The Forbidden Orchid Page 5

  And I could not stop.

  FIVE

  I felt very badly for laughing at Mrs. Wainwright, and indeed I wrote to her expressing my apologies, but I refused to rid myself of the orchid, and nothing Mr. Wainright or his mother could say would make me budge.

  The orchid looked nothing like our little British bee orchid that I often saw in the hedgerows lining the lanes. Instead of a bulbous pouch below its petals, the British bee orchid had an appendage that resembled a bumblebee, and indeed I had read that this was an adaptation used to trick a male bumblebee into pollination. I could never bear to dig the bee orchids up to add to my collection. They gave me much delight as I passed, and I assumed they would delight other passersby, too.

  I wrote to my father about my orchid, hoping that perhaps news of this wondrous flower would cause my father to respond, but he didn’t reply. I tried again, this time sending the letter to Sir William, the director of Kew, hoping he might intervene. Sir William wrote me back himself, saying he would do what he could to encourage my father to write.

  Toward the end of March, our maid announced a visitor. As Mamma was a-walk with Violetta and some of my sisters, the maid brought him into the conservatory, where I was watering my potted plants. The man was richly dressed in a long black frock coat, a gold watch chain dangling from the pocket of his waistcoat. A pearl pin studded his ascot, and he held a cane walking stick and bowler hat in his hand. He bowed slightly when I saw him.

  “Forgive me, Miss Buchanan, for barging in on you like this.” He glanced around the conservatory. “My, what a beautiful room. Your father’s work, I expect.”

  “No. My own, but thank you all the same, Mr. . . . ?”

  He stepped forward. “Pringle, Erasmus Pringle, at your service.” He bowed again and then tucked his bowler under his arm.

  I recognized the name. Mr. Pringle was the man who paid my father to go out hunting for plants. He was a well-known collector and a very rich industrialist. He lived on an estate in West Sussex.

  “Very impressive that a girl should put together such a pleasing display.” He pointed his cane at a display in question, which I had created by stacking fuchsias and begonias on risers so they looked like a vertical garden.

  “I’m afraid your visit is wasted, Mr. Pringle, and I do apologize,” I said. “My father is not here. He lives at Kew now.”

  Mr. Pringle waved his walking stick. “No, no, I understand he’s ensconced himself at Kew. I’ve tried to correspond with him, and he’s not replied to me. I quite understand he should want some time to himself after what he went through in China. Terrible business. Terrible. But I’ve indulged him long enough.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know the details of what befell him. We understand from Sir William that he was in an accident but was unharmed. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me?” I couldn’t help but feel alarmed. I had assumed Papa had fallen or had been robbed, and that the loss of his plants had caused his melancholy. It was upsetting to me that this man knew more about my father than I did. And he behaved as though my father belonged to him and not to us. As though he had more right to him than we did.

  Mr. Pringle looked at me for a long moment, saying nothing. He seemed to be wrestling with himself, weighing the words in his head before saying them out loud. Finally he spoke. “I don’t think it’s my business to say, but his ordeal was written about in the newspapers around Christmas of last year. Perhaps you might contact the Times for an answer.”

  “But if it’s public knowledge, then surely you can tell me?”

  He smiled and said nothing. Instead he began to walk the aisles of my conservatory. “I want to ask your father if he would go back to China to retrieve more specimens of an orchid called the Queen’s Fancy. A beautiful little thing. Quite small, dark purple, and with a scent that matches its color—a berry scent. It’s very valuable, and I must say I’ve made a great deal of money on it.”

  “The Queen’s Fancy?” I glanced toward the glasshouse. My own orchid fit that description perfectly. If it were as valuable as Mr. Pringle said, then perhaps he would demand to take it. I sidled a little closer to the glasshouse, standing in front of it to block his view.

  “Yes. Its Latin name is Paphiopedilum buchananii, named for your father, as he was the one to discover it. But your father failed to collect for me that last time he went to China. Instead, he chose to travel to the north and collect for Kew. Alas, before he could do the job he was hired to do . . . well . . . there it is. I’ve sent men out to look for the orchid, but so far no one has been able to find it. I’m afraid these expeditions have cost me a pretty penny and with no return on the investment.”

