Viper Wine by Hermione Eyre

crowd-frenzy that always attended her, clutched Kenelm’s hand, saying ‘No, no!’ excitedly, and shielding her face. But the crowd’s movement had been motivated only by the opening of a beer-hatch on the lower Drury Tavern, and as they ran and queued it was clear they had no interest in the Digbys’ coach at all. Kenelm, preoccupied by the royal halberdiers, barely noticed Venetia’s mistake; Chater, whom they had invited to ride with them, bit his lip and looked out of the window.
    Carriages rammed the street, and pikemen were checking every guest. The church chimes had already stopped when the Digbys finally entered the courtyard. The evening sky was like a stage-cloth, marbled pink and blue, and the air was Popish with incense, sweet clouds that hastened night and judgement on them all, as swallows turned tricks in the air, fast and faster till they became bats. Outdoors pews were packed with the congregation, whom Venetia ate up with her eyes, at least a hundred friends, or something like friends – so many massed and half-forgotten faces that Venetia had not seen for several years’ exile at Gayhurst during her childbearing and Kenelm’s absence. As they processed up the aisle of courtyard flagstones, Chater trotting in behind them, Venetia’s eyes roved over everyone:
    Master Stump’s brow has become heavy since he lost his property. My Lady Cecil’s face still has a lovely trusting turn, white as a legume, which never felt a moment’s sin or pleasure. Dame Peterkin’s jaw will not be trifled with. If those dark curls piled on top of her head are her own, then dogs can sing syllogisms. They’re wired horse hair, I warrant. That fine lady, whoever she is, has an ale-sot’s puffed and broken veins; this man eats too much meat and his eyes bulge. God forgive us all, for our souls are written in our faces.
    There is my coz Lettice – red is not a becoming colour to her – let me reach to hold her hand briefly. Bless her, for she cannot have found any friends yet – there she is sitting next to two old matrons twice her age. Lady Vavasour has drunk the silver tincture cure for the French pox, and her skin has turned grey-blue.
    Old Dame Overall has plaisters under her wig that draw the sagging skin tighter off her face. Dame Overall’s friend, her sister perhaps, has not used any plaisters and looks softer, looser, older. Hard to judge who looks worse between them. One has fought, the other submitted. Both are tragic.
    Venetia nodded respectfully at Aletheia Howard, the Countess of Arundel, thinking: She has filled her paps out with paper and her eyebrows are made from mink-hair and egg white, but she looks good on’t.
    Is that Olivia Porter? I do believe it is. Greetings, my dear. No sign of Endymion – he is more careful than to show himself here but he sends his wife alone. Olive looks unnaturally radiant. Like a fifteen-year-old girl who knows too much of life. And yet she is a mother of four living and more dead. I swear nature alone never made her cheek so flushed and peachy. I shall know more of this.
    ‘Praise the Father, Son and Holy Ghost,’ said Venetia, bobbing to the altarpiece set up where the new chapel would rise. Yes, she believed in the reading of faces, which was why she was wearing a veil to church: I would rather they thought me modest than knew me blown.
    In front of the altar stone, beside the candles, glowed bowls of new roses, fresh red. A blown rose had more grace and pathos than a crisp new rose, but no one wanted a blown rose. You wouldn’t give so much as a penny for their soft, wide-open faces, and their petals, which dropped at the lightest finger-touch; their pale evening scent carried further than new roses, but was touched with tiredness and putrefaction. The saying jingled in her head like coin – Against the blown rose they will stop their nose, that kneeled unto the buds.
    Venetia preceded Kenelm into their reserved pew. Oh Lord, thank you for giving us a good