The Forbidden Orchid Page 14

  Alex walked away, and I wondered if I should ever see him again. He paused and leaned down to scratch a tabby cat under the chin. The cat rolled over and waved its paws in the air. Kukla licked the cat’s face and barked. Alex laughed and continued down the dock, the little black-and-white dog leaping at his side.

  Papa looked at me curiously. “He’s cut from fine cloth, that boy.”

  “He is,” I said, turning away a little so that Papa could not see my tears.

  I put my hand up to where Alex had touched my shoulder. I could still catch his scent in the air—he smelled of wool and wood and of the wind.

  PAPA SAW ME INTO A CAB TO TAKE ME TO VICTORIA STATION FOR THE train home. He kissed my cheek and departed as though I’d see him again the next day, with no good-bye or message to Mamma or the children.

  It was an interminable, dismal ride to the station, and I stared out the window at the shifting light from the afternoon sun, feeling numb with worry and aching for my father. My hand dipped down several times to touch Kukla’s head, and my heart wrenched when my fingers fell on nothing but air. I missed her cheeky presence, but I also missed her master. Silly of me. I barely knew him. Yet I felt he would never judge me for my father’s absence, as others had. I felt he would understand possibly more than anyone, and this was a rare thing indeed.

  I wished I could return to Kew to walk the grounds one last time. I still hadn’t been inside the Palm House, and I would probably never get another chance. I found I wanted to go there bady, if only to feel the warm mist on my face and the brush of the palm fronds in my hands. It was probably the only chance I would have to experience a rainforest. And somehow, I felt this would bring me closer to Papa. I knocked on the roof of the carriage and the cabbie slid open the hatch. “Can you take me to Kew instead?”

  He nodded and touched the brim of his cap.

  VICTORIA GATE, THE ENTRANCE TO KEW, HOVE INTO VIEW, AND I gathered my valise and reticule and departed the cab. I was making my way down the pavement when I heard a voice call out from behind me.

  I turned to see a blonde-haired woman dressed in a bright yellow gown festooned with many ribbons and gewgaws. A tiny green bonnet sat perched in front of a round braided hairpiece. She looked rather like a sunflower advancing down the road. She inched along, taking tiny careful steps and holding a handful of her skirt. “I do beg your pardon, miss,” she said, “but aren’t you Hugh McGregor’s daughter?”

  “Who is asking?” I replied, unsure of who this woman was and what she wanted from my father. For a dizzying moment, my mind gnawed on my old worry, and I was afraid she was going to claim Papa as her love.

  She held out a lace-gloved hand. “I’m Eugenia Pringle, Erasmus Pringle’s wife. He sent me here to find your father, as I was staying in London with some . . .” She looked around as though searching for an answer. “Friends.” She had a strange accent. At times she sounded quite eloquent and well-spoken but then I could hear the patter of an East Ender slipping through.

  I shook her proffered hand briefly. Her fingers were thin and cold under the lace. “I don’t understand,” I said. “What would Mr. Pringle want? Papa is on the ship to China this moment. Mr. Pringle knows that. There’s nothing more we can do to appease him.”

  “I have a letter for him from my husband. I understand your father lives at Kew, so I was just about to go there. Could you point the way to his cottage?”

  “How did you know I’m his daughter?”

  “Mr. Pringle described you perfectly. Quite perfectly. Not many girls are as tall as you. Why, upon my soul, Miss Buchanan, I believe I could have picked you out in a crowd! And your ginger hair shines like a new penny.” She reached out a hand and touched the hair in front of my bonnet. “So straight and so fine. How I wish I possessed such locks. Yellow ringlets such as mine are so old-fashioned—”

  “My father is not at his cottage. He’s already on the Osprey,” I said, interrupting her patter. “The tea clipper. Mr. Pringle knows this. I wrote to him myself with all his details. Why didn’t he send the letter to the ship?”

  Mrs. Pringle let out a little titter. “I’m such a flibbertigibbet. I do recall now. The Osprey. Headed to Canton. Of course, of course.” Mrs. Pringle looked around again, frowning, and then turned her attention back to me.

