The Forbidden Orchid Read online

  Deacon Wainwright frowned and then stepped up onto the pulpit’s bottom step to consider me better.

  The deacon had lovely eyes, rather the color of a tortoiseshell cat’s fur—brown with speckles of gold—and trimmed by very long lashes; they appeared strange coupled with the rest of his face, which was long and unremarkable. He looked as though God had assigned him someone else’s eyes.

  “The morphine is derived from opium, but unlike opium, its qualities do not create cravings,” the deacon went on. “In point of fact, several missionaries I know who work in China are helping opium sots to overcome their taste for the stuff by providing them with morphine tablets. The sots take these, and soon they are back on their feet and returned to work in the rice paddies and tea gardens.”

  “But Mamma is not back on her feet. If that is the case, then this morphine isn’t doing what it’s meant to do.”

  “Perhaps the savage Chinaman has a different constitution from the delicate Englishwoman, such as your mother, Miss Buchanan.”

  “And the other ingredients?” I asked him.

  He broke his gaze. “Ah, for flavoring, I believe. To make the concoction . . . less noxious.”

  “I understand the peppermint for flavoring, but this cannabis indica?” I turned the paper to him and pointed to the name. “What flavor does that give?”

  He turned to two elderly ladies who had toddled up, leaning on one another. “Ah! The Misses Jenkins! And how did you find the lesson today?”

  I waited for a moment, hoping Deacon Wainwright would turn back to me, but instead, he stepped down from the pulpit, took each lady by the elbow, and helped them down the stone steps and outside. I had the feeling that Deacon Wainwright didn’t know what the ingredients were at all, and this made me question his knowledge of the morphine.

  I sighed, and thus dismissed, I went home, only slightly the wiser for my questioning.

  At home, Mamma was abed again, having had her dosage of the medicine. I wasn’t convinced the Chlorodyne was as harmless as Deacon Wainwright or Dr. Thumpston claimed, and I made sure to keep control of the medicine so that Mamma couldn’t have access to it. I was terrified she would go into a sleep so deep she’d slip away into death.

  That night, I lay awake in bed, staring at the blue bottle of Chlorodyne perched on my nightstand. Perhaps I had no right to question the doctor; after all, he had my mother’s best interest at heart.

  I wondered what Mamma felt when she took the medicine. If I knew what Mamma was experiencing when she was under the Chlorodyne’s influence, then maybe I could stop worrying.

  I pushed the blankets aside and swung my feet onto the rag rug. Fifteen drops in water, the doctor had said. Maybe I should try it. I looked at Violetta on the other side of the bed, fast asleep. Then I took up the bottle, pulled out the cork, and held the bottle over my water glass, carefully counting as each drop settled, blooming into the water, turning it a murky brown. I stopped the bottle with the cork and set it aside, picked up the glass and took a tentative sniff. The water held a faint smell of peppermint and something else. Something sickly and cloying.

  Violetta snorted in her sleep and rolled over, turning her back to me. I took a tiny sip and made a face. Despite the peppermint oil and the other flavorings, the medicine tasted overly sweet; so sweet that it made my teeth ache.

  Faint heart never won fair maiden, so I shoved my braid over my shoulder and downed the water in one gulp. I set the glass down and settled back onto my pillows, expecting to be taken by the medicine right away, but I lay awake, staring up at the celling for a while, feeling nothing.

  A quarter of an hour later, a tingling lit my body, and I relaxed fully into the mattress, every muscle in my body losing tension. I had stubbed my toe on the iron bedstead in the children’s nursery earlier in the day; I could still feel the throbbing, but I no longer cared about it. Followed by this, a sense of euphoria overcame me, as though I were flying in the air like a kite. No. Flying untethered, like a bird, like a hawk. I worried about nothing; I only knew happiness. I was no longer fretting about my parents. Instead, I imagined myself at my father’s side, in a foreign land, filled with flowers of every color and size. I could smell them. I could almost reach out and touch them. This reverie went on and on, never ceasing, until, close to dawn, I finally slept.

