It made me feel close to Peter Gunness.
There was no doubt I had done right in torching our house on Elizabeth Street. The money we collected had given us the new beginning that I had so longed for. I did not miss my days in commerce but thrived on being a mother and a housewife whose biggest concerns were her daughter’s painful teething and finding time to iron ribbons for the girls’ perfect braids.
The only thing that did not work in those days of honey was Mads. What little trust he had had in me was gone, and he did his very best to make my days miserable. I suppose I should have expected it. He was a fool—but not that much of a fool. Even he would eventually notice how his sickness rose and fell with my moods, and the fires had done nothing to ease his suspicions. Not even the insurance money they brought in was enough to lighten his mood. He ought to have relished all the good food on our table, but instead he had become fearful of it, insisting on feeding himself from the pot or waiting to see if I ate what I brought before tasting it himself.
“What’s in all those bottles you keep in the cupboard?” he asked me one day as we were enjoying a pleasant dinner of lamb chops.
I instantly went stiff with annoyance. He had no business in those cupboards. “They are tinctures and such that can come in handy.” I lifted my chin a little.
“Arsenic and cyanide?” His mouth twisted up as if the lamb on his fork was distasteful. He clearly knew just what was in there.
“The first one is for rats and other pests. The cyanide is to clean jewelry.” I wanted to smile at his foolishness but did not. The knife slid through the tender meat on my plate, met the fine china with a clicking sound.
“Is that so?” He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Do we have many rats around?”
“We used to, but not anymore.” Now I could not help but smile, though I certainly did try not to. He wanted to intimidate me, though he should have known better after all these years. I was not so easily rattled—and he could not prove a thing. Even Dr. Miller blamed his poor heart.
“The arsenic took care of that?” His voice was as dry as kindling.
“It did.” I was still smiling as I chewed a piece of mutton.
“You and your potions.” His lips twitched. “Do not for a minute think I don’t know what’s going on!” He hissed the words in my direction.
“What is going on?” Little Jennie looked between us with her innocent blue eyes, her pretty features marred by worry. She was twelve, and in charge of cutting Myrtle’s meat at meals and helping the smaller girl spoon the food into her mouth. She had been so absorbed by this task, by completing it to my satisfaction, that she had not paid much attention to our words. The venom in my husband’s voice had changed that.
“Look what you’ve done!” I hissed right back at him. “Worrying the children—have you no shame?” I grabbed my plate off the table and marched to the counter, where I finished my meal, standing. “I will not sit at the table with you when you act in such a foolish, unbecoming way,” I told him.
He thought himself so clever, Mads, being cautious about the food—but I noted early on that if given a choice, he would most frequently choose the option in my right hand, or the one that I held back and not the one I reached out. I tried it out many times to be sure, offering coffee or a piece of pie, and eating the one he did not pick myself, just to put him at ease. After a while, I knew that I could surely work around his new, annoying habits and feed him whatever I liked just by using these tricks. Not that he needed my help to be miserable; though I rarely gave him anything at all, the man looked gray, just a shadow moving through my rooms.
Another night, as we sat out on the porch, he launched another feeble attack.
“I will have you know that I have written to Oscar and told him that if something happens to me, he should look to you for answers,” he suddenly said.
I was sewing on a blue striped dress for Myrtle just then, squinting in the poor kerosene light, while rocking Lucy’s cradle with my foot. When I heard what he said, I looked up.
“What could possibly—” I did not get to finish the sentence.
“If I end up dead in my bed, know that he will look into it and won’t be satisfied before he knows the truth!”
I wetted my lips with the tip of my tongue; my vision swam for a moment. “You are sick and not yourself. Surely Oscar won’t believe a word of your nonsense.”
He sighed and sat back in his chair. “I’ve known you for too long, Bella. Long enough that your constant talk of the size of my life insurance bothers me.”
“Well, that’s for the children’s sake. What would happen to them if something happened to us?” I lifted my chin when I looked at him.
“I know that you say that, but the fires got me thinking—”
“Some very bad thoughts, Mads. None of them worthy of a good man such as yourself.” Inside, I was cold with fury.
“Well, how can I ever trust you after those fires?” His mouth fell open under the mustache and remained that way for quite some time.
“What exactly is it you’re accusing me of?” I lifted my chin a little more.
“Well, arson and—murder!” he burst out. “You poison me with your tinctures and powders! You are a vile woman, Bella—vile!” His jowls shook and his skin beaded with sweat.
I was so surprised that I stabbed my own finger and a fat drop of blood bloomed on my thumb. “How can you even say that to me, who cooks your meals and irons your shirts? I have never ever done anything but strive for a good life for us all.”
“Sometimes I think you quite despise me!”
“Only when you talk like that . . . Look at what we have, Mads: a beautiful home and beautiful children. You just need a bit of rest. These last few years have been hard on us both.”
He placed his palm over his heart and squeezed the fabric of his shirt. “I wish I could believe it’s all in my head.” Were those tears I saw in his eyes?
“Of course it is! Look at me! Do I look like a villain to you? I’m a woman past forty with small children and an unwell husband doing her best to make the most of things.”
“Sometimes you’re both hard and cruel—”
“Only because I’m tired. It’s not easy taking care of everything. But all of that will be better now that we have this new home and money in the bank. I won’t have to worry so much.” I went back to the sewing, adding another stitch.
His hand relaxed on his chest. “Maybe you’re right—I surely wish to think so.”
“Of course I am, and you’re sick and afraid. Write to your brother and tell him you were wrong. We shall speak no more of this.”