The Pudding Lane Witch, page 9
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe start a life for himself, learn a trade, create a family, or perhaps nothing, as he probably shouldn’t have been dragged to London from his home in the first place.”
“Really, Gweneviere, you’re becoming quite tedious now, that’s enough,” Agatha said sternly.
“Yes, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m just being silly,” Gweneviere backtracked, before she got herself kicked out.
Internally, she was still very much in disagreement with Agatha’s views, but she desperately needed to make some powerful connections and so decided to bite her tongue going forward.
Jericho re-entered the room carrying a large silverware tray, on it balanced a tea pot with two cups, saucers, and a sugar bowl. He bent down and placed the tray on the coffee table, but before he could even reach an upright position again, Agatha huffed.
“Milk?” she shouted in his face, causing droplets of her spit to glisten on his bony cheeks. “It’s the only thing they seem to respond to,” Agatha bitched to Gweneviere, in front of Jericho.
“Oh… I see.” Gweneviere was hardly able to even look Jericho in the face, she felt so guilty and embarrassed.
The poor man retrieved the milk without a second thought; he was clearly on autopilot to do as she said. Although Jericho’s stature meant he could easily swat Agatha to the ground with one smack from his incredibly large hands, he knew he would only end up being sold to another even more gruesome family as a result or sentenced to death. Anyone who looked into his eyes could see he was a broken shell of a man. In some ways he was like the witches who faced the water test: if he ever tried to flee or hit back, he would soon be dead, and if he stayed and obeyed, he would slowly die of exhaustion and a lack of food and water. It would seem, though, that Jericho didn’t have the mental capacity to make that decision for himself anymore. He was like Agatha’s personal zombie; victim to some sick form of mind control. Though, if Agatha had been a witch, at least Gweneviere could do something to break the spell. Alas, the even sadder truth was that Agatha was simply another human who, due to her wealth and status, was afforded a godlike role over her earthly, gated grounds.
Jericho returned with the milk and Gweneviere made a point of thanking him.
“Hush, Gwen, you wouldn’t thank a leech for letting your blood so don’t thank him for doing his job either. It’s his purpose.”
Gweneviere grimaced internally at Agatha’s remarks as she thought about how the world saw her own purpose as to stand behind a man and be a ‘good wife’. Of course, she couldn’t begin to imagine how Jericho must have felt, as people believed that this life of unruly servitude was his purpose.
Jericho, as quickly as his malnourished body could, ushered himself out of the room before he could be any more of a nuisance to his mistress.
“Now then, Gweneviere, when are you planning on having children?” Agatha pried, bluntly, as she poured both their teas.
Gweneviere choked on her own saliva as she watched her tea be made with anticipation. “Children?” she blurted. I’m barely an adult yet, myself.
“Yes, children. I really thought Thomas would have had the conversation with you by now, especially considering what happened with his first wife.” Agatha remained purposely elusive.
“What do you mean? What happened to his first wife?” Gweneviere asked.
“I really shouldn’t say, it’s not my place… but, well, they tried for years to have children, and one day she finally fell pregnant. Thomas was so excited to have an heir to his bakery, but his dreams were crushed when the baby was born,” Agatha exclaimed, spilling the metaphorical tea as well as a little of the real tea onto the tray. She didn’t seem bothered by the spillage, probably because she knew that she wouldn’t be the one to clear it up.
“Oh no, was it stillborn?” Gweneviere asked, softly.
“Sugar?” Agatha crudely ignored her.
“What? Oh, er, yes please,” Gweneviere answered, as she noticed Agatha hovering a spoon of it above her cup.
“And no, it wasn’t stillborn, it simply wasn’t his,” Agatha gossiped, looking as though she was taking enjoyment in it.
“How did he find out?” Gweneviere asked, as she accepted her teacup from Agatha.
“She bloody admitted it, didn’t she, and then ran off with her lover. Though, in all honesty, I think Thomas was more upset about the baby than the wife herself,” Agatha explained, before taking a sip of her steaming tea.
