The Pudding Lane Witch, page 8
“That sounds lovely, but I have far too many chores to find the time to do that,” Gweneviere answered honestly.
“Nonsense! Thomas, do you have her under lock and key or something? Surely the poor girl can be allowed a day off to visit a lady friend?”
“Of course, provided she catches up the next day,” Thomas replied, his cheeks once again becoming rosy red.
Gweneviere couldn’t help but feel like she would be paying for that later.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said quickly, trying to placate her husband.
“It’s settled then, I’ll see you on Wednesday, at noon. Now, I hope you will excuse me and my husband as there are many guests here and we can’t be seen to be having favourites, even if we have them.” Agatha winked at Gweneviere before floating away to another rich London couple.
So far, the party was going Gweneviere’s way. She was seemingly making acquaintances with one of the richest couples in London. After the gracious hosts were out of sight, however, Thomas tugged at Gweneviere’s arm, pinching a chunk of her skin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Ow, what?” Gweneviere snapped.
“Don’t embarrass me like that ever again. Making out like I’m some horrible tyrant of a husband who doesn’t even let you shit in peace,” he growled, quietly enough not to make a scene.
“Well, you are,” she retaliated, thinking he wouldn’t dare do anything with so many people around.
“Watch your tone, Gwen. Make no mistake, you will be punished for your insolence,” he whispered into her ear, his grip on her tightening. “There’s a lot of whores out there who would be much more appreciative to be by my side, so don’t think for a second that you’re not replaceable.”
“Sorry,” Gweneviere apologised, though she thought her husband must be delusional if he considered her to be lucky.
“Don’t bother apologising, actions speak much louder than words. I know a much better way you can apologise with those lips rather than saying ‘I’m sorry’,” he mocked.
Gweneviere shivered at the threat that he had painted all too clearly; she didn’t want his genitals anywhere near her lips, or any part of her for that matter.
Gweneviere spent the last few hours of the party downing any drink she could get her hands on. If she was going to have to do unspeakable acts that made her feel worthless, she certainly didn’t want to be conscious enough to remember it.
Fate wasn’t that kind to Gweneviere, however, as the disgust and pain of Thomas’ lust kept Gweneviere wide awake long after it was over. She once again laid there, in the aftermath of Thomas’ deviant ways, feeling sorry for herself. It almost made her chuckle as she was now in a worse situation than a whore, a job she’d turned down all those months ago.
At least they were making their own money, she thought, torturing herself.
Gweneviere had to put her plan into action as swiftly as possible, starting with making a better connection with Agatha on Wednesday, because Gweneviere wasn’t sure just how much more of life as the baker’s wife she could take.
CHAPTER 5
The ‘Friend’
The day of Gweneviere and Agatha’s ‘play date’ had arrived and Gweneviere had to behave and do her upmost to solidify their friendship.
Gweneviere, of course, was still required to carry out a few of her basic chores in the morning before she left, such as starting up the bakery and making some lunch ready for Thomas to have while she was out. God forbid he fed himself. The remaining, less prioritised, tasks, however, could wait until the following day.
As Gweneviere finished getting ready, Thomas appeared in the living room.
“Gwen, I have arranged for a carriage to take you to see Agatha,” Thomas stated.
“Oh, thank yo—” Gweneviere began, as she thought it was rather sweet of him.
“We can’t have you walking there, God knows what Gerald would think of me if he heard about that. No, we need to keep up with our reputation, so be on your best behaviour, understood?” Thomas added, making it clear that the gesture was more so for his benefit than it was hers. “Oh, and he will be back around three to pick you up. Just enough time for you to get back and get dinner on the table.”
“Ah, yes, of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Gweneviere said, with a hint of sarcasm, just subtle enough to go unnoticed.
“Here, take these with you.” Thomas handed Gweneviere a cake box, which upon her sneaking a peek inside, was full of a range of pastries and sweet treats. “Now, don’t go eating them on the way, they’re a gift to take with you. I don’t like fatties,” he commented, grossly eyeing up Gweneviere’s slim waist while licking his disgusting lips.
