Green Darkness by Anya Seton Page A

and darting at her as she tried to grab it and strangle it. Or sometimes she wanted to grab the snake and make it bite Celia Marsdon, who stood spread-eagled against the stone wall.
    The dream Celia had very long fair hair which she would not keep decently bound in a kerchief. That was one of her crimes. Another was the depth of her laced bodice. It showed pink nipples on the tips of full white breasts. Disgusting. So vile a creature should be destroyed. The crucifix said so. At this point Edna always saw a silver crucifix writhing with snakes, and Sir Richard standing behind it, laughing. He would not laugh when the wench was dead. God said so. God was perched on top of the crucifix and he had little black horns. “Kill!” he shouted. “Thou must kill! It is a commandment!” Then the snakes slithered off the crucifix and glided towards her. They reared their heads ready to strike.
    Each time that Edna awoke, she heard herself making the mewing stifled noise. And her fat body was clammy with sweat.
    She finally roused herself completely at the sound of the car returning from Ightham Mote. She looked down from her window. She watched as Sir Richard ran to the car, and saw Celia get out. She stared hard at Celia. While her brain felt thick, fuzzy. Her hands were shaking. She was trying to pour out more tincture as George timidly knocked then walked in.
    “Have a good rest, m’dear?”
    The green bottle rattled against the glass rim as Edna rounded on him. “Ye dumb bustard, creeping about like a cat. Ye’ve made me slosh me tonic. Wot be ye gawking at? Get oot a her-re!”
    George bit his lips, his round jaw trembled. They had been married twenty-six years and he was quite fond of her. He had always coped with her quick tempers by capitulation or flight. But he had never seen her like this. Nor heard her forget her careful diction. He glanced frowning at the bottle of tincture, even though the stuffy room reeked only of peppermint. “Ought you take more of that stuff?” His voice faltered and he retreated as Edna raised a massive arm as though to strike him. Instead she seized the glass and gulped down what liquid hadn’t spilled.
    “I need it for m’nerves,” she said in a more normal tone, “and my head’s splitting.” She belched and then began to hiccup.
    “You shouldn’t go down for dinner, you’re not up to it,” he cried anxiously.
    Edna hiccupped again and slumped on the bed. “Oh, I’m oop to it. Musht—must keep an eye on that mealy-mouthed minx.”
    “Please, Edna . . . please . . .”
    But her brain cleared, she stopped hiccupping and walked determinedly to the cupboard where the new evening frock from Harrods hung ready. It was of navy blue satin with white polka dots; it fitted snugly over the foundation garment which molded her abundant hips and breasts into a thick shapeless column. She ran a comb through her crinkled hair, polished her spectacles and set them squarely on her reddened nose.
    “Coom on,” she said with her usual authority.
    Edna had sat silent in the drawing room, contemptuously refusing cocktails—“I am afraid I don’t indulge.” At table she was silent, sitting like a monolith between Igor and Sir Harry, whose entire attention was devoted to Celia. Celia’s altered appearance and actions gave Edna a venomous satisfaction. The intruder, the interloper showing her true colors. Little slut, thought Edna. Her glance flickered once towards Richard, then back to Celia where it remained.
    After the chocolate soufflé, Celia signalled to the women, rose, and led the way to the drawing room. The men remained behind for coffee and port, since Richard continued the old custom.
    Celia poured coffee for the ladies. She responded to casual remarks from Myra, and Pam Bent-Warner. She assured Sue that the weather would probably hold, and there’d be tennis tomorrow. She brightly refused Lily’s whispered request that she take her temperature. “Oh, I’m all right,