As Sweet as Honey

30




At night, she woke up, her heart racing. Once again, out of nowhere, she had dreamed of Archer. Always in the dreams, she failed to save his life. How could she have saved it at the wedding? By refusing to dance? Avoiding a splashy wedding, so his aneurysm could explode in a quiet setting?

She didn’t know whether to tell Simon. She resolved to go to the library and learn about dreams. But she put it off, and decided if she had another nightmare, she would both tell Simon and go find an Indian doctor. Simon’s arm draped heavily across her body, and she welcomed its anchor. Sometimes she felt like she wanted to be pressed with his sleepy weight on top of her, so that he became a shield, a force field, warding off memory, warding off the flickering thought that somehow perhaps she had willed Archer’s death, that however unlikely, a part of her subconsciously protested their marriage. Surely, though, that was afterthought, after Simon, after all that happened.


How much could they bear to speak about Archer? How large was their guilt. How it crept, if left unchecked, into their lives almost constantly. What they had done was not unusual, after all. Cousins, brothers, even uncles married widowed relatives to keep the bloodlines, the inheritances, the name, and though the church for years decried unions of affinity, a 1921 act allowed the marriage of a deceased brother’s widow with her brother-in-law. Perhaps in feudal times such a marriage prevented the younger son from marrying well on his own, or going into the clergy; then there was also the pervasive idea that if a man and woman wed, they were united in blood, and all relatives became blood by default.

It was the scandal, the gossip that people loved. How merciless was she to wed so quickly, how tactless of him! How practical of her to want a father for a child, how foolish of him to squander his life! How deceitful of both to marry outside their own color and culture, to hurt both families in the bargain! How complicated, how unnecessary and undignified and selfish! It was the sheer selfishness of love that people minded, that refusal to think of the feelings of others for what—sex? This was what Grandmother feared, the censure of the neighbors and distant relatives, the outright stares of strangers. This was why she did not protest as heavily as she might have to keep them on Pi. In England, they could start a new life, she thought, finally coming to peace with the parting.

Yet she must have known the difficulties that were within Simon’s family. The gin company had a reputation, but in the end, maybe the tribulations of family had little effect on the business. Gin making had long been associated with notoriety, Simon told her, despite its beginnings as a medicinal tonic in Holland, condemned by Henry Fielding as poisonous and pernicious to the soul of England, causing the country to succumb to a perpetual state of drunkenness. They looked at the Hogarth prints of Gin Lane, where the drunken figures lolled about, mothers ready to kill their babies as a result of the spirit.

“No wonder you didn’t want to work for the company.”

“It’s lurid. Gin was responsible for thousands of deaths, abandonment, the ruination of families. People paid wages in gin. Saved the extra step, my grandfather said. People used to line up just to nurse themselves from the spigot, and when they built the palaces, it became fashionable and aboveground to sip their drinks with their pinkies up.”

“Where’s the family palace now?”

“The family palace—that was the joke. Forster Gin Palace. It burned down during the Blitz. It was supposed to have been beautiful—it had a bas-relief of Greek maidens chased by satyrs and gods, and these ridiculously ornate mirrors, eight feet tall. My great-grandfather was shellshocked, and wouldn’t rebuild. So the company relied on its northern distilleries and the one on Pi.”

“Who’s running the company now?”

“An uncle of ours. Ruth-Sidney. Archer was to run it himself, but he refused. I didn’t want it, and neither did Susan. My father was never in the running. He likes the production part, not the sales meetings and negotiating with lawyers, the flying about. But they make a good team, Uncle Ruth-Sidney and Dad. It’s complicated—the whole damn company is riddled with complications.”

Simon looked so troubled that Meterling did not press for details.


Simon took Meterling to the site of the original factory in a town on the outskirts of London. The main factory was up north. The original factory had been torn down after a fire, replaced by a microdistillery responsible for artisanal blends sold mostly in private auctions.

“Where’ve you been, Simon boy?” asked a man whose ruddy complexion was accentuated by a squint and a grin.

“Larry—thought you’d be retired.”

“Nah, there’d be nothing for me to do, then.”

This was Larry McGuire, who had run the place for the past forty years, before, as he put it, “it went designer.”

Simon quickly made introductions, which led to more appraising looks at Meterling and the baby, and the foreman led them through the rooms containing copper stills, the purification processor, and, finally, the room of botanicals. Here, they were experimenting with bearberry, bayberry, and coriander for a Christmassy blend. The scents were strong when oak cask lids were lifted.

“Take a whiff of this, lass,” said Larry, offering a handful of coarse brown seeds, which he crushed in his palms. His hands were nearly as brown as the seeds, Meterling noted as she inhaled the fragrance. They reminded Meterling of something on the edge of her memory—not merely the coriander, but the scent of wood and fire. Was this smell familiar to her even in childhood?

They were offered gin mixed with bitters in the sampling room, and Meterling and Simon, with Oscar, took their drinks to a patio that overlooked the Tittleton River.

“When I was pregnant, I craved to taste a martini.”

“Hmm. You’re sure you can drink while feeding?”

“In moderation, and I’m only tasting.” She took a second sip. “This is delicious, Simon. I had no idea. I see now why people want to drink.”

“It’s good stuff.”

“I could live here,” said Meterling. She took another sip and pushed away her glass a few inches. “Oh, I know I can’t really, but this is so lovely, Simon, the beauty here.”

She looked at the river rushing past, the meadows beyond.

“You do have three fields.”

“And a manor house somewhere.”

“And a manor house somewhere,” repeated Simon, “that you haven’t yet seen.”

“Not yet, darling.” She sighed. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’d feel I was trespassing. Let’s wait a while longer.”