Athenia's Choice (ON HOLD)

Athenia's Choice: Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

My choice was made for me. It was another gloomy Tuesday when it happened...

“Marie, you’re using far too much flour!” Bessie reprimanded me for what had to be the twelfth time. I stopped. Peering at the nearly empty barrel, I muttered a hasty apology, as she went to ask Mr Smithson if I could be sent off to the windmill to beg another load of flour.

With permission, I took my employer’s horse to the windmill, where I pleaded my case to the owner, whose frown seemed scarier because of his hardened facial features. The enormous propellers churning round were a good distraction for my wandering eyes.

“Please let us have some more, please, I urge you,” I said, desperately horrified at the prospect of being sacked for my carelessness.

“Mr Smithson’s bakery has had its load for the week,” the owner snapped, folding his arms.

“He’ll return the favour for fresh cakes and scones,” I lied temptingly, by now dreadfully worried that he would not give in. What if the miller could tell that I had made the deal up, being only a message carrier?

“Fine,” the miller snarled, “I will deliver after 12 of the clock.” I thanked him graciously for his kindness, and swung myself back in the saddle.

I set off again on Mr Smithson’s rather eager cart horse, galloping wildly through the desolate streets, waving at children playing in the hamlets. I loved the feel of the wind streaming into my hair, the rush of adrenalin in my body at the pounding speed, the way I could be wild like the animal that carried me. Too soon enough, I reached Pembury and had to dismount because of a large crowd of gossiping people gathered all along the main street.

I went to the back yard and tied Mr Smithson’s horse to the post there. The gossip monger’s chatter twisted curiosity from me like the turn of a cork from a bottle, so I went to see what was going on. Being so small compared to the standard-size human, I could barely see over the tops of everyone else’s heads. I asked the woman next to me if she knew what the hubbub was all about.

“It’s a notice posted in the bakery,” she responded. Since the ‘interesting’ notice was in the place I worked, I felt like I had the right to know what it was all about, feeling rather confused. I decided not to brave the swarm, and scurried quickly round the backstreets, bursting through the door. I had entirely forgotten about the flour deal, which Mr Smithson asked me about straight away.

"Why on holy high did you promise him free produce? We can’t afford that, you silly girl!” Mr Smithson sighed, rubbing his head in exasperation. The rebellious streak in me wanted to argue that he gave us workers free produce, so why could he not give some to the miller?

"Could you tell me about that notice you put in the window?” I asked eagerly, changing the subject quickly as an awkward atmosphere grew.

“Well, I suppose I had better tell you...” Mr Smithson admitted, cocking his head to the throng blocking the front door, “the constabulary is posting enquires about a death down by the River Teise." Something clicked in my mind. My heart started beating faster. I hadn’t been walking down the River Thames?

“Anyway, the man who died was middle-aged and had by the looks of it, starved to death. Funny thing is, no-one has ever seen or heard of him, isn't that right Bessie?" Mr Smithson finished, looking over at my co-worker, who was bustling about with mixing bowls.

"Aye, a hunchback with one eye is quite distinctive," came the reply.

My jaw dropped down, and I almost doubled over as my stomach gave a violent flip, but I quickly straightened, as these actions looked somewhat suspicious. Nausea gripped me, and I couldn’t think of anything else, but the thump of my own heart, as I walked back to the baking quarters, trapped in a living nightmare.

I had killed him. My fingers trembled and I smacked down the rolling pin. I had shattered my promise of food for him- so he had starved to death. I was a double murderer. I could not stay here. If the police questioned me, I was bound to be caught. I would have to run away from my fate again, there seemed no other choice. Where could I go? One distant, blurry figure with perfect features formed in my mind. I had developed a pining affection for Charles. I traced the words ‘back to the Beaumonts’ into the flour I had spilt.

So at the end of the day, after running back to the boarding house, I told Mrs Carlston I was moving on to pastures new. She wished me my good health, and gave me my Sunday best, as part of the health rules and regulations. Thirza seemed delighted she could have the room and her sacred two drawers to herself again.

*****

Carrying all of my (treasured?) possessions, I ran up the steps to the flat above the baker’s shop. I knocked formally.

“Why, Marie, do come in,” Mr Smithson invited me, opening the door, suprised by my flustered appearance. My knees knocked together, and I stood like a helpless, flapping fish for a few seconds. How could I lie to the person who had taken me on, nothing but a mere light-headed girl, even if he did think I was earning the money for my drunken father? Goodness knows where he got that impression.

“I-I-I can’t stop, I must go about a-a journeying, with haste! My mama is sick, so I will not return, as she needs my aid,” I invented dramatically. Believing it was true; Mr Smithson gasped and looked concerned. He even believed me when I said I was going to Norfolk! The tale to Mrs Carlston, the false trail to him, and now I was thinking of my own Mama dead. I was a wicked girl!

“You have been a pleasure to have in my shop,” he complimented me, as I bobbed a curtsey, rushed a farewell, and sprinted back down the steps.

Five minutes later, I approached a messenger boy grooming his horse by a fountain. I appeared to be very interested in the glinting tiles, which gave the illusion of the water being multi-coloured. Hearing a faint buzz, I turned to my side and swatted a bee away, stumbling on the boy’s foot.

“Afternoon, sir, are you willing to lend me your horse?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Well yes... I suppose so,” the boy sighed, eyeing me up and down cautiously, and quite suspiciously. Yes, I was still wearing that dreadful dress. The lace had completely given way, exposing me even more, the hem was ripped and muddied, and it just was a complete atrocity! He queried how far I was travelling and when I would be back.

"Two hours at the most, and to Maidstone." The lies were spinning from me like I was a gifted weaver. The boy nodded, I received my change (as I had to pay) and I swung my legs over the horse. We galloped out of Pembury, and away from the inquest on the hunchback’s death...