Silverware rested neatly atop an oak dining table shrouded with lace. The fixings for the evening’s meal had already been set out—braised beef with veggies and mashed potatoes served alongside a hearty gravy—lying in wait for the patrons who would enjoy it.
Arthur Bennett’s favorite meal was a simple one, but his diligent wife was mindful of its perfection no matter how many times they dined together.
The couple’s maid entered the dining room, adorned in linen rags and a headscarf, the baby bump beneath her skirts impossible to miss, a staggering seven months down the line. “Will that be all for tonight, Mrs. Bennett?”
Her voice was soothing, sweeter than honeyed milk. It was no wonder she’d gotten herself knocked up at such a young age, Mrs. Bennett thirty years her senior. The lady of the house nodded in response to the indentured woman’s inquiry—only five more years and the debt she owed would be paid with exhaustion.
The maid flashed a curtsey. “Very well. I’ll prepare Arthur’s evening tea, then see myself off to my chambers.”
Her chambers being ones shared with the other indentured individuals Mrs. Bennett’s husband had taken upon himself here and there. He was a wealthy man,, and as such, he almost always seemed to find himself extending his monetary kindness towards those who were less fortunate. Of course, despite his civility, those services weren’t free.
In the end, it seemed to benefit Mr. Bennett more than those he assisted.
Mrs. Bennett’s eye fell into a twitch, a habit she couldn’t seem to shake no matter how much her husband scolded her. “What did you call him?” Her voice was a mere whisper, and while the younger woman’s voice was like honey, Mrs. Bennett spoke with venom.
The maid amended her words fastidiously. “M-Mr. Bennett! I meant no disrespect, madam, I—”
“Oh, I’m aware. As a matter of fact, I’m positive such a mistake will never occur in this household again.”
The younger woman remained silent, only mumbling something to herself as she exited the dining room to complete her final task. Mrs. Bennett stopped her before she could escape so soon.
“Cibil, don’t bother yourself with my husband’s tea, I’ll see to it.”
Cibil turned to curtsey in acknowledgement, the lady of the house before her in an instant, breath mingling as one within their proximity.
“Whatever practice you’ve had reciting my husband’s name ceases this instant. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bennett.”
The maid disappeared not a moment later, Mrs. Bennett left on her lonesome. She’d grown used to this, anticipated it. The life of a wife was a truly lonely road. She took this time to survey the dining room, ensuring its every perfection—the candles meticulously placed three feet apart, fine china piled high with delicious food of the cook’s begetting.
Mr. Bennett would arrive home any moment now, the clock reading half-past five. His wife—done up in her finest silks—waited, as a dutiful spouse should, to fulfill the desires of her tireless husband.
But the longer she waited, the further her anger spiraled. The sun had long since descended from the sky, minutes blending into hours; extinguished candles dripping wax onto the intricately woven tablecloth, some of Mrs. Bennett’s finest craftsmanship, all in the name of her darling husband.
Mrs. Bennett had grown tired of waiting on a man who never seemed present in the light of day.
Ascending the spiral staircase, Mrs. Bennett trailed her fingertips along the hand-carved railing of her husband’s own design. This very home had been a wedding present decades ago. The upstairs consisted of three rooms: an office for Mr. Bennet, a master bedroom, and what would be the children’s bedroom.
She was a dutiful wife indeed, yet never enough.
Perhaps that was the reason why…
Her mind hadn’t traveled to that dreaded bedroom in ages, currently serving an alternative purpose as storage. It was no matter. Mr. Bennett wouldn’t have to fret over children much longer.
The business she was attending resided in Mr. Bennett’s office, just to the right of the staircase’s conclusion. Evergreen damask wallpaper defined with metallic accents, the designs glimmered in the light of the sun, bathing the skin in a tingling warmth. But in the depth of night, illuminated by a single bulb, it served as a warning.
For the fine decor served a single, sinister purpose.
Perhaps it was the reason Mr. Bennett was tardy, illness finally taking its toll, claiming the victim it so haughtily craved. It wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, would it? The ingredient had been impossible to come by. After all, no self-respecting businessman would ever willingly pawn the blueprint to ensure demise. Mrs. Bennett had found her way despite this. The mere proximity was enough to slowly render the inhabitant incapacitated. The possibility of symptoms had been extensive, a list longer than the menus she fancied during the holidays. Mrs. Bennett wanted to ensure her husband mingled with them all, dancing with the devil himself.
“Martha!”
Her name brought her forth from a decadent trance. She peeled herself away from the wall, never touching, yet just close enough to taste the tingle of the inevitable. The man of the hour had finally come, and Mrs. Bennett descended the staircase to greet her husband.