  When the sun had risen, my euphoria was over, and in its place was a sense of despair like I had never known, as though everything had been taken from me. As though the sun would never shine again. Violetta later told me that she could not rouse me, and so she left me. I finally struggled awake, hours after I normally did, feeling wretched. I wanted to cry. I wanted to crawl under my blankets and take more of this capricious elixir that gave life and took it back so easily.

  When the clock struck ten, I forced myself to rise, fumbling to dress myself, my fingers slipping on my blouse buttons. I carried the bottle outside and dumped it out under an oak tree. I hurried to the house and refilled the empty Chlorodyne bottle with weak tea and, as we didn’t have any peppermint oil, the essence of peppermint I’d extracted from mint leaves and boiling water. I didn’t want Mamma to have any more of the Chlorodyne. I didn’t care what the doctor said.

  I was right to destroy the medicine. Day by day, Mamma returned to herself. At first prone to fits of crying and bouts of nausea, she eventually agreed to walk around the garden with me and Violetta, and then we expanded our wanders to the village and eventually the downs. After a fortnight of this regime, the bloom began to return to her cheeks, and she began to resemble her old self. She was still very quiet and continued to miss our father, but she no longer lay in bed hour after hour.

  “Did I not tell you the medicine would work?” Dr. Thumpston said on his next visit as he handed me a fresh bottle, which I swiftly decanted under the oak tree directly he left, replacing it with my own recipe of weak tea and peppermint infusion.

  “You did, Doctor, and we are ever so grateful,” I said, nearly gagging on the lie, but it would do me no good to tell him what I had done.

  “I hope you’ve learnt your lesson not to question those who know better than you.”

  “Oh, I have,” I told him. “It does me no good to argue.” This was, of course, the truth.

  FOUR

  I tried to occupy my mind and hands so as to keep from worrying about my family. I spent as much time in my conservatory as I could. The little children were happy to sit splashing their hands in the fountain or playing quietly amongst the plants, while I worked.

  At Christmas, Violetta had wanted the shelf in our bedroom for her new books, so I placed Papa’s little glasshouse in the conservatory. And at the end of February, a strange thing occurred. The conservatory was quite cold at night, and this appeared to suit the odd little plant atop the carved statue. I had assumed it was only a jumble of dried roots that Papa had used to make a wig for the statue, as they had lain dormant for over a year. But by and by, the roots began to change, pushing out leaves, and then a single stem, followed by a tightly closed bud. And then in early March, the bud burst into the strangest flower I had ever laid eyes upon. It was tiny, only the size of a twopenny piece, and it was the darkest purple—almost black at certain times of the day. It possessed a large bulbous pouch underneath three curving petals. What use this pouch served I could only guess. I wondered if my little plant had a matching pollinator, as Mr. Darwin claimed, and if the pouch lent itself to this purpose.

  I opened the little window on the house and reached in to touch the bloom. The petals felt like the softest skin, not flowerlike at all. And the scent of it, wafting through the open window, was exquisite—the most delicious raspberries topped with a dollop of vanilla cream. The flower captivated me so much that I snatched time away from my duties to lean over the glasshouse’s open window, staring at the bloom and inhaling its fragrance. The bloom lasted and lasted, never going over, never fading. It was as though
it were touched by magic.

  A few days after the flower bloomed Deacon Wainwright and his mother came to call, and since our maid and Violetta had taken the children to a puppet show and Mamma was in bed, I received the pair myself.

  After making chitchat, I invited Deacon Wainwright and his mother to see the conservatory. I must admit I made the offer because I had run out of things to say to them, and as I often saw him tending the rectory’s small cottage garden, I thought he might find the bloom as captivating as I, and that this might put us on some common ground.

