Truth

As he entered the parlor and saw Mildred sitting in her usual chair near the unlit fireplace, a lantern illuminating her embroidery, he wondered what that must be like, to love someone so much you couldn’t fathom going on without them. He had been in love with her at one time. She had been a clever, cunning young woman, with beautiful hair and sparkling eyes. He knew almost immediately she was after him for his money and the promise of a prominent life, but they had become involved more quickly than he had planned for, and he’d asked her to be his wife one evening when she’d come to him in tears, carrying the evidence of their indiscretions beneath her ample gown. A month later, after they’d made their vows, the first of their three tragedies occurred, and that evidence was buried in a tiny box in her father’s family plot. He had thought at the time their loss would bring them closer together, but that was the beginning of Mildred’s emotional rationing; she seemed determined never to care about anyone or anything again. Not even him. Not even Meggy.

“Are you coming in?” she called, not even looking up from her work.

He realized he had been lingering, and holding back a sigh, he replied, “Yes, dear. I was just thinking about how lovely you are, that’s all.”

She glanced up at him then, a look of skepticism on her face. Without another word, her eyes returned to her stitching and he settled back into his chair across from her, eyeing the newspaper on the side table but choosing to gaze at the portrait above the fireplace instead. He stared into his own painted face, wondering at how different he looked only two years ago when it was made. Meggy was smiling broadly, all of her teeth still present in her four-year-old grin. Now, there were two missing, and her blonde hair was much longer and less curly. Mildred looked exactly the same—her hair done up in the precise extreme chignon she wore every day.

“I’ll get you some tea,” she said standing and placing her embroidery on a table next to her chair.

“Isn’t Tessa still in the kitchen?” Henry asked as she approached the doorway that led to the back of the house and the attached kitchen.

“Yes, she is,” Mildred affirmed, pausing to turn to address him. “But you know how I like to bring your evening tea.” She managed a smile, and it looked a bit more like a snarl than an expression of happiness to him.

“Very well then,” Henry nodded, his stomach beginning to churn. He took a deep breath and leaned his head back against the chair, his fingers digging into the arm rests.

He was not a stupid man. In fact, he was quite intelligent. That’s why he wasn’t sure why he continued in this charade the way that he had been doing for over a year now. In fact, he could ask himself the same question about their entire marriage, but this farce in particular was not only alarming but deadly. Why would he continue to let her do this when he was on to her? Why not call her out? Leave her? Save himself?

Perhaps it was love. Love for the woman he had met so many years ago, the one he had promised himself to. Perhaps it was doubt. What if he were wrong, and she was not at fault? Wouldn’t he seem quite foolish then? Perhaps it was his inability to believe that someone he had once loved so much could do something so innately evil? As he awaited the promised cup of tea, he pondered these options. At last, he decided it was time to do something differently, and he promised himself the next morning he would take action. If not for his own sake, then for Meggy’s. She didn’t deserve to live with a woman who would poison her own husband.

“Here you go, darling,” Mildred said as she set the cup of tea and saucer on the table next to him. She choked on the last word much the same way he was certain he would choke on the first swallow.

“Thank you,” he replied eyeing the steaming cup as she forced a smile at him and crossed back to her chair. “I think I’ll let it cool a bit.”

“I thought you liked it hot,” Mildred replied as she picked up her embroidery. “I always bring it to you steaming.”

“Yes, I know. It’s just that I’m not feeling well tonight,” Henry stated, watching carefully for any sort of reaction.

She shook her head and pursed her lips. “I do wish those doctors would come up with something. Some sort of a diagnosis.”

“Yes, me, too,” Henry agreed.

“Perhaps then they could come up with a treatment that is effective,” she continued.

“Indeed.”

She glanced up at him and then at the tea. He continued to stare at her, and eventually she averted her eyes. “How was your visit with John? Is he doing well?”

“Quite well,” Henry replied, not surprised that she had changed the subject.

“And Pamela and the children?”

“I didn’t see them, but John said they are also doing well.”

“Delightful to hear,” Mildred said, though her tone showed no delight at all. She was quiet then for several seconds, almost a minute, before she reminded him, “Your tea is likely growing cold.”

He did not shift his gaze, and after another long pause, she glanced back at him. When his eyes did not falter, she placed her embroidery down again, never losing track of his eyes as she did so, as if daring him to call her out or give in and take a sip.

Carefully, and without looking away, Henry reached for the cup. He brought it up just below his bottom lip and held it there. “Mildred, I think we need to have a serious conversation tomorrow.”

“All right,” she said, her face cold as steel.

“I think some things need to change.”

“Very well then.”

“Clearly, neither of us are happy with our current condition,” he continued, the tea still poised beneath his mouth.

“It’s getting cold.”

Despite confirmation of his deepest fear, Henry realized he had little choice but to drink the tea. He could refuse, call her out right now, or he could take a sip, become violently ill for a few hours, and then slowly recover. This would be the last time though; of that he was certain. Tomorrow, everything would change. He would make arrangements. She could have the house, but he would take the one thing that really mattered—Meggy—and she likely wouldn’t even argue.

With a deep sigh, Henry Westmoreland slowly raised the cup of tea to his lips and took a sip. As he felt the liquid slide down his throat, Mildred broke into the only true smile he’d seen on her face in nearly a decade. Almost immediately, he realized something was different. He expected to feel like hell, but this—this was something far worse. His heart began to race, his breathing became labored, and the cup slipped from his hand, shattering on the wooden floor.

He began to pull at his collar, hoping that loosening it might let more air into his lungs. When that didn’t work, and he felt himself slipping to the floor, he tried to call out. Perhaps Tessa would hear him from the kitchen and could go for help. He collapsed on the floor amidst the shards of China, unable to get a word out, unable to get a breath in.

Mildred walked over, the smile still on her face and dropped to one knee next to him. “Oh, no, Henry! What’s happened?” she asked in a quiet voice. “You seem to be having a heart attack! Let me get some help!” She stroked him on the side of his head gently, as if she actually cared for him, though the sneer on her face said otherwise, and without standing or yelling, she began to pretend to call for help. “Someone help!” she said. “Anyone! Fetch a doctor!”

Henry felt his chest constricting. His vision narrowed, and as the darkness closed in, the last image he saw was the grimace on his wife’s face as she let him die on the parlor floor. Though he couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, he could still hear, and the footsteps he heard entering the room were familiar, as was the voice. “Is he gone then?” Bertram asked.

“I believe so,” Mildred said, her voice growing in distance, as if she had left his side. “Now, perhaps, we should fetch the doctor.”

“Give it another minute,” his older brother replied. “I want to make sure there’s no resurrecting him.”

“Very well then,” he heard Mildred say as he faded into oblivion. Once her voice slipped away, his thoughts shifted to the smiling face of his little girl. In those last seconds on earth, he prayed that John would take care of his sweet angel and remembered Charlie. Yes, Charles Ashton would take care of his Meggy. He knew he would. He had to.