Gweneviere tried her best to let his distasteful words run off her like water off of a duck’s back, but it was truly testing being married to a chauvinistic pig. She knew that one day she would have the last laugh over the creep when she had made a name for herself.
“Of course I won’t eat any, I’m much too full after that mouthful of porridge I had for breakfast this morning,” she snarked.
“I’ll have less of that backchat, Gwen, or you’ll be seeing a lot more of the back of my hand. Do you hear me?” he retaliated.
“Yes.” Gweneviere sighed, biting her tongue.
It was so frustrating to Gweneviere knowing that, if she wanted to, she could light his greasy body alight with a single flick of her pinkie finger. The only problem with that was, how would she explain his death to the town without looking extremely suspicious. An eighteen-year-old woman marrying a gross old man with his own bakery who then mysteriously dies. Even if the Londoners weren’t witty enough to work out that she was a witch, they would definitely catch onto foul play.
“Right, then, I should really be getting off now, shouldn’t I? I wouldn’t want to be tardy and make you look bad in the process.”
“Yes, well, the carriage is outside waiting.”
Gweneviere walked out of the door before Thomas had time to realise that his lunch had not been prepared.
“Wait, where’s my lunch?!” he shouted as the door closed behind Gweneviere.
She heard him, but kept walking with a smirk on her face, acting as though she hadn’t. It was the little things that kept her smiling and hopeful amidst a life of misery.
Gweneviere rather enjoyed her peaceful ride around London on her way to see Agatha. The journey was made much more comfortable by Thomas not being there, for numerous reasons. Number one was that the carriage didn’t sink as low without his added weight, meaning that going over any bumps in the road was much smoother, and two, she didn’t have his sausage fingers attempting to climb up her dress. Number three, and possibly most important, was that the limited amount of oxygen available in the carriage wasn’t tainted by his toxic breath. Sure, oral hygiene wasn’t great in general, back in those days, but even compared to their standards, Thomas’ was something else.
She had arrived at Gerald and Agatha’s house, which in the light of day was even more impressive than when she had seen it for the first time. Much grander than living in an apartment above a bakery.
Agatha must have spotted Gweneviere’s arrival through one of her many large windows, as before she could grasp the decorative iron knocker in her hand, Agatha thrusted the heavy-duty door open with force.
“Gweneviere! You made it.” Agatha looked just as glamorous as she had at the party. “It’s so lovely to see you. Gosh, you look so… young, and full of life,” she added, with a false and jealous tone to her voice.
“Thank you, you look beautiful yourself,” Gweneviere complimented, not quite catching on to Agatha’s bitterness.
“Well, of course I do. It’s all the baby blood I use on my face each morning.” She cackled at her own strange joke, to which Gweneviere just smiled awkwardly. “Oh, Gwen, I’m just jesting with you. Don’t look so gaunt, you’re going so pale that you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh, ha ha, that really tickled me,” Gweneviere laughed stiffly with her hand covering her mouth, like she was taught back in her etiquette classes.
“Anyway, come on in. I’ll have some tea ready in no time,” Agatha proposed, as she fully opened the door and nodded her head inside.
“Okay.”
Agatha walked Gweneviere into the main sitting room which was eclectically decorated with paintings, and other decorative ornaments that gave off a very rich vibe.
“Ah, what’s that?” Agatha asked, as she noticed a box sticking out of Gweneviere’s not so feminine satchel.
“Sorry, I almost forgot. Thomas gave me these for you and Gerald – some of his finest cakes.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious. Here, I’ll take them into the kitchen and we can have some in a little while,” Agatha said, heading off to the kitchen.
“Oh, no, they were for you and Gerald to enjoy. I don’t need any,” Gweneviere said, correcting the misunderstanding.