  “No,” I said. “Not Canton.”

  “My mistake. Foochow, then?” she said, more of a question than a comment.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry to be hasty, but I do have a train to catch. Can I ask what the letter says? He departs early in the morning. You’ve not much time to contact him.”

  “I do beg your pardon!” She tittered and rested her hand on my arm as though we were the dearest of friends. “My husband’s other plant hunter found the orchid, and he has no need of Mr. McGregor.”

  “How? By my understanding the orchid is quite difficult to find.”

  She waved her hand. “Dumb luck, I’m guessing.”

  “But the debt?” I said. “What of that?”

  “The debt?” Her brow furrowed.

  “What Papa owes to your husband? We have no way of paying it if Papa doesn’t fetch the orchids.”

  “Oh, the debt!” She waved her hand. “My husband has discharged it.”

  What a peculiar and capricious man Mr. Pringle was. First, all threats and aggression, now he showed this benevolence. But it mattered not. I was so relieved that Papa could depart the ship that my knees nearly buckled with it. I needed to return to the East India Docks and get Papa off the Osprey. I would insist he leave Kew and come home, and that we draw a line through this terrible ordeal. “I’m very glad of this. I must say it’s quite a relief for me, as I know it will be for my father.”

  She glanced over my shoulder again, and I turned to see what was distracting her. A man leaning against the brick wall a little ways ahead stepped back into the shadows. Something flashed in the sunlight as he moved, and I saw it clearly, as though he’d held it up for me to see.

  Instead of a right hand, he possessed an iron hook.

  There is, in point of fact, one particular orchid hunter who has a hook for a hand and has made it his life’s mission to slit my throat with said hook at the very next opportunity. My father’s words came flooding back, and fear shot through my veins like quicksilver.

  There, on the Kew Road, was my orchid thief.

  And I had told his accomplice where Papa was going. I should have known she was an imposter as soon as she called Papa Mr. McGregor. Mr. Pringle knew Papa’s real name, knew that he traveled under an assumed name.

  “It’s a lovely orchid, is it not, Mrs. Pringle?” I said, trying valiantly to keep my voice from shaking. “Mr. Pringle told me how much you adored it. Why, the color matches the very yellow of your gown.”

  “Oh, yes. It is my favorite bloom, that orchid. A stunner.”

  “And a scent to match. Almost lemon.”

  “Very much so. Such a treat.” Again, her gaze flitted over my shoulder.

  I did not know who this woman was, but she was certainly not Mrs. Pringle.

  I stepped back from her.

  “The orchid is most assuredly not yellow.”

  “A mistake! I confused it with . . . with another orchid of my husband’s.” A mark of apprehension flickered in Mrs. Pringle’s eyes for a moment.

  “Then tell me the color of the Queen’s Fancy, if you say you know it.”

  She hesitated. “I don’t know it,” she finally said, her voice petulant. “I cannot be expected to know the colors of all the blooms.”

  I held out my hand. “May I see the letter?”

  “It’s not for you, it’s for your father.” She held her reticule to her chest as though I would snatch it. “Besides, what would that matter? You won’t know me ’usband’s fist.” This she delivered in a broad East End accent, dropping any pretense o
f an upper-class accent.

  “I would recognize his handwriting, as I have seen it myself.”

  The woman bit her lip, her eyes shifting again.

  I spied an empty hansom cab waiting across the street, the cabby sitting high atop his perch waiting for a fare. I could not visit the Palm House, nor could I return to Kent. I had to warn my father. I had given away the ship’s name and its destination, and now the treasure map would make sense. It would be nothing for them to follow him now. A simple trap. How could I be so stupid?

  I picked up my skirts and dashed over the road. I had to get away. I had no idea what the orchid thief would do to me, but I knew one thing: they would not take lightly to me rushing to warn Papa.

  “Curse it!” the woman shouted. “She’s rumbled us, Duff!” I heard her little heels clacking on the pavement behind me. “Thief!” the woman shouted. “Stop her! She’s stolen my bag.”

