Bloom (Part 2)

Thomas and I were married on a warm spring day one year earlier at an elegant affair in the Isle of Wight. We said our vows beneath an arch of flowers, most of which had already wilted. I took brief notice of this at the time, however did not heed the message that this union was already doomed.

We lived at his deceased parent’s estate in Dover, an obnoxiously larger-than-necessary abode overlooking the English Channel. Thomas was often away for days at a time for work in London. I spent my days sitting at the bay window reading and watching seagulls peck at the entrails of dead rats as our housemaid brought me tea with too much milk and too little sugar. After two months, it broke my heart to have to tell the poor girl that she still hadn’t gotten it quite right, so instead, I sewed a hidden pocket inside each of my dresses where I always kept a small flask of brandy at the ready to help the tea.

Thomas’s wealth had never been the appeal to me. I truly did love him; not for his money, but his charm, his wit, and well…things in the boudoir were quite nice.

I had been raised in a modest home with my father who was a physician. As a child, I helped him in his apothecary as a silent apprentice. He taught me how to mix remedies for this ailment and others for that. I became quite the chemist, though never pursued it because I became a wife; a profession in its own right.

The day before my and Thomas’s one-year anniversary, I had discovered I was pregnant. When Thomas arrived home from London the next evening, I thought he’d be overwhelmed with joy at the news and want to celebrate not only our year together, but the new life we were soon to enjoy. He did not. Anger overtook him and I had no idea who this man was; the whites of his eyes were gone, and he bared his teeth as he spoke. He shouted that he did not want children at all, and that I would need to rid myself of the “parasite” immediately. I wept as he stormed into his study and slammed the door.

Early the next morning, Thomas abruptly left and sailed to Calais, saying he was on his way to Paris for business. He was supposed to have been home with me for at least a week, and had never mentioned business in Paris before, so I was very curious as to where he was going in such haste, especially after the discussion we’d had the night before. I knew something wasn’t right, but a woman’s intuition always is.

I secretly followed him, boarding the paddle steamer bound for Calais and then the train for Paris. After pulling into the station, Thomas quickly got into a hansom that had been awaiting him. Inside it sat a blonde woman who peeked her head out and greeted him with a long kiss. My heart sank. I took another hansom that was waiting there and told the driver to follow.

The night grew dark as Thomas and the woman’s hansom finally stopped in front of a pied-á-terre just outside the city. Undraped windows and well-burning lamplights inside showed the two of them enter, and I watched as Thomas warmly embraced two small children, a boy and a girl. He picked up the girl and bounced her around a bit, then kissed her on both cheeks.

Thomas had a wife, another wife. He had a family. Here in Paris. This was where he was going each time he told me he was in London for business. My heartbreak quickly turned to anger.

I instructed the driver to take me to the nearest hotel where I spent the next day plotting my revenge. I waited until the city was fast asleep that night, then snuck away to an apothecary just around the corner. I was lucky to find the back door unlocked, saving me from making the noise of breaking the shopfront’s glass. Once inside, I lit a candle to view the inventory, then nicked several small vials of strychnine, as well as a bit of rue, tansy, and pennyroyal tablets that I would later use for myself. I quietly closed the shop’s door and made my way to Thomas’s home.

It must have been around half-past two in the morning when I crawled through a small window at the kitchen, removing my shoes so as not to make any noise and waken Thomas and his family upstairs. If the Thomas of Paris was anything like the Thomas of Dover, I knew he would take a large nip of whisky to start his morning. I found a half-empty bottle of Glenochil in the pantry, Thomas’s favourite. I pulled the cork from the bottle, poured in two vials of strychnine, then swirled it around and placed it back. I took in a deep breath, then exhaled and smiled, knowing that in just a few short hours I would get my revenge.

As the sun rose, I waited outside the kitchen window to hear stirrings of the morning inside. I watched as Thomas came down to the kitchen still in his bathrobe and served himself a heavy pour of the Glenochil, then took it back in one quick shot, just like I had seen him do every morning at our house.

He immediately knew something wasn’t right. He licked his lips and his tongue moved about his mouth, trying to figure out what the odd taste was. His eyes then widened and he dropped the glass which shattered into a hundred little pieces. He gripped his abdomen, then fell to the ground and began convulsing. Frothy yellow-brown foam seeped from his mouth, likely his stomach lining dissolving and bubbling up his esophagus. Just before he died, I swear he spotted me at the window, looking at me with eyes that were quickly draining of life. Then he went still.

“Goodbye, Thomas,” I said in a voice so low that I hardly recognized it myself. Bloom had been born.

Death of one man, birth of another.