“Nonsense, Gwen, you are a guest, and I hadn’t planned anything for us to eat, so it’s only right that we share these together. Worry not, we will be sure to save one for Gerald,” Agatha reassured her.
“Okay.”
Gweneviere was actually rather glad that they would be sharing them, considering that there would apparently be no other food on offer and Gweneviere’s stomach was already growling through her corset.
Agatha swiftly returned from the kitchen and sat across from Gweneviere. They both had a delightfully velvety cream sofa to themselves with a mahogany coffee table between them.
“So, Gweneviere. How does a pretty, young thing like you end up with a husband like, well… Thomas? I know he was good to my husband when they were younger, but make no mistake, I’m very aware of what a horrid man he can be.”
“No, no, honestly, he isn’t that bad,” Gweneviere lied.
“Hmm, very well, but if you ever need anything, or he does anything to you, tell me, because Gerald and I would be the first to your aid, understand?” Agatha offered sincerely.
“Yes, I understand,” Gweneviere spoke softly, as she contemplated telling Agatha what he had already done to her so far in their short marriage.
“Okay, good. Now then, enough talk about him, tell me more about yourself. I want to know just who Gweneviere Farriner is?”
Gweneviere opened her mouth, but as she was about to tell Agatha her life story, she remembered that much of it would have to be filtered to suit her mortal world. “Er… yes, well, I grew up on a small farmhouse with my parents. My mother was a…” Gweneviere paused as she thought of a quick lie. “… housekeeper, yes, a housekeeper,” she exclaimed, just happy to not have blurted out ‘magical healer’, or worse ‘witch’.
Agatha’s head tilted slightly in confusion at Gweneviere’s rambling.
“And my father was a blacksmith,” Gweneviere quickly added, when she realised how strangely she was acting.
“A blacksmith? Oh, I do say, I’ve always had a soft spot for a man of manual labour. Sometimes I wish I had married a man who worked with his hands, like a blacksmith, someone who could be a little rough and ready in the bedroom.” Agatha winked. “Oh God, I can just imagine it right now, a big muscular man with filthy hands throwing me around like a rag doll. But no, I went and married a prim and proper rich man. Though I suppose it’s for the best, as I could hardly have lived the life of a blacksmith’s wife. Poor as piss and having to possibly work myself? Nope, that was not the life I was meant to live.” Agatha finished her fantasising, almost gagging at the thought of having to get a job like a common peasant. “Besides, Gerald isn’t exactly ugly, is he?” Agatha chuckled to herself. “Anyway, never mind my deviant thoughts, you were saying about your parents?”
“Oh, yes. Erm, well, my mother sadly passed away some months back. My father wanted a fresh start for us, so we moved to London, but he too was sadly taken not long after. It was the plague that got him. Then I managed to find a nearby school for girls to house me. After graduation I met Thomas and, well, now I’m here.” She tried to speak nonchalantly, but even Agatha could see the inconsolability in her eyes.
“Oh, my poor dear. What a devilish start to life you have had. You know, Gweneviere, you should really keep your options open, my dear. I mean, a girl like you could quite easily find yourself a husband much richer and far more handsome than Thomas, and, if you’re lucky like I am, you won’t have to do any chores either.”
“Thank you, but I can barely stand courting with one man, let alone keeping an eye out for another suiter,” Gweneviere joked.
“Very well. Though, the next party Gerald and I have, I will be surely parading you around for all the young bachelors, who are much more eligible than Thomas, to see.”
Gweneviere smiled as she sat wondering to herself when the cakes would be eaten, or the tea drunk, that Agatha had promised to her what felt like forever ago, would arrive. To her surprise, Agatha voiced the same opinion.
“Where’s the bloody tea?” Agatha pondered aloud, shaking her head.
Is she crazy, or having a stroke, Gweneviere wondered, seemingly confused by Agatha’s question. Am I supposed to be making it? Gweneviere questioned herself, while looking at Agatha with a blank expression.