  I reached the cab and opened the door, flinging my valise and reticule inside. The cabby stared down at me. “Steady on, there! I ain’t taking fare from a robber. Be off with you!” He flicked his whip at me.

  “I’m not a thief,” I told him. “Please—”

  Someone grabbed the sash of my gown and jerked me away from the cab. I twisted about and found myself in the grip of the orchid thief.

  “Let me go!” I stamped on his foot, hard.

  He grunted. “You little hellcat!”

  I stumbled away from him, tumbling into the gritty road, landing on my elbows in front of the wheel of the cab.

  The horse shied, rearing and leaping forward in his traces. I pushed myself out of the way of the rolling carriage, my cage crinoline spinning around my legs.

  The man loomed over me, grabbed a handful of my blouse, and pulled me toward him. “You stupid, stupid girl,” he said, his breath hot and fetid. His cap had been knocked off in our tussle, and he grinned like a jack-o’-lantern, showing two front teeth made of gold. “You ain’t going anywhere.” His voice was low and menacing. “You ain’t telling your Pa nothing. And he won’t be getting none of them flowers, neither. Much obliged to you for telling me where he’s headed. I’ll be there before he will. You can count on that.”

  I felt my billhook, heavy in my pocket, and fumbled for it.

  He didn’t expect it, and he didn’t bother to defend himself.

  I struck out. I felt the blade rip into his flesh, flaying his cheek open. I saw the blood spill from the wound.

  The man screamed—an unlikely piercing screech for such a big man—filled with pain and horror. He let go of me and grabbed at his face, blood dripping gruesomely through the iron hook.

  I struggled to my feet and scrambled into the cab. “Go!” I shouted at the driver. The doors swung wildly as the cabbie plied his whip and the horse leapt forward.

  Out the window, I saw the orchid thief lying in the street. The sunflower woman knelt next to him, staring, open-mouthed, at my fleeing cab.

  We’d put a good distance between my attackers and us before the driver pulled his horse over. “I’m sorry, miss, but this is as far as I’m willin’ to take you,” he said, addressing me through the little hatch through the carriage roof. “Seeing as you’re a young lady and all, I didn’t want you to get hurt. But I don’t want to get mixed up in no bad business.”

  I couldn’t risk getting out of the cab and looking for another. Every single minute counted if I was to reach the Osprey ahead of the orchid thief. “No, please, don’t turn me out!” I said. “I’m not a robber and I’m not up to any scheme,” I said. “I don’t have time to explain, but I’m begging you. I need to go to the East India Docks. Please take me?”

  His gaze dropped to my hands. I hadn’t noticed that I still held the knife, the orchid thief’s blood drying on the blade. “Pardon me for saying so, but a young lady wouldn’t be carrying an evil-looking flick about like that, much less using it, if she wasn’t up to mischief. Not that I’m saying the man didn’t deserve what he got.”

  If altruism would not touch his heart, then perhaps avarice would. “I’ll pay you double your fare.”

  He hesitated. “All right, then. Double. But you’ll have to pay me now.” He named the colossal fee, and I swallowed.

  I counted out the money from my little purse. All I was left with was a few shillings, but it couldn’t be helped. Papa would give me more money when I saw him. I handed the coins up. The driver took them, shut the door on the little hatch, and the horse set off.

  I fumbled for my handkerchief and wiped the blood from the billhook’s blade. I wanted to vomit. Once an innocent implement used to care for living things, my billhook had been turned into a tool of savagery. I would never again pick it up to take a plant cutting without feeling the blade sinking into the man’s skin, seeing the gash open on his face. Maybe he would carry the mark of my knife on his face forever. Maybe he would remember me each time he looked into a mirror. I was part of the orchid thief’s life as surely as he was now a part of mine.

  Was this how soldiers felt on the battlefield? Did they always feel this way or did they reconcile themselves to violence? How much of their humanity slipped away when they drew their weapons to maim and kill?

  I shoved the billhook inside my reticule and pulled the drawstring tight. I hoped I would never have to hurt someone again. I wasn’t sure that my soul could survive it.

