chapter 4

When William returns home her feet patter on the floor like some eager little lap dog as she runs to meet him and throws her arms around him. He laughs and picks her up by the waist to twirl her around and plant a kiss on her lips.

"How was your day?" she asks.

"Oh, terribly tedious. Not even worth troubling you over."

"Perhaps tomorrow I could go with you? The house seems so very lonely and quiet without you here."

"I'll put you in my pocket beside my handkerchief so that I can look at your pretty face to cheer me up when someone is being particularly vexing." His laugh is both indulgent and dismissive.

She pouts and he gives her cheeks a little pinch to make her smile again.

"Have you been a good girl learning to be the mistress of the house?"

She smiles at him sweetly and then lies through her teeth.

At dinner Lucy wrinkles her nose at the lump of cold ox tongue lolling on her plate and I feel so bilious at the mere sight of it that I cannot bring myself to push her so the plate is cleared away almost untouched. However, when she is served two scoops of vanilla ice cream in a beautiful cut crystal sundae glass for dessert I find that she needs no encouragement from me. I enjoy the shock of the frozen cream against my tongue and luxuriate in the heady musk of vanilla but I am a little surprised at how enthusiastically she eats up her delicious treat.

She brings spoonful after spoonful to her eager mouth and when she finally hears the clink of her spoon against the bottom of the class she looks as disappointed as a child who has been deprived its favourite toy. She scoops up the last dregs of melted ice cream from the bottom of the glass and as her tongue darts out to lick every last bit from her spoon she closes her eyes and gives a little contented sigh. I am quite unsure what to make of what I just witnessed but it feels like something gentlemen should be paying a sovereign to see through a peep hole in some shady Soho room.

On Saturday William teases Lucy all day by hinting at a special treat that he has arranged for her and laughs every time she guesses incorrectly at what it could be.

At dinner her surprise is finally unveiled: it's a magnificent ice sculpture in the shape of a pineapple and constructed out of a variety of different flavoured ice creams and sorbets so that it is as ornate and brightly coloured as a Faberge egg. I had often drooled over such incredible structures in the pages of Escoffier but had never seen one even at the most lavish of dinner parties. It must have taken Cook days to make.

After admiring the pineapple for what feels like an eternity Lucy finally takes a bite but I am consumed with such bitterness as he smiles her, pleased to indulge her childish tastes that I cannot savour its exotic flavours. I think of all the times I showed similar enthusiasm for food and had to endure his cruel little remarks like: "Don't you think you've had quite enough, dear? Cook won't know whether to put you or the pig on the spit on Sunday at this rate." or "Does Louisa seem idle to you? You're attacking that pie as if you want her to have to let out every one of your dresses again."

Patience was never a virtue that I was blessed with in life but in death I must learn to be the slow knife. I want her to balloon to impossibly huge proportions. I want her body to explode with fat until she can barely move. I want her to be so disgustingly obese that her reflection makes her weep and William cannot bear to look at her. But it doesn't work like that. Her appetite is still so small and my influence over her remains limited though I flatter myself that it is growing stronger by the day. My earliest victories are extra spoonfuls of roast potatoes or a slightly larger slice of pie but I snatch at these moments of sensation as if they are the most precious thing in the world. I learn that I must feed her my poison a little every day. Grain by grain, scruple by scruple I will be her undoing.

As the weeks wear on I notice that her body is beginning to expand. Her gaunt cheeks have filled out until they are cherubically chubby and - though her waist only thickens slightly - her breasts swell, her hips flare out and her bottom has rounded. However, I must admit that her face has went from pretty and doll-like to almost angelically beautiful and her figure is much improved. She has transformed from a girl to the womanly "S" shape that is the Victorian feminine ideal.

Damn her. For all my efforts I have only succeeded in making her more lovely to him and he smiles at her all the brighter.