  Mrs. Wainwright demurred when I made the invitation, behaving as though I had invited her to view the contents of our rag and bone barrel. “Bernard, are you sure you want to go into such a place?” She bobbed her head as she spoke. She wore a very old-fashioned bonnet that covered her entire head, a peaked tarlatan widow’s cap tucked underneath it, with streamers hanging down each side of her face. The whole thing was tied onto her head with a large black velvet bow. She was a widow and had continued wearing mourning for her husband, and her black crape skirts were so voluminous that one couldn’t tell the actual size of her. “It must be thick with flies and moths of all sorts. Think of the miasma. Think of your constitution.”

  “I’ll be quite fine, Mamma,” Mr. Wainright said, pressing his mouth into a smile. He set his teacup on the side table and stood up. “I’m sure Miss Buchanan is an excellent housekeeper, and I’ll wager she banishes all pestilence from her plants.”

  I would have to make sure to steer Mr. Wainright away from the corner where I stored my earthworm casts and ladybird house.

  Mrs. Wainwright reached out a gloved hand. “You know best, Bernard. But I shall remain here by the fire.”

  Deacon Wainwright squeezed her fingers. “Not to worry, Mamma.”

  I was filled with annoyance. Mamma. What man calls his mother Mamma once he is out of the nursery? My hand itched to reach out and slap him. I could picture it, my arm shooting out, my fingers and palm making contact with his cold cheek, the loud crack it would make, and his unaccountably beautiful eyes widening with surprise, his mother leaping to her feet and bursting into tears.

  Shame filled me for even thinking such a thing. What was the matter with me? Mr. Wainright was a kind man, and I was a wicked girl to have such thoughts. Such terrible thoughts.

  The dismay must have appeared on my face because Mr. Wainright looked concerned. “Are you all right, Miss Buchanan?” he asked. “You look quite pale.”

  “I’m . . . fine, thank you,” I stammered. I held my hand toward the conservatory. “Shall we go?”

  Inside the cool conservatory, the sunlight beamed through the glass, turning the plants’ leaves and fronds a bright green. And with the scent of the soil filling my nose, I couldn’t help but feel calm and happy again. I found I was truly pleased to share it with someone new, even if that someone was Deacon Wainwright.

  “My word, Miss Buchanan,” he said, pausing next to the fountain, and watched the water shoot up into the air and fall into the little pond below where I had planted tiny lily pads. “You say you repaired the fountain yourself? How remarkable.”

  I showed him all around the conservatory, pointing out plants and naming them for him. He seemed quite enchanted.

  “You do know, of course, Miss Buchanan, that plants and nature are very good for the soul’s salvation. I’m pleased to see you embracing this very wholesome fancy. I quite approve.” He glanced around my conservatory and smiled. I noticed that his mouth never curved up when he smiled. It remained straight across, rather like a mail slot. His deacon’s hat must have been too small for him, because it had made a perfectly circular dent into his curly brown hair. His air of solemnness mixed with this comical appearance made him look quite ridiculous and quite stupid. . . .

  “Here,” I said, quickly reining in my unkind thoughts. “Here is my pride and joy. My favorite thing. My father gave us this little house one Christmas and only recently this flower appeared. It’s an odd little plant but quite beautiful, as I’m sure you will agree.” I opened the window and stood back. “To get the full effect, you must lean over the window and inhale its scent. The perfume is only present in the day, not the evening. As the sun starts to set, the fragrance goes.”

  Mr. Wainright smiled his mail-slot smile and stepped forward. He leaned over the house, and I could hear a little whistle coming from his nose as he breathed. He sniffed and sniffed, and remained unmoving for a long while, his expression dreamy, seemingly captivated by the flower’s hypnotic charm.

  “I’m so pleased you find the bloom as enchanting as I do,” I said.

  He glanced at me for a moment, a faraway look on his face; and then his gaze drifted back to the flower. He appeared to be fixating on its large pouch. He glanced at me again, his eyes slightly glazed over and his cheeks the color of the postbox itself. Apart from the flushed cheeks, I’d once seen that expression on a ram’s face as he was let out into a meadow full of sheep. As I was thinking this, Deacon Wainwright’s eyes dropped to my bodice and stayed there. He swallowed, his throat tightening.

