Chapter 31
On the morning of her carefully planned death, Lady Lydia Farrell rose to the chimes of St. Swithin’s church bells as they called the faithful to Sunday worship. The sound traveled across the fields from Brandwick and filled her with a sweet sadness. Would God forgive her for what she was about to do? Parsons and priests would say no, that she was about to take a life that was not hers to take. She had neither the strength nor the theological intellect to argue with them. All she knew was that the only way out of her indescribable torment was to end her own life in this world and pray that the Lord would look favorably on her sins in the next.
The stone jar sat on the top of her chest of drawers. A large tumbler was next to it, waiting to receive its liquid at the appointed hour. Lydia traced the cork and the neck of the jar with her slender fingers, then held up the empty glass to the light before setting it down again carefully. Next she took out her prayer book from a drawer. She was just about to open it when there was a knock on her door. She knew it would be Eliza, as it had been at the same time every day for the past week.
“Ma’am,” the maid called through the door. “I have left you a tray. Is there anything else I can get you?” Her mistress had not touched the cook’s offerings over the past few days, yet Eliza persisted in bringing the food in a vain hope that her ladyship’s spirits might be restored, if only slightly.
“No thank you, Eliza,” Lydia called. The maid sighed and turned to go back to the kitchen, but just as she did so, the door opened slightly. Lydia stood on the threshold, her face thin and wan.
“Thank you, Eliza,” she said, gazing intently at the girl. “You have been a good servant.”
Eliza appeared puzzled, but curtsied. “I hope I shall remain so, your ladyship,” she replied, walking forward toward Lydia, but the door was shut in her face again and the maid went back to the kitchen, even more concerned than before.
Returning to her prayer book, Lydia opened it at a psalm she had already marked. She sat down at the window and read: There is no health in my flesh because of thy displeasure; neither is there any rest in my bones, by reason of my sin. For my wickednesses are gone over my head; and are like a sore burden, too heavy for me to bear. My wounds stink and are corrupt through my own foolishness. I am brought into so great trouble and misery; that I go mourning all the day long. Such words brought her comfort in her hour of need. Her Maker was the only person she could turn to. Even Thomas, her true love, would never understand what she had done. He would reproach her, blame her, and despise her if he ever discovered what happened. She would take her secret with her to the grave. That way only one man would know the truth, and even if he did, out of his own malicious, twisted spite, tell Thomas all, then she would not be alive to feel the righteous recriminations that would follow.
Surely the next life would be better than this? She would be free from the burden of guilt that she had been carrying ’round with her for the past five years. Surely God in his goodness would not judge her too harshly. Turning to the prayer book once more, she read the final verse of the psalm: Forsake me not, O Lord my God; be not thou far from me. Haste thee to help me; O Lord God of my salvation.
Thomas had wakened Lovelock before first light, unable to sleep because of his pain and his fears for Lydia. His anxiety had grown and multiplied like so many bacteria on a corpse.
“We cannot wait any longer. We must leave,” he had told the groom, rousing him from his bed.
By six o’clock they were on the road again, and by ten Thomas finally spotted the spire of the chapel at Boughton. The bells of St. Swithin’s were tolling the half hour as he dismounted and dragged himself, exhausted, up the steps of the hall.
Will had warned the household of his arrival, and Howard and Mistress Firebrace were there to greet him.
“Her ladyship remains in her room, sir,” said the butler, obviously relieved to see the doctor.
“I shall go to her immediately,” replied Thomas, clutching his medical bag.
All thoughts of his pain were banished as he strode up the stairs followed by the butler, the housekeeper, and Eliza, but as soon as he reached the landing he stopped dead in his tracks and doubled over.
“Get back, for God’s sake, get back,” he screamed, reaching for his kerchief and tying it over his nose and mouth. Running toward Lydia’s room, he found it locked, so he stood back, took a deep breath, and then shouldered the door with all his strength until it flew open.
Lydia was lying prostrate on the floor, her skin as pink as rose petals. Thomas felt for a pulse but could find none. He looked around. On the dresser he saw the stone jug on its side, its contents spilled onto the rug below. The poisonous vapor was already in the air. Lydia’s sleeve was soaked, too. He tore it off and flung it to the floor.
Howard appeared at the door, a scarf held over his face. “Help me get her out of here,” Thomas cried, lifting Lydia under her head and arms. The butler tied the scarf behind his head and took his mistress’s feet. They carried her to the landing and laid her down. Thomas shut the door as quickly as he could.
“Bring me blankets, sheets, anything to seal off this door,” he called down the stairs to the anxious servants who waited below. By now some of them were beginning to choke or experience shortness of breath.
“Open all the windows, and then leave the house. Leave now,” he called between coughs. He himself was choking, gasping for air. He threw a blanket up against the bedchamber door and lifted up Lydia in his arms, not knowing if she was alive or dead. All he knew was that he had to get her away from the deadly smell of cyanide before he could hope to save her.
Rushing downstairs with Lydia over his shoulder, he took her into the drawing room and laid her motionless on the sofa. The pink bloom of her skin told him that the poison had taken hold, invading her respiratory system, paralyzing her thoracic muscles. She was icy to the touch. Again he tried her pulse. Again he could not find one. Putting his ear to her breast he listened for her heartbeat. It was there, like a faint tapping on a drum, but that was all he needed to hear. He knelt down and parted her lips, opening her mouth with his deft fingers before taking a deep breath and placing his own lips on hers.
Howard and Mistress Firebrace watched anxiously from the doorway. When the housekeeper saw what Thomas was doing, she stifled a cry and looked away. The doctor took another gulp of air and once again blew into Lydia’s mouth. This time her body shuddered. Thomas repeated the procedure and Lydia stirred again. Now her breaths came in short, sharp pants. Her back arched and finally her eyes opened wide with terror. She turned her head toward Thomas, still struggling for air.
“Lydia, Lydia. You’re safe,” he told her, trying to steady her shuddering body, clasping her face in his hands. But she could not answer. Her cold hands reached for her throat. Her tongue protruded and a strangled cry came forth, but still she could not breathe. Her body lurched upward in one last gasp of desperation before she fell back down again, her eyes closed.
The doctor felt for her pulse. It was barely discernible. Holding her face in his hands, he slapped her cheek lightly, looking for a response; there was none. She was now unconscious again, or worse still, thought Thomas, she might even have fallen into a coma.