Agatha picked up a small bell on the coffee table between them. She rang it rather aggressively and, not long after, a tall, slim toned man with deep brown skin and a gaunt face entered the room. The man’s skin was so dehydrated that it clung to his face, allowing his high cheek bones and square jawline to stick out far too much to be considered attractive anymore. Even his eye sockets were sunk deep into his skull. Gweneviere could see by the man’s eyes that he was lifeless, but she had never come across such a person like this before.
Who is this man? Why is he in Agatha’s house responding to a bell? Why does he look so frail for such an otherwise behemoth man? Gweneviere contemplated.
Having grown up in the countryside her entire life, where most townies were poor, Gweneviere had never really put two and two together about slavery. Most of the residents from her hometown wouldn’t have been able to afford such a luxury. She remembered seeing the odd black man or woman working about the town, but it was only now that she was realising exactly what slavery was.
“Yes, Mistress?” the man, dressed in quite literally rags and an apron, said wearily.
“Where’s my blooming tea, Jericho? We’ve been waiting bloody ages. We’re absolutely parched, for Christ’s sake!” Agatha shouted.
“Sorry, I will fetch it for you now.” He slowly scuffled off to the screeching kettle that was sat, engulfed in flames, in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry for his insubordination, Gweneviere. I’m truly embarrassed. I would’ve had the butler do it but, apparently, he’s sick. He’ll be sick when I’m through with him, that’s for sure,” Agatha said, looking rather disgruntled.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind waiting. I hope he doesn’t have the plague, or anything serious.”
“Oh please, the little puff is probably faking it. Honestly, Gweneviere, don’t give them the satisfaction of thinking that they’re not replaceable because I assure you, they are. Take Jericho for instance, he was the best birthday present I’d ever had, but these days he’s really not pulling his weight, so I’ve been hinting at Gerald all year for a new one.”
“Sorry? A new… one?” Gweneviere asked, still attempting to understand the situation.
“Yes, Gweneviere, a new slave, keep up,” Agatha said, hastily, fidgeting her hands, clearly still in a tizzy about the tea not being ready.
Gweneviere was silent. How could someone who had just shown so much care and worry for Gweneviere be so disgusting a person as to actually think of human beings as replaceable birthday presents that could simply be exchanged when they’re not ‘pulling their weight’?
And people think us witches are the monsters, Gweneviere thought to herself. She was truly in shock, but if she made a point of disagreeing with her now, it could throw off Gweneviere’s entire plan, and not to mention it would anger Thomas even more than usual. Gweneviere reluctantly kept quiet about the situation, which made her feel equally as queasy as Agatha now did.
“He’s just become so lazy and docile,” Agatha added while Gweneviere was having an internal moral debate. “Speaking of which, where is he with that god forsaken tea? Jericho? Hurry up!” she shouted about the house, slamming her hands down beside her on the couch.
“I’ve never met a slave before,” Gweneviere blurted, forgetting all knowledge of how to engage in normal conversation, not that there was anything ‘normal’ about the situation at hand.
“Well, we don’t really like to use the word slave, more servant,” Agatha informed.
“But you just said slave before,” Gweneviere pointed out.
“It must have just slipped out.” Agatha tried playing the mistake off as she noticed Gweneviere’s not so subtle uneasiness.
“Do you pay him, then?” Gweneviere asked.
“What?” Agatha said, only to buy herself another second of thought before answering. “Well, no…”
“So, he is a slave.”
“Honestly, Gweneviere! Save that witty little head of yours for the bachelors at my parties, not to interrogate me.” Agatha chuckled, trying to play off her anger towards Gweneviere’s forwardness. “Besides, he’s lucky he ended up with a family like us. We have him doing much easier labouring than most have their sla– servants doing. Plus, it’s not like he has to go down to the well himself and fetch the water for this GODDAMN TEA! We have the latest running water pipes about the house. Anyway, what else is a black man to do in London?” Agatha gestured to the room, expecting the question to be rhetorical.