Gweneviere almost felt sorry for Thomas, but that feeling only lasted a millisecond when she remembered everything he had already done to her to make her life hell. “Let me assure you that I will not be having children anytime soon, especially with him.”
“Don’t be too put off by them, Gwen, mine are a delight, most of the time.”
Gweneviere almost spat out her tea as the wicked woman confessed to having offspring. “You have children?”
“Why of course I do.”
“Might I ask where they are?”
“With the nanny, of course. Women of our status can’t be expected to wipe bottoms and change soiled garments. No, no, simply not. Besides, they’re much too noisy for my liking, it’s far better this way. They’re in the other wing of the house where I can’t hear them.”
“Oh, I see,” Gweneviere replied, looking bewildered by the woman’s lifestyle choices.
“Gweneviere, don’t look at me like that. I fully vetted out the nanny beforehand, of course. Also, I actually enjoy sex with my husband, and he doesn’t want me to be tuckered out at the end of each day from cooking, cleaning, and picking up after small humans.”
Gweneviere plastered on a smile in response, as the thought of how Thomas had his way with her mulled over in her mind and sent shivers down her spine. Agatha continued to ramble, about what Gweneviere didn’t know, as she was deep in the dreaded thought of bearing a child for Thomas. Gweneviere was brought out of her trance by hearing Agatha speak of food. Gweneviere was famished.
“Shall we have another cup of tea? And I’ll break out those cakes you brought,” Agatha suggested, not having quite finished her first cup. She was clearly that high maintenance that she needed a freshly brewed one to carry on her gossiping.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me having one?” Gweneviere asked politely, while her stomach was almost screaming for food.
Please fucking say, ‘Yes, I don’t mind’. I’m starving, Gweneviere thought to herself, almost going crazy with hunger.
“Don’t be silly, of course I don’t mind, Gwen. I’ll get Jericho to fetch everything. If he can be bothered, that is.”
“Thank you,” Gweneviere replied, still feeling awkward about the Jericho situation.
“Jericho?” Agatha called out, having not lifted a finger all morning.
“Yes, Mistress?” he asked, as he dragged himself into the room, looking weaker by the step.
“We’re absolutely famished, bring in the cakes, will you? While you’re at it, we could do with another pot of tea. Take the tray with you, it needs cleaning. You over filled the teapot, that’s why tea has gotten everywhere. Do me a favour and get it right this time!” Agatha demanded, without a please.
Jericho simply nodded as he saved his dry lips the effort of stringing together any more words. Jericho picked up the tray and slipped back into the kitchen to fetch the cakes and second round of tea while Agatha kept gassing and boasting about her life to Gweneviere.
The poor man hadn’t eaten anything substantial for days. Alas, the temptation was too much, and he finally caved as he placed the cakes onto a platter. There were many miniature cakes and pastries, a real variety, and so Jericho hoped that he might just be able to sneak one without Agatha noticing. The smell alone was causing his mouth to water; he couldn’t not eat one, they practically called out to him. In a hunger trance that would put Gweneviere’s to shame, Jericho slipped one of the pastries into his mouth without fully processing what he was doing. It was delicious. The specific flavour didn’t matter to Jericho, he was just grateful to feel the buttery sweet pastry melt on his tongue. It was worth it just to taste something, anything, and for his stomach to finally stop howling at him morning, noon, and night. After taking a minute to fully digest the small bite of food, and draw it out for as long as possible, he finished setting up the tray and headed back into the room hoping he had gotten away with it – just in time too, as Agatha once again screamed out his name.
Jericho returned to the coffee table and placed the clean tray down. Upon it was a fresh tea pot and the cake platter. He turned on his heels before quickly trying to make a beeline for the exit, but Agatha stopped him in his tracks, calling his name. He took a deep breath and slowly turned to face her.
