Free A Taste for Nightshade by Martine Bailey

Michael, was especially enthusiastic, having long held the ambition to make his fortune using the modern means of manufacturing cotton. An arrangement between our two families would bring profit to us all.
    â€˜Michael has had his troubles and now needs a steady wife,’ he said. It was not said in jest, that was clear from his manner. ‘I speak plain, for that’s the best way.’
    â€˜But who will tend to me?’ whined my father.
    Mr Croxon turned back to him. ‘Any kin of mine will live decently; do you understand that, Moore? We will hire you a servant.’
    â€˜I’ll not have that,’ my father began. ‘Grace is no expense, like some hoity servant. I’ll not keep a slave—’
    â€˜Listen, Moore. I’ll settle ten pound a year beer-money on you. Well?’
    â€˜You sure he’ll take my daughter?’ my father said, pursing his loose lips as if he tasted bitter aloes. ‘She’d be summat of a gawk beside your fine lad.’
    I stared into my lap, mortified.
    â€˜He’ll have Grace – aye, he will,’ replied Mr Croxon, eyeing me somewhat like a dealer at a market. ‘She hides her light beneath a bushel, but a quiet girl will suit our Michael. I’ll get my lawyer to look into it. Shake on it, Moore?’
    I heard Father spit in his palm, and saw Mr Croxon’s distaste. I rose and retired to the kitchen, but my hands could not lift a plate for trembling. I slumped on the stool by the fire and raised a glass of ale to my lips. But for the first time I tasted its cheapness, and spat it back into the glass. Everything about me was displeasing – the halfpenny twists of tea on the broken shelves, the smoke-stained hearth, the drab and damp-patched kitchen itself. I scraped the congealed pease and bacon into the fire, where it smoked and spat.
    To my astonishment, I understood my morning’s dream foretold a blissful future. I allowed myself to sink into a daydream; of another life opening before me, of respectability and riches, at my shoulder a vague silhouette of a man, as yet featureless, but fashionably clad. Someone kind, civil and – dared I hope? – eager to cherish and love even me.

6
The Thames to Manchester
Summer 1792
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    âˆ¼ To Make Virgin’s Milk ∼
    Take equal parts of Gum Benjamin, a fragrant resin from the meadows of sunny Sumatra, and Storax, the Sweet Gum of Turkey, and dissolve them in a sufficient quantity of Spirit of Wine. The Spirit will then gain a reddish tint and exhale a fragrant smell of tropical balm. Place a few drops into a glass of clear water and by rapid stirring the contents will instantly become milky. The mixture is used successfully to clear a sun-burned complexion and give a spotless white tint, for which purpose nothing is better, or indeed more innocent and safe.
    A most superior mixture, Mrs Quinn of the Theatre Royal
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    It was drizzling when they reached the Thames. Mary stood at the rail, letting the sooty rain patter across her face, blessing the grey sky and the shiny quay. Though it was afternoon, it felt to her as though she viewed the world through the bottom of a brandy bottle, she had grown so used to the sun, a golden ball in a hot blue sky. Yet even under cloud the port was a lively scene; sailors scurried about their ships, beggars worked the crowd, a gaggle of mudlarks scavenged along the shoreline. It was all quite astonishing after months of flat sea and sky.
    As for the parson, he was still laid low, waiting in his cabin to be carried to a hospital.
    She fingered the coins in her pocket. The crew had made a collection for the orphaned missionary’s daughter. She would have liked more than fifteen bob for that spanking tale of a native kidnap, so maybe some of the crew hadn’t been taken in after all. But none of that mattered now. She had the means to find Charlie and plan the next throw in the game.
    Once off the ship, she felt like a