintances who lunched with him on occasion. Perhaps, when some time has passed, we might take some air along the path to the river, Miss – Mrs – Curlew?”

“Wonderful, I should like that very much, Mr Shawcross.”

All is going to plan. He followed me, as intended, and exactly the way I ensnared Eddie but three years since.

“The river path is very pretty this time of year, is it not, Mr Shawcross?”

Echoes of Mother again in my head, from shortly before Father died: “Men care for only two things, Miranda. One is their belly and the other is their bed. Perform both functions to perfection and, one way or another, all will be well.”

“Why wait, Mr Shawcross? We could take a stroll this very day if you wish. Dear Eddie has been gone several weeks now and on his deathbed he whispered to me he wanted only my happiness.”

Stupid Eddie, so easy to manipulate. Not my first husband, of course. Frederick was my first, and I liked him well enough, until he met his own untimely early death, felled by my finesse in the kitchen. Too poor for a hired cook, I practised my skills on Frederick – cakes lavish with butter cream filling, steamed puddings drenched in syrup, potatoes roasted in duck fat. Frederick grew and grew until one day he dropped like Queen Victoria’s rumoured 300-pound wedding cake and was forever still.

“Would you care to come to supper after our stroll, Mr Shawcross?”

Walter Shawcross gazed into Miranda’s eyes and reached once more for her gloved hand.

She’s forward, alright. Nothing demure in those flinty eyes. I’m not sure if I ought to be aghast or impressed.

“I should like that very much indeed, Mrs Curlew.”

She clapped her hands together in gaiety then cast her eyes around to make sure Reverend Smith had not seen, but the churchman had disappeared. What to make for dinner? Eddie’s favourite of shepherd’s pie followed by treacle tart, or, boiled calfshead followed by pork and bacon then rhubarb pie with custard and clotted cream – Frederick’s favourite. Oh, you think I fattened Frederick up on purpose? No, no, not I. But it did give me an idea.

4.     Mrs Shawcross

In the end, I chose my lilac dress. Given the necessity of keeping up appearances I had blown through most of the paltry sum Eddie had left lying about the house in the six weeks since my first meeting with Mr Shawcross, so a new dress was out of the question. I stood again outside the church, buttoned up to the neck, chantilly lace added to the sleeves, cinched at the waist until near to suffocation, buffed, polished and ringleted. I had no family anywhere near Babbinton so Reverend Smith roped in doddery Mr Fulsome as a surrogate father to give me away. Ironic. The old man kept patting me and telling me how jolly pretty I looked. It took an age to get up the aisle but we did it in the end. Mr Shawcross awaited, attired in the same dark velvet coat I had discovered he wore everywhere. One might have thought he would push the boat out for his wedding, however, he looked frayed and grumpy. Reverend Smith conducted the ceremony and despite being overcome with an intense desire to turn and run, I found myself saying “I do.” Unfortunately, Mr Shawcross parroted the words as well and the deal was done, watched on by the writhing Christ, only this time the wink looked more like an admonishment.

Sparsity does not begin to describe our nuptials. A lady’s second wedding, of course, is never a lavish affair, let alone a lady’s third marriage, although I had failed to mention to Mr Shawcross my marriage to Frederick. Some things he does not need to know. We departed the church to no fanfare and no celebration.  My humble belongings had already been taken to Mr Shawcross’s abode which was a disappointing blow upon our arrival not at the three-storey lodgings I had understood him to live in but at one of the old tanner’s cottages, a tiny two-roomed affair hardly befitting a businessman and gentleman of his stature. He read my face.

“It is merely temporary, my dear. I am between houses – I have something special lined up for us.”

He followed that up with, “unless you would prefer we moved into your late husband’s fine house, temporarily, of course?”

I could not tell him my late husband’s fine house did not belong to me. My late husband’s solicitor had already summoned me to inform me the house had passed to Eddie’s oldest male cousin, and, besides that, Eddie was “as broke as a pauper’s rat” and the house would have to be sold to pay his substantial debts. I had already been evicted.

