Posted on Tuesday, 31 October 2006
"Mary, I refuse to listen to your demurrals and evasions anymore. You must tell me where you have been and what you have been up to." It was all Charles Musgrove could do not to shake his shivering wife as she stood before him in the middle of the night, her petticoat six-inches deep in mud, a large, dark red stain on her pelisse, and an obviously used kitchen knife clutched in her trembling hand.
This was the third night Mary Musgrove had not been in her bedchamber when Charles came to exercise his marital rights. The first night, he had thought she must be with one of their young sons, but in the morning, she denied the boys' calling for her at all. When she could not be found the second night, he had begun to suspect she was avoiding their marriage bed, and he had, frankly, been wounded. Certainly he was no Lothario, but there had never been any complaints in that area before-probably the only area without complaints, come to think of it. Then, just this morning, Mrs. Henderson had mentioned muddy footprints in the hall leading to his lady's chambers. And strange goings-on in the neighbourhood. And a rise in complaints about unusual, blood-red stains on the Mistress' clothing.
So, tonight Charles had remained in Mary's empty room, awaiting his wife and ready to confront her. Had she gone mad? Was she violent? Why was she stalking about in the middle of the night? Why had her looks become guilty, furtive?
At last Mary had returned, shivering and stained, and here she stood, still not answering his questions.
"I'll ask you one more time, Mary, and then I'll, I'll..." Charles' mind was not given to thoughts of punishment. He had always preferred to discipline his boys with a carrot rather than a stick, and curbing Mary had always been quite beyond his ken-ignoring and placating being his two favourite means of handling her moods. Finally, he hit upon something. "I'll take away your pin money for the next quarter." Mary did love her fripperies, and Charles thought she would surely buckle.
"I cannot tell you, Charles. I cannot and you cannot make me. I am an Elliot of Kellynch Hall. I have my pride."
"Pride? What does pride have to do with it? Mary, I am worried that I might have to send you to Bedlam if you continue in this manner, and all you can speak of is pride? Look at yourself and say you have any claim to pride. You're covered in mud and blood, for Goodness' sake!"
"Blood? What do you mean blood? Did I cut myself when I...?" Mary examined herself thoroughly and could find no trace of blood. "I see no blood. Perhaps it is you who have gone mad? Who would have thought that a few paltry nights without being able to visit my chambers could drive you round the twist?"
"Mary, it's all over your pelisse. The blood, I mean. Have you gone blind as well as daft." Charles could not believe Mary was pretending she couldn't see the slightly shiny red blotch-it was the size of his palm and looked to be spreading. He felt a chill of dread creep up his spine as he pondered what nefarious act had caused it.
"This? This isn't blood, you silly man," huffed Mary, brushing a finger through the stain and proceeding to lick it clean. "It's dried-cherry pie filling, and ever so lovely. I just can't seem to get enough."
"Pie filling? Pie filling? How did you get pie filling on yourself in the middle of the night? I thought you had done yourself, or someone else, a harm, Woman, and here you are calm as can be telling me that you are covered in pie filling?"
"Done myself a harm? Charles, you really have the most vivid imagination. It's no wonder the boys were up with nightmares the other night."
"I thought you hadn't gone to them?"
"Well, I didn't want you to be vexed with them. I know you want them to be less easily frightened, so I lied."
"That still doesn't explain last night and tonight. And the mud. And the bloody stain!"
"Fine. If you are determined to humiliate me, then I will tell you all, but I rather think this suffering will entitle me to more pin money and not less. It all started when your mother and I stopped in at the parsonage yesterday. Mrs. Shirley's Essie had made a lovely dried cherry pie and your mother helped her self to the last piece, and I was left with stale gingerbread. Well, you can imagine my mortification that your mother was given pie precedence over me."
"Pie precedence?"
"Is this your tale or mine?"
"Yours, thank heavens. I wouldn't be caught dead talking about pie precedence. Please, continue."
"Well, Mrs. Shirley happened to mention that Sadie was going to bake another pie that night, as they had such a quantity of dried cherries. I don't know why, Charles, but that pie haunted me all afternoon. And evening. And as I was getting ready for you to come to me, I found myself putting on my pelisse instead. I had to have a piece of that pie. So I got a knife out of the kitchen, and I walked over to the Shirley's..."
"Surely not!"
"Surely so. I walked over there, and the new pie was sitting on the sill to cool. Essie must be quite a laggard in her work. And I was just going to cut a small piece of pie. I didn't have proper utensils after all. But when I saw it, I knew it had to be mine-all of it. I ate the whole thing, standing right there and thanking God that your mother was nowhere around to require me to share. And then, realising what I had done, I ran back home."
"Leaving muddy footprints all along the hall. And stained garments for the laundry maid."
"Oh. I suppose so. I was so shocked at my own behaviour, that I was hardly aware of going to bed. Today, you probably noticed I was a little preoccupied. I was so ashamed. And yet, I still couldn't stop thinking about the pie. That delicious pie. And the knife! This evening I remembered that I must have dropped the knife in my haste to consume the pie. It could have incriminated me. So, I retraced my steps after dark tonight, even though it was dreadfully far, and I found the knife. But I also found..."
"Another pie?"
"Yes. And it was worth every humiliating mouthful."