“There’s something wrong with this tray, isn’t there?”
“Is there?” Jericho asked innocently, with his hands quivering behind his back.
“Yes. There is,” she stated.
Jericho’s heart was pounding, almost hard enough for them to see it poking through his skinny chest, as he anticipated her next words.
“Sugar?” she said, bluntly.
“Sorry?” he replied, confused.
“There’s no sugar for the tea, you idiot. I said we needed more when I asked for the pot of tea,” she added, knowing that she, of course, was the one who had forgotten to mention it.
“Right, yes, sorry. I shall get some more sugar right away,” he said, with a sigh of relief.
Agatha was silent while she awaited her sugar, and Gweneviere could sense that there was still some tension in the air. She waited for the other shoe to drop. Jericho reached the table once more and placed the pot of sugar in front of Agatha as she poured herself some piping hot tea. She looked up slightly at Jericho’s face as he bent over.
“Do you notice anything else wrong?” Agatha proposed, having had more time to examine the tray of goodies on the table.
“Erm, no,” he answered, hoping it was a trick question.
“Very well, on your way,” she granted.
But before Jericho could even turn around, Agatha slung her cup of boiling tea into his face. Jericho yelled in agony as he dropped to the floor and cradled his face.
“You fucking idiot, how stupid do you think I am? Of course I noticed that you ate one of my cakes, you greedy little fucker!” Agatha spat, before getting up to stand over him.
“No, I didn’t, I promise,” he pleaded, still on the floor.
It was unclear what was tears and what was tea that drenched his face.
“Where is it, then?”
“I dropped it onto the floor, and so I put it in the bin,” he replied, shakily.
“Go get it, then,” she demanded.
“What?” he rasped, barely able to converse as his whimpers continued.
“Go. Get. It!”
“I… I can’t,” he cried.
“And why not? Oh, because you ate it!” she screeched furiously, kicking him in his hollow stomach before she grabbed the remaining pot of tea and began pouring it across his body.
Gweneviere, up until now, had kept quiet, but she couldn’t any longer. The sound of Jericho’s cries took her back to seeing her mother’s death.
“STOP! Agatha, you’re going to kill him!” she cried.
“Good, maybe in death, he will learn his lesson,” Agatha said, ignoring her concern as she continued pouring the hot tea over Jericho’s twisting, wriggling body. Each drop she waved over him caused his body to contort into another direction.
Fuck this, Gweneviere thought, no longer caring about her, or Thomas’ reputation. Fuelled by her anger, the fireplace behind Agatha roared to life, blasting her across the room.
“Run. Go, Jericho,” Gweneviere shouted, but he was too weak to even get up, let alone run anywhere.
“I can’t,” he muttered.
Gweneviere knelt beside him. He was breathing heavily and was blinded by the scalding hot liquid.
“I’m so sorry, Jericho. I should have stopped her sooner, I’m just so sorry.”
“It’s okay, my lady,” he replied shakily.
“Please, call me Gwen,” Gweneviere insisted, in a bid to give the dying man some dignity in his last breaths.
“It’s okay, Gwen. I’m too weak to go on. To finally leave this plane of existence will be a relief, but… please, would you do me a favour?”
“Yes, of course, anything,” Gweneviere accepted, taking his scorched hands in her own.
“Take this,” he mumbled, unfolding his hand in hers to reveal a crumpled piece of paper. “Please get this back to my home village…” Jericho took his last breath, before going limp in Gweneviere’s hands.
Gweneviere opened up the paper to see a message in his native tongue with the name of the village written on the back. She stored it in her bosom and promised his corpse that she would get it there, it was the least that she could do.
As Agatha came to, Gweneviere explained that she had passed out, not mentioning of course the means in which it happened.
“Well, no wonder I passed out, the last thing I remember was it launching at me,” Agatha said, feigning innocence.
Gweneviere resisted the urge to strangle her.