“Darling,” his wife started as she descended in a spiral, arms outstretched in invitation. “Home so soon?”
Her jest didn’t bode well with her husband, though that was nothing new, a scowl overtaking his countenance. “Don’t patronize me, Martha… My work is of utter importance.”
Ah, yes. As a matter of fact she could smell its importance upon his breath. The local tavern just down the road proved to be his true place of employment, drinking away their savings as though their blood glimmered with gold.
“What could be more important than accompanying me for dinner?”
Arthur Bennett made no effort to reply, shrugging off his jacket, thrusting it into his wife’s open arms alongside his hat. Mrs. Bennett fastened them on the coat rack to her husband’s left, maintaining such a hopeful expression.
Mr. Bennett entered the dining room diminished to cold food and extinguished candles, his annoyed countenance only furrowing further; this wasn’t the treatment he’d grown accustomed to. Regardless, the man fastened himself at the head of the table, itching incessantly at the back of his gloved hand.
Mrs. Bennett, having disappeared for a moment, emerged from the kitchen with a hot plate not two seconds later, taking the one afflicted with chill for herself. After all, she wouldn’t want her husband to return to cold food. What sort of wife would she be then? She aimed to show him exactly what kind of woman he’d married.
Mr. Bennett mumbled a quick thank you, dodging his wife’s kiss as he shoved a spoonful of bouillon down his gullet. Mrs. Bennett’s eye twitched—he was simply exhausted from work—but her silent encouragement had proved a mantra for years now.
The pair dined in silence only stifled by fits of coughing or silverware clattering against fine china. On occasion Mrs. Bennett would look up from her plate to find her husband still scratching that incessant itch.
“Have you taken a visit to the hospital recently?”
“Not since the last time you pestered me.”
His symptoms only seemed to worsen since then.
“Forgive me for worrying, but you’re unwell.”
“It’s simply the flu.” Mr. Bennett made quick work of shutting down any proceeding conversations.
The flu didn’t explain that incessant itch, or the way his skin had slowly grown discolored over time. Energy diminished alongside his temper. Arthur Bennett would soon take a turn for the worst, Mrs. Bennett was sure of it.
Matter of fact, she was counting on it.
“And what exactly did they say the last time I pestered you for a visit?”
Mr. Bennett sighed, clearly not in the mood.
“Were you deaf when we last spoke on it?”
“Clearly. Amuse me, won’t you, darling?”
Arthur Bennett’s gaze bore into his wife like a hot knife, condemning her to fractions, doing away with what remained. A gaze of this degree was reserved for one’s enemy, not his loving wife.
“Allergies, Martha. They named it allergies.”
Mrs. Bennett nodded her head, slicing her bit of chilled beef, popping the fork behind her teeth. “And I’ll take it a bottle of drink helped you complete this evening’s work?” Arthur Bennett slammed a gloved fist against the table, patience forgone. “Can’t you see I’m trying to enjoy my meal in peace?”
When Mrs. Bennett first put her plan into motion, she truly considered if she was doing the right thing, regretting her actions in the name of the life her husband alone had provided. She thought he might change, that illness would rekindle the love she once believed they shared. But this man, the stranger sitting in front of her, wasn’t who she promised her life to.
She’d grown tired of mistreatment. No matter how much she fought for his love, she was only afforded an icy demeanor. This would continue until the day they were dead and buried. Mrs. Bennett had a life to live.
Ascending from her seat, the woman produced a kettle from the kitchen, a pair of teacups held on her index finger. “I’d almost forgotten to fetch the tea. This is a brew I’ve made especially for you.”
Mrs. Bennett pondered on what she was about to do, what she’d been doing for the past few months. This was wholly unlike her, straying from her mother’s teachings of patience and virtue. But she had approached a breaking point, and there was no turning back now, not when the man before her was already condemned to a premature death by her hand. Mrs. Bennett poured the tea.
Her husband continued his bothersome itching, coughing like a madman. Mrs. Bennett did well not to comment on it, instead urging her husband to shed the gloves he’d worn all day. “You’ll wear them thin,” She reasoned, sliding the piping hot cup towards the man. “Then you’ll bother yourself with acquiring a new pair.”
And just as Mrs. Bennett predicted, her husband’s hands were coated in lesions; swollen, aching red from being fussed with. She said nothing, eyes trained on the afflicted skin, the way her husband irritated it further and further.
There was a moment where she considered spilling the cup’s contents onto the woven majesty of their tablecloth. Despite his hostility, the lord above had taught his children to kill another was akin to condemning oneself.
“If only you knew how to hold your tongue like a real wife,” her husband chided, sipping on the tea.
Any reservations she’d held close fizzled away.