  I followed his gaze down, expecting to see toast crumbs or compote on my bodice, but then I understood what he had been looking at. He had been ogling my breasts. I crossed my arms over my bodice, embarrassed.

  My movement jerked him into awareness. He averted his gaze, pulling himself loose from whatever thrall had overtaken him. He cleared his throat and then placed his fingers over mine, snapping the little window shut so hard that the flower swayed on its perch.

  “Miss Buchanan.” He lifted his hands to his head and pressed his fingers against his temples. “I’m at a loss as to understand how you came to possess such a flower—”

  “As I said, my father—”

  He held up a hand. “Please, do not interrupt. This flower is an orchid and most unsuitable for a female to look at, much less own.”

  “Why?”

  His face colored even redder. “It is not for me to say why, but you must get rid of it, immediately.”

  “Well I won’t, unless you tell me why! You appeared enchanted with it, yourself.”

  “I cannot tell you. It would be . . . unseemly.” He clasped his hands in front of his chest, as though to pray.

  I shrugged. “Well, I care not, Deacon Wainwright, whether it’s unseemly or seemly. I love this flower, and if you can’t tell me why such a harmless bloom is forbidden for a female, I’m afraid I will not listen to your advice.”

  “You are very willful,” he said, eyeing me with a haughty look that I found most offensive, and I wanted, once more, to slap him, and this time I did not feel guilty for it. “I blame the bloom for that. It’s as they say, orchids raise the heat in a person, and you are a prime example of this.”

  “Bernard,” came a voice from the door of the conservatory. “Dearest, I’m growing quite cold. I believe there is a draft in that sitting room.” The brim of Mrs. Wainright’s bonnet poked into the room.

  Mr. Wainright flicked his fingers toward his mother. “Mamma, I would ask you to come inside and look at this flower. Miss Buchanan does not believe me when I tell her she must rid herself of it.”

  Mrs. Wainright took a hesitant step into my conservatory, holding her capelette around her as though to keep any moths from fluttering their tiny feet against her. Her wide crinoline nearly turned a table of potted freesias on their heads as she swept down the aisle.

  She reached us and lifted her spectacles from a chain around her neck and held them to her face. When she peered into the glasshouse, her eyes, already magnified by the spectacles’ lenses, widened even further, and she let out a little shriek. “Oh, my word!” She stepped back, dropped the spectacles and began to fan herself with her hand. “Oh, my word.”

  “Do you see?” Mr. Wainright asked. “Please forgive me, Mamma, for upsetting you. I was trying to tell Miss Buchanan that the plant is qu
ite unsuitable for females.”

  “And Mr. Wainright refuses to tell me why!” I wanted the two of them to leave my place immediately. They were ruining it. I regretted inviting Mr. Wainright in.

  “I will take my leave, Miss Buchanan, and perhaps Mamma can explain it to you.” He left as though chased by a demon, his shoes tapping quickly on the tile floor, clickity clack, clickity clack.

  Mrs. Wainright took my hand, her tulle glove scratchy against my skin.

  “My dear Miss Buchanan. An orchid is not appropriate for young ladies,” she whispered, as though the plant would hear us. “Its shape, particularly the bottom part, is very like . . .” She paused, groping for the right word. “The . . . uh . . . male, and the top part is very like the female.”

  I stared at her for a long moment. “What,” I finally said, “are you talking about?”

  She bit her lip, her face coloring. “The bottom half, this . . . pouch”—she was whispering so quietly that I had to lean in to hear her—“resembles a man’s . . . parts. And the top of this flower resembles a lady’s”—she waved her hand below her waistband—“bits.”

  “Oh,” I said. I looked at the plant, and I could see it, at least I thought I could see it, having never seen the male part myself, but it made sense, it all made sense. Then I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh and laugh despite Mrs. Wainright’s sputters of indignation.