“Er, is it dead, then?” Agatha asked, as if Jericho was nothing but a cheap pet goldfish.
“Yes, he is,” Gweneviere replied, her face reddened by the concoction of anger and sorrow that plagued her.
“Right, I suppose you should be leaving now then, seeing as I have this whole mess to deal with.”
“Yes, I agree, I should really be getting off now,” Gweneviere concurred, quite happy to get out of there before she punched the heartless bitch in the throat.
Agatha saw Gweneviere out as she exited the grounds of the house. She sat by the road and awaited her lift, though it still wasn’t scheduled to arrive for at least another hour yet. The ordeal had brought their luncheon to an earlier end.
As Gweneviere sat there trying to unravel the events that had just taken place, she began to weep. Was she cursed? It seemed like everywhere she went death ensued; Gweneviere couldn’t help but feel like it was somehow her fault. Maybe if she had never brought the cakes in the first place, none of this would have happened. Her mind ran wild, torturing herself with ‘what ifs’, but that wouldn’t bring anyone back. All she could do now was try to honour those who had passed, starting with Jericho. She pulled out Jericho’s letter and tried her best to flatten it out before refolding it into a size fitting of an envelope. She pulled one from her satchel along with a feather quill. A lesson she had learned in school was to always have a bag that was prepared for anything, thus, the quill she pulled from it was enchanted, meaning it needed no external ink supply – it self-filled when needed. She rewrote the address of the letter onto the envelope and sealed it, placing it back in her bag with the intention of posting it the next morning.
Although Gweneviere couldn’t read Jericho’s letter, as it was in his native tongue, she could certainly sense the love that it was written with, and it inspired her to write a letter of her own, for Poppy. She missed Poppy greatly and, after her attempt at making a new friend failed at the first hurdle, she needed someone to confide in. Maybe Gweneviere could even live vicariously through Poppy, as surely, what with her delicious husband, she’d be living a much grander life than Gweneviere was.
Dear Poppy (or should I say Lady Poppy Hammersmith),
I hope this letter finds you well. I must say that, first of all, I was indeed right, married life simply isn’t for me. Thomas is an absolute arse, and I hate him with a vengeance. I also attempted to make a new friend, but that went south rather quickly and, before you roll your eyes, no, it wasn’t my fault, I can assure you of that. Life really isn’t the same since graduation and I miss you so much. I even kind of miss the twins. I’d sooner have them lurching around every corner than Thomas. I do hope that we might be able to see each other in person sooner rather than later, but for now, I hope you’ll write back. I want to know everything so that I might enjoy listening to the fruits of your marriage rather than focusing on the failures of mine. Speak soon.
Much Love,
Gwen.
Her carriage arrived just as she sealed the envelope and placed it beside Jericho’s in her bag. She swung her clunky satchel over her shoulder and hopped into the back of the carriage, where she was taken home. ‘Home’, however, was a rather loose term for the place in which she lived.
She opened the front door, dreading that Thomas would be awaiting her inside as he would’ve surely finished work by then. She just hoped that after her ordeal of a day that she might be lucky enough to escape his touch that night.
“I’m home,” she called out softly, praying he would be sleeping.
“About time,” he shouted back from the kitchen. “Come in here, I have a surprise for you.”
A surprise? Gweneviere pondered. A real surprise would be if he dropped dead of natural causes so that my plan could jump forward by a couple of years, she hoped, but no, fate wouldn’t be that kind to Gweneviere, or at least not in such a direct way.
Gweneviere walked into the kitchen to see Thomas’ hefty body stood in front of the oven, staring back at her. There was seemingly some steam coming from behind him, and she could smell all kinds of deliciousness coming from his direction that was surely not his scent. Had he actually cooked her a meal? Surely not, he wasn’t that kind or thoughtful a husband, was he?
“Welcome home, my love. Here is your surprise,” Thomas exclaimed, as he moved out of the way of the oven to reveal…
CHAPTER 6