“Why Mr Shawcross, this cottage is perfect for our needs,” I replied. “Temporarily, of course.”

So here we are, squeezed into this hateful residence with a kitchen barely bigger than a cupboard. On top of that, the housekeeping he has given me is hardly enough for bread and eggs. It appears I am to magic up his supper this day of our wedding from almost nothing. Meantime, he has “popped out” to the dockyards. I fear I have made a dreadful mistake, fooled by the expensive nature of his velvet coat.

5.     Mr Shawcross

That Essie is a firecracker but I must return home, dragging my feet though I am. The upside is what’s hers is mine now and in the nick of time as not just China is about to fall but Quebec City, and Southampton, too. I must get the name of Curlew’s solicitor out of her. The woman is a master of avoidance and topic changes. It has been three weeks of asking and I am highly suspicious. She has contributed nothing to this marriage and does nothing but complain. The house is too small, my shoes are too worn, are you really going out in that coat again, Mr. Shawcross? We move residence next week and unless she taps her funds I won't be able to make the payment for the shambolic well-past-grand property I have rented. What little I have goes on food as I cannot stand her incessant whingeing that the cupboards are bare. There goes my stomach rumbling again. I swear I've put on two pounds at least since we wed.

Thankfully, she has little interest in bedroom activities. She is an odd fish and I am loath to touch her anyway, but as I am satiated elsewhere it is of no consequence. I wonder if she has made those pikelets again? I've never tasted anything so light and sweet. They are enough to make a man melt. If only her personality did similar. Compared to Eloise, this one is stubborn and whiny. I still have a vision of poor Eloise’s broken body at the foot of the stairs, one arm flung over her head, her skirts entangled and her right leg sticking out and upwards in completely the wrong direction. “Such a tragedy Mr Shawcross,” said Rogers, the family solicitor, staring daggers at me across his spectacles. “You are now the sole inheritor of the Carberry fortune. A most unfortunate family. Extraordinary, really, that all three of the sons were either mysteriously and fatally shot whilst out hunting, or died by falling victim to wild mushroom sickness - one after the other – and that their sister, your wife, should come to such an early and tragic end by tripping and falling all the way to the bottom of the stairs.”

Rogers quadrupled his fee and I felt I had no alternative but to pay up. Even I am amazed at the ease with which such a lot of wealth has slithered away from me. Rogers, who has become a most companionable drinking pal, was right when he told me to be careful about pouring it all into the new trade in the Far East but I did not listen. Mind you, when the estate was originally sold, despite that fierce battle with the uncle that Rogers so ably helped me with, I was able to set up in the timber trade proper, which has served me well until I overreached. I have arrived and my nostrils are assailed - what is that divine smell coming out the window of this hideous cottage I share with my new wife?

6.     Moving Up

The table in the crumbling manor house kitchen was weighed down with crumpets which in turn were weighed down by butter and honey. There were sugared, lemony pancakes, sponge cakes exploding with jam, and an assortment of double cream pastries. The house, with cracked windows and leaking roof, was a nightmare but the kitchen was massive and Miranda surveyed her table with pleasure. She walked out to the foot of the rickety wooden staircase which swept down from the landing in a pleasing curve. Handsome in its day, the staircase was treacherous and potholed. She hollered: “Afternoon tea is served, Mr Shawcross!” She heard movement from above and returned to the kitchen and the only warm spot in the house near the cast iron stove. Mr Shawcross shuffled into the kitchen wearing the velvet coat she had grown to despise. He pulled the sides together in a vain attempt to button the increasingly shabby garment, stroking his protruding stomach and absently rubbing the stubble on his face.

He eyed his wife. “Be careful on those devilish stairs, Mrs Shawcross, I nearly tripped,” he said, to which she replied: “Of course, Mr Shawcross. Now, would you like a little extra cream with your cake?”