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It is said that jealousy is bred within the hearts of the pained. A remedy graciously offered universally, to soothe one’s doubts. Yet only when the patient’s heart has been stilled from all beats of compassion, only then is it seen for what it truly is, a poison.
This ancient medicine was offered once again to the new Viscountess Slyvia Bain upon her honeymoon. However, one may question why a woman, blessed with beauty, newly matrimonial bliss, and security would dare take this so gladly. Well, dear reader, allow this author to shed some light upon this case for it is a personal one.
For this woman was my mother.
Before she was titled the Viscountess Slyvia Bain, she was simply Mary Stillwell. A girl from humble means who dreamed of more than just being another English farmer’s wife. When an opportunity arrived in the form of a traveling player’s troupe, Mary packed her only belongings and left without a single letter of goodbye. Fate’s footing had been rough but soon blessed her ambition in Covent Garden as an actress. It was then on one rainy night during a dramatic performance of the Grecian Daughter, that Mary Stillwell caught the eye of Lord Robert Bain, Viscount Doncaster.
It had been like lightning striking a clock tower. The wealthy viscount lavished the budding actress with gifts and attention, and Mary welcomed them all. After months of nightly rendezvouses throughout the bustle of London, the whirlwind of it all reached a fever pitch when Mary received a letter inviting her to Caster Hall in the country.
“Where are we going Robert?” Mary laughed, as she was led blindly by her guide from their horses. They had ridden quite some distance from the grand manor house near a wooden trail at the edge of the vast property.
“It would hardly be a surprise if I showed you. Here watch your step,” the viscount said, a hand over the actress’s eyes. By Mary’s shock they seemed to be wandering further into the woods. She adored Robert, but she was not a naive farmgirl anymore. She had seen the world and its evils.
“If this is one elaborate jest, I swear.”
“Women, will you trust me for one moment,” He said, giving an exaggerated sigh. The two stopped. “Now open.”
The young woman opened her eyes and was puzzled by what stood before her. In the opening of the glen stood a large stone well. Thick wisteria vines hugged and tangled up the side supports, causing soft purple flowers to curtain about the top of the wellhead.
“You look surprised my dear,” the viscount remarked, taking in Mary’s expression.
“Would it be wrong to say I am.”
Robert laughed and flashed Mary with that rakish smile that caused many to admire him. He drew her closer to the well pointing to a carving on the edge of the stone.
Dedicated 1767 to My Love, Margret
Fingers reading the carved dedication, Mary’s green eyes widened. An old feeling of excitement and fear flipped inside of her stomach.
Tightening his hold on Mary’s other hand, the viscount spoke slowly, “My father dedicated this to my mother upon their engagement. I thought it would be poetic to dedicate this once again, to your name.”
“My name?” Mary echoed, her light brows furrowing slightly. Her name was nothing special, not noble, no significance behind it other than mud and squalor.
“Your old name,” The viscount continued, stepping closer, his voice becoming softer. “I wish to marry you, Mary Stillwell. Marry you and make you my viscountess. I’m aware that due to your- background it will be a challenge. So I thought it prudent to allow you the opportunity to alter your name, your history. Thought it’d be…symbolic.”
At this Mary’s brows shot back up again. “I…yo-you wish to marry me?” It was all too wonderful and frightening all at once. And the blow of it all took a few moments till the rest of his proposal began to register within her mind. She had longed to be free of who she was, where she was from, and the out was as clear as the water in the well.
As her mind raced, she did not notice how close Robert had gotten. His deep brown eyes looking into hers, looking for an answer.
“Mary, if you wish to..”
“Slyvia,” She answered, her voice as confident as the dedication carved into the well’s frame. “I wish to be Viscountess Slyvia Bain of Doncaster.”
That smile crossed his lips as he kissed her. “Then Viscountess Slyvia Bain of Doncaster you shall be.”
It was all a romantic fairytale. The broadsheets all across England, read of how the two were wed in St. George’s church that summer, and once the sting of gossip began to retract, how the Viscount and Viscountess entered into London society with force. Though some speculated as to the Viscountess's history, the income of the ladder seemed to quiet the talk, as money always seems to do.