Mrs. Bennett sucked in a breath, sweat beading upon her temple, waiting for something to occur. In truth, she hadn’t believed herself in possession of the gall necessary to attempt such a stunt. But now that she was here, awaiting the results of her transgression, there was nothing more to do than anticipate.
Patiently. As a dutiful wife should.
“Our home is truly coming together as I intended in our youth,” Mrs. Bennett began. “I’m particularly driven to that marvelous wallpaper I had installed in your study.”
Mr. Bennett, in the midst of yet another coughing fit––still clearly irked, spoke through a clenched fist. “I fear that study haunts me.”
She watched as he began heaving in an effort to catch his breath.
Mrs. Bennett hummed. “How so?”
“It’s the strangest thing… I can’t withstand a mere hour without my head pounding in irritation, or growing dizzy as though drunk on cider.”
“Is that why you work until such late hours?”
A clench of the man’s throat, seething. “Yes.”
They persisted this way for many minutes, civil chatter despite Mr. Bennett’s irritation regarding his worsening condition and innocent inquiries. Every day, Mrs. Bennett watched as her husband wasted away before her, nearly the husk of a once seemingly noble man. She almost felt ashamed for what she’d been doing, but she’d approached a wall, descended past the point of breaking.
This was the only way she could live with herself.
Even if it meant without Arthur Bennett.
Dining had approached its conclusion, Mrs. Bennett biting to the bed of her nails, beads of blood puddling at her fingertips.
Why hadn’t it worked yet?
She didn’t know the first thing about assassination, but surely it didn’t take so fucking long. Mrs. Bennett was growing painfully irritated, watching as her husband dabbed at the sides of his mouth with an embroidered cloth. Her husband stood erect, Mrs. Bennett’s eyes lingering on his every move. He faltered, stumbling over himself as he attempted to depart for the master bedroom. Holding his head in sore-stricken hands, the woman was quick to guide her husband back into a seated position.
Finally.
“Are you unwell?”
“Slightly. I only require a moment to collect mysel—”
Despite his condition, Mrs. Bennett seized the opportunity to exploit his vulnerability. “Where were you this evening?” His every word escaped his lips as though engaged in struggle. “Now is not the time.”
“Oh, I assure you this is the perfect time. Where were you, Arthur?”
The man held his head, the room trapped in a cyclical waltz. “Working, Martha. I was working.”
“Is that what you’ll have me believe?”
“The truth?”
“You deceive me.”
“We are bound by the laws of marriage, I would never.”
His wife hummed in acknowledgement, bringing forth a pile of paperwork from the cupboard drawers: a series of envelopes in varying sizes, letters and check stubs. The lady of the house tossed them forth for her husband’s perusal.
Arthur’s heart leaped from his chest, but his expression remained stoic. “You searched my study?”
“The lesser of the present evils, wouldn’t you say?”
One following another, Mrs. Bennett read through the various letters—declarations of love, checks addressed to women she had never even heard of—though the ones she had only pained her that much more. The further she descended, the more her husband’s condition seemed to fester, the poison taking its toll.
“How does it feel, darling? To slowly descend into madness, losing everything you thought you knew about yourself, and for what?”
“Martha?”
“How do you like the tea? Or rather, a better question, how has your new wallpaper been treating you?”
Foam dripping from his lips, Arthur Bennett could only bring himself to formulate a single word.
“P…ois…on.”
Mrs. Bennett, for the first time in months, allowed a genuine chuckle to escape. “Honestly, I thought you were smarter than this, than all of this.”
Mrs. Bennett stripped the wedding band from her finger, watching it glisten in the light of the gas lamp. For so long she’d seen it as a symbol of their infinite love, of a betrayal that would never come to pass. All she asked of her husband was faith, and in return she offered everything she was.
But people changed. Her husband changed.
Martha had to change.
Allowing it to slip from her fingers Martha watched the band clink against the rim of Mr. Bennett’s teacup, splashing against chamomile mixed with poison.
“I’ve been rather meticulous with how I went about it, I must say. From the wallpaper to your clothing, to the very tea you’ve sipped. How is it, by the way, the taste of arsenic?” Martha knelt beside Mr. Bennet, who had long since been lost to the poison, only a husk of consciousness left to recognize him by.
“And fret not, dear Arthur, the maid and her bastard son will be taken care of.” Heaving his final breath, Martha could finally allow herself to relax. But her act of revenge had not come to pass, no. There was more to be done, so much to account for before she could finally be free of her husband’s adulterous alter ego.
She would start by pouring Cibil a cup of tea.
Bryanna Bernice is a writer and aspiring author born and raised in the United States. From a young age she found a love of literature and story-telling, her dream to turn a lifelong passion into a career.
Featured image by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash
