The Forbidden Orchid Read online

  I sat down next to her. “You should take no heed of such gossip. Who cares what they say or think? It doesn’t make it true.”

  “But what if it is true?”

  “Dearest, there is no proof to this. We have money aplenty and nothing to worry about on that score.”

  Violetta scowled out the window toward town as though she could hear what the people were saying that very moment. As for me, I went on enduring the unwanted attention of the villagers and hoping desperately that Mamma heard none of it.

  Christmas was a grim affair.

  With Papa still in China and Mamma still unwell, Violetta and I did what we could to make the holiday merry for the children. But even little Delphine knew something terrible had taken hold of our parents. All the girls, save Fleur, Chrysantha, and Dahlia, who were too young to understand, played with their Christmas dollies quietly, declining to pull their crackers and picking at their plum pudding. The pantomime at the church hall on Boxing Day was the only thing that made them laugh, apart from nine-year-old Calla who was terrified of Clown, and shrank down in her seat and hid her face in my shoulder whenever he appeared, finally giving way to tears when Pantaloon and Clown began chasing Harlequin and Columbine. I took her home at the interval, leaving Violetta and Mary to mind our remaining sisters.

  When I arrived home with Calla, the afternoon post had been. On the hall table amongst the jumble of dolls’ clothes and frayed ribbons sat a letter addressed in copperplate and affixed with a wax seal stamped with the word KEW. It was addressed to Mamma, but I knew it could only have come from Sir William Hooker, the director of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, whom Papa had left as his proxy.

  I sent Calla up to the nursery to play with her doll and then turned the letter over in my hand, considering whether to give it to Mamma. If Sir William knew of Papa’s whereabouts, I wanted to know it first so I could prepare her if the news was bad.

  I took it over to the window, where some light from the afternoon winter sunshine streamed through, and broke the seal.

  December 26, 1860

  Dear Mrs. Buchanan,

  I have received word that Mr. Buchanan had been caught up in some conflict in September while collecting specimens for Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, and was taken prisoner along with several other Englishmen. I understand he had been injured, to what extent I am not privy, but I’m told reliably that his healing is ongoing and that he will make a full recovery.

  Mr. Buchanan is returning home on a steamship as I write and should be arriving in England in early February. I will keep you apprised of any further news. If there is anything I can do for you or for your family, please do not hesitate to ask.

  I remain your humble servant,

  Sir William Jackson Hooker

  Relief and fear filled me in equal measure. Papa had been injured. How badly? And then a very selfish idea occurred to me, one that made me so ashamed I blushed with the thought of it. If Papa was injured, then he’d be forced to come home, at the very least so we could nurse him back to health, but maybe he would be so happy here that he would remain. Forever.

  I folded the letter and went upstairs to Mamma to tell her the news, hoping that she’d be able to comprehend. All the while I chided myself for my wicked thoughts.

  I sat on the side of Mamma’s bed, where she lay staring up at her canopy. “Mamma,” I whispered. “Papa will be home in February. I’ve had word from Sir William at Kew.” I held the letter up. She turned her head, and for the first time in months, smiled.

  January of 1861 came and went, and Sir William wrote that Papa’s ship would be docking any day. As the first week in February unfolded, Mamma took to sitting in her window, staring down the road, waiting for Papa to arrive.

  The second week of February drifted past, as did the third. Finally we heard from Sir William, who told us that Papa had arrived in England, taken a cottage in the grounds of Kew, and had chosen to remain. He was suffering from melancholy and wanted time alone, Sir William wrote, promising that he would keep us apprised of any further news.

  “Why don’t you go to him?” I asked Mamma. “Convince him to come home, where we can look after him.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t agree with the way your father has lived his life. His headstrong behavior caused his troubles, as ever. I’m weary of trying to convince him to stay home and to stop taking chances, but I can’t nail his boots down.”

  “But Mamma, maybe—”

  “No, Elodie. I’ve always held your father by a gossamer thread. The last we saw one another, on that ill-fated Christmas, I felt that thread begin to sever. Don’t you understand, Elodie? He’s chosen. He wants to live apart, and I will not give up the little pride I have left by begging him to return.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mamma.” I hugged her close.

  She kissed the top of my head. “I tell you, my daughter, do not fall in love with an adventurer. Your heart will never stop breaking.”

  Mamma left her window, returned to her bed, and refused to rise.

  THREE

  I don’t think this medicine is doing my mother much good,” I said to the doctor at the end of February. “She only wants to sleep.”

  “Forgive me, Miss Buchanan, but sleep is often the best medicine.” He smiled tightly and handed me yet another bottle of Chlorodyne.

  “How much sleep could she possibly need? It’s been months since Dahlia was born. Mama lies in bed constantly, and when she’s about, she has the look of a corpse.”

  “All the more reason to keep to the regimen. These things cannot be rushed, my dear.”

  “Perhaps this concoction is doing her more harm than good.” The medicine’s bottle was a very pretty cobalt blue, stopped up with a wide cork. Underneath the medicine’s name was a motto that declared: The Most Valuable Remedy ever Discovered: Assuages pain of every kind, affords a calm, refreshing sleep without headache, and invigorates the nervous system when exhausted. A list of ingredients in very small print ran round the base of the bottle. I’d never thought to look at them before, but now I held the bottle close to the sunlight coming from the window to read it better. Morphine Mur., Ext. Cannabis Indica, Nitroglycerin, Oil of peppermint.

  The last ingredient, oil of peppermint, was the only one I recognized, as we used it while making sweets at Christmas. “Perhaps one of these ingredients causes her to sleep.”

  Dr. Thumpston’s tight smile immediately transformed to a tight frown. Violetta was mistaken in her assessment of the man. Dr. Thumpston, with his round, red face, rather looked like a wheel of Dutch cheese. “I don’t think a young woman such as yourself would understand if I explained how the tincture works, and what is more, I don’t think it’s in your best interest to have such knowledge.” He cocked his head to the side. “And I’m unsure as to whether I welcome these queries from you. You have not studied the art of medicine, as I have. Has it escaped my notice? Are females now licensed by the Royal College of Physicians?”

  “I’m merely asking—”

  “And I’m merely telling you such knowledge is not for you.” He set his bag down on the floor and took my wrist, turning it over and laying his fingers upon the inside. His hand was cold and his touch grasping. He lifted his pocket watch and consulted this for a few moments, his lips moving as he counted. He nodded to himself and then tucked the watch away. “It’s as I thought. Your pulse is elevated, which is quite harmful for a virginal young girl such as yourself. You need to consider your fertility and safeguard yourself against anything that would bring harm to it. I fear you’ve become overwrought and I dare say bordering on hysteria. Perhaps caring for your mother and your sisters has undone you.”

  I pulled my hand away. “I disagree, Dr. Thumpston; I feel quite well.”

  But the doctor went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “Do you have relatives that can help you?”

  I shook my head. Both
sets of grandparents were dead. There was an uncle somewhere in Scotland, but my father never spoke to him, and we didn’t know much about him. My mother had a sister who lived in France. I supposed I could write to her, but she had children of her own, and leaving them would be a hardship for her.

  “Hmmm,” the physician said, looking thoughtful. “I can recommend your mother to an asylum and the younger children to the care of the parish. I’m sure the parson can find a place for you and Miss Violetta as governesses. It might be the best thing for you and for them. We must think sensibly now. Your father is out of the picture. . . .”

  I stopped listening to him, because right then I would have dearly loved to shove him into the nearest armchair, put my knee on his chest, and pour the damnable mixture down his own throat, just to see how he would like it. But such an outburst would most likely result in my own committal to an asylum. Calmness was the order of the day.

  From the corner of my eye I saw a scrap of pink print cotton swing past the door. Then Violetta peered inside the room and made a face, her nose scrunched up in distaste, but she did not come in.

  Coward! I mouthed as the doctor bent down to retrieve his bag. Violetta shrugged.

  “I suggest you take fifteen drops of the Chlorodyne yourself,” the doctor said. “It will do you no end of good.”

  I wanted to say something else; to tell him that I was unable to lie about when I had things to do, but nothing I said would do any good. Instead I went to fetch his payment from the box in my father’s desk. But at last I was unable to hold my tongue.

  “I’m unsure as to how you’ve made the leap from a simple question to having my family smashed to bits,” I said, giving him the money. And then I held my hands behind my back in case he wished to grab them again

  “I’m only looking after your well-being, as is my job.”

  He hesitated, regarding me for a moment as though to make an assessment as to whether I was sane enough for him to leave the house. What he was looking for I do not know, but I stood at my full height and did not slump or shy away. Perhaps he was expecting me to burst into tears under his steady gaze or wring my hands in misery, but I was my father’s daughter. And my father would never back down from such a ridiculous man. Finally he sighed, took his hat and coat from our maid, put them on, and left.

  Violetta came into the room. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  I gave her a long look. “Thank you for your help earlier.”

  She scowled and threw herself into the upholstered chair by the fire, swinging her legs over the arm. “And subject myself to his pinching hands and quackery? No thank you. I believe that doctor hastens people to their death directly they see him. As soon have the Grim Reaper touch them as Dr. Thumpston, I’d say.”

  “We have no choice. There’s no other doctor available unless we take Mamma to the next village, and she’s certainly in no fit state to travel.” I sat down on the other chair, placing the blue bottle on the little table next to it. “Dr. Thumpston would tell me nothing about this concoction. And he made me feel stupid for questioning him.”

  “What else did you expect? You’re a virginal girl; he’s a learned man. You must think about your fertility.” Violetta said this in a perfect imitation of his voice—low and pompous.

  I laughed. Violetta could always make me laugh. But then I sobered. “Did you hear him talk about placing Mamma in an asylum and the girls in the care of the parish?”

  “Those are mere words,” Violetta said. “I doubt he could bring about such a thing.” Her tone was light, but I could hear the doubt behind it. As females, we had little input in our own decision-making. And with our father absent, our situation was precarious at best.

  “He could if he had others on his side, such as the parson.”

  “Reverend Tuttle would never agree,” Violetta said. “I know he wouldn’t.”

  I hadn’t the heart to point out that Reverend Tuttle’s age and frailty had forced him to give more duties to the new deacon, Bernard Wainwright, who barely knew us. Deacon Wainwright acted as our reverend’s assistant and would become ordained and a full priest in a year’s time. I doubted that Reverend Tuttle even knew Mamma was unwell. Deacon Wainwright, as a newcomer, had shown himself eager to please, and I was sure he would agree with the doctor’s assessment immediately.

  “We have to find some way to communicate with Papa,” I said, even though I knew exactly how Violetta would react. Lately the near mention of the word papa was enough to send my sister in a snit.

  Immediately her face hardened, and she swung her legs to the floor and stood up. “Much good may it do you.”

  “If he knew what condition Mamma was in—”

  “He wouldn’t give a pin,” Violetta said.

  “He is unwell, Violetta; you know that.”

  “He has the ability to come home to his family. He can be melancholic here! Let us put him and Mamma side by side so they may stew in their own sad thoughts together.”

  “Violetta!”

  “And so then, how will we go to see him? We need someone to accompany us. We’ve never been out of Kent. Do you know where this garden is?”

  “Richmond upon Thames,” I said. “It’s only an hour’s train journey away. I’m sure dafter people than us have worked out how to get there.”

  But Violetta paid my comment no mind. “Do you know how to hire a hansom cab if we need one? I certainly don’t. And what if we arrive and Papa refuses to greet us? He won’t reply to our letters, so what makes you think he’d see us? It would be a fool’s errand.”