  I had the intention of telling Papa about the orchid thief and then returning home. But with every turn of the cab’s wheels, I felt a certainty grow inside of me—that warning him was not enough. Now that I’d experienced for myself Luther Duffey’s ruthlessness, I couldn’t let Papa search for the orchid alone. I had to find a way to go with him. I could help him, I knew I could. I could help him find shelter if he should become catatonic. I could cook and clean for him and keep him focused on the tasks of the day.

  Papa wouldn’t allow me on board the ship, that much was clear. Maybe I could appeal to the captain? But I then remembered how much Holst hated women on board. The tea clipper wasn’t a passenger ship, and the captain had nothing to gain by putting my request over his men’s superstitions.

  I fumbled with the strings of my reticule, tying and untying them, frustrated beyond measure. If I were a boy, I wouldn’t be dithering like this. I’d be at my father’s side right now. If I were a boy, the captain would welcome me on board, and I could make myself useful stuffing oakum or scrubbing the deck. If I were a boy . . .

  The cab stopped for traffic, and I happened to look to the left at that moment and I saw a street seller whose stall was hung with clothing. Boys’ clothing.

  My pulse began to quicken. I thought about what Alex told me a few hours ago. How he had stowed himself away in the hold, hiding amidst the cargo.

  I could be a boy. At least for a little while. I could get onto the boat disguised as one of the apprentices, and then stow away, just as Alex had. I could wait for the ship to sail far enough away from England that it wouldn’t be worth turning back, and then I would reveal myself. Papa would have to take me with him then.

  If Alex could do such a thing at age fourteen, then I could at age seventeen. It had turned out well for Alex; perhaps it would turn out well for me, too.

  But this sensible thought failed to stop my heart’s hammering.

  What about Mamma and my sisters? They needed me.

  But who needed me more? Neither of my parents was possessed of their full faculties, and so I was the only person who could make any rational decision about anything. At home, Mamma had the help of Violetta and our maid and even, dare I say it, Deacon Wainwright and his mother. I knew we had enough money put by to care for household expenses for many months—unless and until Mr. Pringle took it all away, of course. Violetta would have to rise to the challenge, as I had, and help Mamma.

  But who could help Papa? No one. Everything I had done to help him prepare for the tr
ip was tantamount to equipping an ill person with an umbrella and shoving him out into the wind and sleet to take his chances. Papa would be angry with me, but I’d rather him angry than dead or shut away in a debtor’s prison, which for him might as well be death.

  I took my writing case from my valise and wrote Violetta and Mamma a letter telling them that Papa had asked me to accompany him to China and I had agreed. My penmanship was messy and the paper dotted with blobs of ink from the cab’s jouncing, but it would have to do. I blew on the ink to dry it, folded the letter into an envelope and affixed a stamp.

  I knocked on the roof of the cab and asked the cabbie to let me out near the street sellers. I handed the letter up, which he agreed to post for me. I got out of the cab and went back to the stall I saw earlier, where I had enough money to purchase a large hessian sack and two sets of boy’s clothing—trousers, a rope belt, striped shirts, a heavy wool jacket, a neck handkerchief, and a knitted hat.

  I searched for a privy where I could change my clothes, and found one in a weed-choked garden down a lane off the busy street. The smell inside was almost overwhelming. I held my breath as best as I could, and teetering in the small space, I removed my skirt, bodice, and petticoats. As careful as I was, one of my gloves went down the necessary, disappearing into its dark, foul reaches, to be discovered by the night soil men, who would probably clean it and sell it on.

  I wanted to leave my corset on for modesty’s sake, but my chemise underneath it was too long to tuck into the trousers, and without a shift, the corset would chafe my skin to red welts in no time. I ripped my petticoat into strips and tied them around my breasts, flattening them as best I could. I hoped it would do. My breasts were small enough and the shirt voluminous enough that they wouldn’t show. I took the rest of my clothing off, apart from my pantaloons, and donned the boy’s clothing. My bonnet went into the sack along with everything else, and when I pulled the cap down over my head, the knit was thick enough to hide my bun. My boots were workmanlike enough to pass for a man’s, although they were probably finer than the usual hobnailed boots of a sailor.