Guide Book

For Mary Blake, from her mother, Fanny Rawlins Blake, who swears an oath to God that the following account is true and complete.

FRB, November 1804, written on the merchantman Marguerite.

Fanny Blake Manuscript, Part 6

The Birth of Ned and Its Consequences

To my relief, Mr. Blake was often away from the estate, conducting business in London, and I gradually took up an acquaintance with Mr. William Heath, the architect who had designed the house and was completing work on the pleasure grounds. Though he shared the same given name as my husband, in this alone they were allied. Here was a man of broad knowledge, great generosity of spirit and delicate sentiment. There was about him a sense of sadness that I shared. He was a man who felt deeply. We began our acquaintance talking about the placement of shrubberies and the lay of the walks about the lake, but gradually began to converse more widely on botany, history, English literature and music. It was not long before the lasting bonds of friendship united us.

Being desirous of securing the goodwill of the neighborhood, Mr. Blake hosted a series of dinners at Stoney Grove during our first season of residence. Whilst adept at seeing to the comforts of the bachelor guests that my father had entertained during my youth, I was uncomfortable in the society of ladies, for I associated with them all of the ill will and contempt that I had experienced from their sisters and aunts on Nevis. However, not wishing to gratify their expectations of inexperience and provincialism, I observed their habits keenly, and learned to emulate them. Soon our household was deemed acceptable, and I was welcomed into the company of the Puckering worthies.

During your infancy, Mr. Blake began to entertain misconceptions about the nature of the relationship that had sprung up between Mr. Heath and myself. A chance comment by one of the household servants aroused his jealousy, and he banished Mr. Heath from the property. I was subjected to a steady stream of accusations, and as the time drew closer for me to deliver his second child, he threatened dire consequences if it should prove to resemble the darkly handsome features of Heath rather than his own common visage.

The child, when he came, resembled neither my friend nor my husband. Instead, through some mysterious power that sought to recall my early ancestry, the babe had the beautifully brown skin and eyes of my grandmother. Prior to his birth, I had settled on the name of Ned should I bear a son. I thought it the best tribute to my dear brother I could give when I first looked at the child's innocent new face. Yet whilst I greeted the tiny newcomer with great joy, I also knew great fear. I was ignorant of my husband's familiarity with my own history, and I had taken no pains to enlighten him about it. About his displeasure, there could be no doubt, and I dreaded his return to Stoney Grove.

Mr. Blake was away from home for a fortnight after the birth of the child, and as each day passed, the dread of the inevitable meeting grew within me. My fears were not extravagant, for when the father saw the son, he flew into a great rage, and swore to kill me and the babe. I was subjected to a thousand curses, and he paced the room furiously, racking his brain to arrive at a satisfactory solution to the paternity of the child. As no persons of colour lived in the neighborhood, he could not comprehend how I had betrayed the marriage vows. I pleaded with him, promising to solve the mystery if he would spare the child. To this he eventually agreed, his curiosity overcoming even his abhorrence of the infant or myself, and I explained to him the circumstances of my birth.

To this intelligence he could find no quick response, could place no blame, for he had never enquired about my family connections before, and I had never lied to him. The child, clearly, was his own, though how he would bear the shame of it was not to be seen. He departed my company, and went to brood in solitude, whilst I fell into exhausted sleep.

When I awoke and called for the nurse to bring me the child, she did not come. I rang for the maid, and receiving no answer, set out in search of some aid. In this I failed, however, for the door was securely locked, and I was a prisoner in my husband's house.

How many days passed in that state, I do not know. Periodically the nurse brought me food or drink, but I could not eat, thinking of my poor baby starved for want of his mother's milk. When it became clear that my health was endangered, the nurse sent word to my husband. "The child is dead," he declared, without preamble. "Don't be a fool, Fanny. You must eat. You've still got one child to look after, and she needs her mother." He paused, and then roughly added, "And you need not fear for your own life. I shall not die without an heir." And with these words, he quitted my company.

I did not see him again for many weeks, for following his callous declaration, he left the estate altogether. I cared not where he had gone, nor for how long. I cared little for anything. I sat in my rooms, nursing my hatred for him and for life in this foreign place. Carefully I reviewed my history, examined my actions, held myself accountable for the death of my son. What had I done wrong? How could I have saved him?

My life, upon reflection, had been one of virtue, obedience and humility. I had been a loyal daughter, a diligent scholar, a loving sister, a faithful wife. After painful self reflection, I resolved that my only sin in life had been this: that I had seen injustice and cruelty in the world, but had always thought it beyond my duty to oppose it. In my birth, I was blameless, nor should I feel guilt, for who had loved me more than my grandmother, my brother and my father? That society sought to punish me for the affections that passed between my parents was neither just nor defensible. That such condemnation of affection had resulted in the death of my son was insupportable. It could not stand unanswered.

The resolution of my deliberations, when it came, neither surprised nor frightened me. If a blameless child could die at the hands of his father, surely this cruel man could expect no better sentence, delivered by the hands of his wife. In short, I resolved to kill Mr. Blake, your father, quickly, elegantly, and without mercy.

The English countryside was still unfamiliar territory to me, and although I settled on poisoning as the most efficacious means of arriving at my goal, the agent of his death eluded me for several days. Then the arrival of a long-awaited package put the question to rest. Some months earlier, I had written to Miss Stewart to beg her the favour of sending me the seeds and tubers of some of my favourite flowers from my father's estate. With the aid of Mr. Heath, I was intent on raising them in the greenhouse. The comfort I had sought in the gentle company of their blossoms and sweet aromas was replaced by the gratification I felt when it became clear that several amongst them were capable of delivering Mr. Blake from this world to the next with great subtlety and swiftness.

Your father himself removed another obstacle to his demise, for being displeased with the unfinished state of the grounds, and realizing that his judgment of Mr. Heath had been unfounded, he recalled the architect to work. With his innocent assistance, I set about sowing the seeds and nurturing them to maturity. Whilst this undertaking delayed the achievement of my aim by several months, it filled me with a deep satisfaction at the appropriateness of the punishment.

As the plants grew and flourished in their glass prison, I considered the method of administering the fatal dose. I resolved that it would not be food-borne, for the risk was too great that some vestige of it would be consumed by one other than the intended victim. However, bearing no great love for members of the household, who had refused me aid during my hour of greatest need, I decided that a brief bout of illness shared amoungst them would not be undeserved.

I completed my preparations, and awaited the signs that would set my plan in motion. In early November, I awoke to a rainy, windy morning, and I knew that by nightfall my husband would be dead.

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