  “Papa would never turn us away—”

  “Of course he would! I don’t know why you insist on seeing the good in him! In taking his side. Always. He’s never shown himself to be anything more than selfish. He put us in this situation. If he were here, we wouldn’t have to be pushed about by men like that doctor!”

  “I can’t give up on him like you can,” I said quietly. “He loves us. I know he does.”

  “Then show me the love, for I cannot see the evidence.” Tears pooled in her eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “The man you speak of is one created in your own imagination. He doesn’t exist!”

  “I’m sorry, dearest. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please sit down and let us be friends again—”

  “When are you going to understand that he’ll never love us? Never. We’ll never compare with his flowers; he’ll never see us over them. And I don’t wish to be friends. Not just now!” In a swirl of petticoats, she stomped out of the room.

  I didn’t go after her. Instead I sat slumped in my chair, staring at that pretty blue bottle that promised to cure everything.

  I DRESSED FOR CHURCH THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY AND DECIDED THAT I would seek out the new deacon about the medicine. Fresh out of university, Deacon Wainwright would likely know what the ingredients on the Chlorodyne bottle were.

  At last, the organ wheezed out its final chord, and the service was over. I sent Mamma home with Violetta and then went up to him after the last parishioner had left.

  There were several things that put me off of Deacon Wainwright, and so I’d never directly spoken to him before. His sermons were filled with hell and brimstone instead of forgiveness and God’s love, as were the topic of our usual vicar’s sermons. I’d often left church filled with dread rather than happiness. In truth, I felt God’s presence in the forest and while tending my plants more than I did in the deacon’s church.

  Earnest to the brink of mania, Deacon Wainwright had embraced every aspect of his occupation, which was to look after the weaker members of the parish, namely the poor and the ailing. As to whom these might be, that was up to the deacon’s discretion, which caused him to overstep his bounds, as I had learned last week when he’d scolded Violetta for reading Wuthering Heights under the big oak tree on the common. “An unwholesome tome,” he’
d said, glaring down at her, and suggested she read the Book of Common Prayer instead. I’m not sure what offended Violetta more—that he’d poked his nose into her business, cast aspersions on her favorite novel, or used the word tome.

  He’d also managed to step on the toes of the local schoolmistress, who taught the six- to thirteen-year-old boys and girls of the parish at our only school, which was patronized by the church. He sorted through her curriculum in front of the children, and then stood chiding and correcting her as she taught. Lily and Calla had come home in high excitement, explaining how the indefatigable Miss June had stood at her desk, her face coloring from pink to red until she looked like she might explode from fury. I often longed for my school days, but that day I was glad I no longer attended.

  His care for the weak, however, did not include everyone. He refused to have anything to do with an unmarried mother of a baby boy, called Jane Dunning, who had recently arrived in Edencroft. She lived in a shabby one-room cottage in the shadow of the parish workhouse. Whenever she went abroad, the villagers hissed terrible words at her, such as harlot and whore. Only the baker would serve her, and that was just because of the little boy. Miss Dunning refused to fall upon the mercy of the parish and enter the workhouse, and so she took in work, unsavory work that no one else would do, such as cleaning up after the village dogs and selling the resulting pure to the tanner, and picking stones from the claggy soil in the nearby farmers’ fields. Mamma was furious that no one in the parish would help Miss Dunning, and before she fell ill she often took baskets of food and cast-off clothing to her.

  Deacon Wainwright blinked down at the slip of paper where I’d written the Chlorodyne’s ingredients, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Of course I know what these ingredients are,” he said, tilting his head back to speak to me. Deacon Wainwright wasn’t a short man, but I was a tall girl. I’d ignored the advice several women in the village had given me on numerous occasions to slump so as not to intimidate men with my inexplicable and unfeminine height. God had made me tall, and I saw no reason to question his wisdom in doing so. He’d also made me curious, so I saw no shame in seeking out answers. But for some reason or other, certain men found my height and my curiosity exceedingly annoying. Perhaps it was the devil in them that caused them to act so.