It wasn’t long until the blessed pregnancy was announced, and all of the friends and acquaintances to the Doncaster family heralded prayers and well wishes for the new heir. The viscount was attentive, not sparing any expense as the date came forward and the grueling labor began.
The household held its breath the night the child came.
Cold from the late winter storms crept its fingers into high gilded walls of the Hall. Candles burned down to stubs in the corridor outside the bedchamber, servants whispering prayers into clasped hands as the midwife worked within. The Viscount did not leave his post. He paced when pacing was all he could do, pressing his forehead to the door when the cries grew sharp.
When at last the door opened, dawn was breaking pale and new over the square.
“A healthy child, my Lord,” the midwife said, stepping aside. “And her ladyship is safe.”
Relief broke over him so swiftly it nearly staggered him. He laughed under his breath, a sound half-sob, half-prayer, and crossed the threshold at once.
The Viscountess lay pale against the pillow, light hair damp and curling at her temples, her face exhausted but alight with wonder. In her arms lay a squaling bundle of linen.
“Come, look at her,” she whispered when she saw him.
He slowed.
The midwife smiled, proud and gentle. “A healthy daughter, my Lord.”
Slyvia looked into her husband’s eyes as he approached the bed. The dim candlefire carving shadows upon his face. In the light, she saw something subtle changed within those deep eyes. Not a storm, no sharp word or anger, but a cooling that matched the chill that pushed against the house. Then in the flicker of candlelight, it was masked, schooled behind something polite, almost kind.
“A daughter,” he repeated.
He looked down at the bundle, the little thing’s mouth pursed looking to be soothed.
“I thought we could name her, Margret, after your mother,” The Viscountess said, trying to pull the joy she was hoping to see lodged from him. She shifted their daughter, offering her to him.
A moment passed and then he rose, nodding curtly. He turned away. He did not take the child.
In the months that followed, Margaret grew and Slyvia watched as her husband’s affection, once so lavishly given, became a measured courtesy. She noticed how her husband retreated from her presence. Having to travel to Wales, visiting the copper mines which further fueled the family’s income was his excuse. An income and name, the Viscount readily reminded his wife was a gift given.
Not being of character to back down easily, the Viscountess thought to win back his affections by trying once again for an heir. She’d romance him, seduce him, love him till he remembered all the joyous times they had together. Her efforts seemed to be successful, for when she announced at the dinner table that she was pregnant again, that old smile lit across her husband’s face.
The doting almost overwhelmed her, were she not thankful for its return. His joy was so evident, that upon his return from one of his travels, he gifted her an ornate Austrian mirror.
“To see how beautiful you are to me,” he said, kissing her cheek and placing a hand across her swelling stomach. Looking within the mirror’s reflection, she saw not the humble farmgirl, nor the scraping actress, but a Viscountess set to give her husband all that she thought he deserved.
Yet fate’s cruel hand was played once more. A bloody miscarriage ravaged her body and left the couple with the defending news that the Viscountess should abstain from having more children. The blow of that sentence struck Slyvia more than any loss. It was a nail in the coffin of their hopes and the Viscountess was left once again in the quiet Hall, the low hum of her heart's pain beginning to ring in her ears.
What grew the hum further was watching her little Margret continue to grow. The features of her father, ebony curls, the line in the brow, those deep brown eyes, all pressed on the bruised parts of her mother. Reminders of his absence, his unfaithfulness, his slight comments and the ones that ended far too soon.
“She favors her father,” an acquaintance would observe brightly.
“Yes,” the Viscountess would agree, her lips curling just enough. “She does indeed.”
And with each passing day, the resemblance grew harder to ignore… and harder to forgive.
Years later, when the young girl stood at her mother’s side, looking into the gifted mirror that hung as a testament, Slyvia decided at that moment to take that old medicine. Swallowing it whole and allowing it to root inside of her.
She did not see a daughter.
She saw a man who stopped loving her.
And she too turned away.