  “Can you not grow new orchids from seeds of the ones you have? Or breed it somehow?”

  He paused, leaning over one of my aspidistras, touching the leaves with his gloved hand. “Unfortunately not. Orchids are strange creatures, you understand. Devilishly difficult to keep alive, let alone breed. They keep their secrets locked inside. A beguiling flower, but she’s most coy with her charms, not unlike many women.” He straightened and smiled at me. “And the last Queen’s Fancy perished in my stove in November.”

  “Your stove?”

  “Pardon me. I mean my glasshouse. Conservatory, if you will.” He gestured around my little room. “But steam-heated by a stove, as the orchids prefer it. Unlike your humble little place here.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Pringle, but I don’t know how I can help you. My father isn’t communicating with us, either.”

  “Now why do I find that unlikely?” Mr. Pringle said this statement more to himself than to me, and I was becoming more uncomfortable in his presence. I wished the maid would come back in. Mr. Pringle used the tip of his cane to push some fern fronds aside. “Charming,” he remarked.

  I should have simply let him have the orchid, but I couldn’t do it. My father had entrusted it to me, for what reason I didn’t know, but I couldn’t betray him by letting the man have it. And what was more, I didn’t want him to have it.

  It was mine.

  I leaned back a little, letting my shawl slip from my shoulders and fall over the little house. I hoped it had covered enough of it. I hoped I hadn’t drawn attention to the glasshouse by doing so. But Mr. Pringle was staring at the fountain and hadn’t seen me.

  I stepped away and held my hand toward the door. “Perhaps you could come back when my mother is at home.”

  He sighed. “It’s a shame.” He tapped his cane on the floor. “I’m afraid I must insist that I speak with your father.” He moved toward me. “You see, your father has not fulfilled his obligation to me. And he owes me quite a lot of money for that failed journey. I’m not a man to forgive debts.”

  “He owes money?” I was taken aback. As far as I knew, my father was paid well. He was not a wealthy man by any means, but we lived gently and were able to afford a few servants and a good-sized home. We did not keep a carriage or have much of a social life, but in rural Kent there weren’t many balls.

  Mr. Pringle leaned in close to me, closer than was socially acceptable. I could smell the cologne he wore and feel his wine-tinged breath on my face.

  I felt the weight of my little billhook pruning knife in my pocket. I kept the curved blade sharp; so sharp that I was able to slice through the toughest plant stem with one effortless snip.

  Mr. Pringle lifted the walking stick above my head. I stepped back away and slipped the knife out of my pocket, flicking it open, my arm tensed, ready to strike him. One slash across the eyes. Just one slash would stop him.

  He tapped the stick against one of the pots on the tiered display and it toppled to the floor, taking its neighbor with it. The terra-cotta pots smashed to bits, tumbling the compost and the fuchsias onto the flagstone floor.

  “I am ever so sorry, Miss Buchanan,” he said. “I’m quite clumsy at times. It’s a terrible thing to lose a plant.
” He stepped away, treading carelessly on the plants, crushing the delicate pink and white petals under his fine leather sole. “Tell your mother she will hear from me,” he said.

  “There’s nothing more to say, sir,” I said. I hid the billhook in the folds of my skirt, stunned to my core that I had responded so readily. It was as though I were taken by something else, something stronger than I was. I knew I could do it again. I could act in that way again, easily, if pushed. And the thought of it frightened and thrilled me at the same time. “It’s as I said, we have no contact with my father. Your business is with him, not us.”

  “Oh, I fear you are mistaken, Miss Buchanan.” He put his bowler hat on and touched his brim with his fingers. And then he left.

  I waited a few minutes and then hurried to the front door to make sure he’d gone. And then I ran back to the conservatory and pulled my shawl away from the little greenhouse. Never, I vowed. I will never let Mr. Pringle, or anyone, take my orchid. Or threaten me or my family ever again.

  I wrote Papa again about the orchid and the visit from Mr. Pringle, begging him to reply. But this time my letter was returned unopened.

  SIX

  To the Editor of “ The Times”

  Edencroft, Kent

  April 1, 1861

  Dear Sir,

  I am desirous of receiving information regarding an incident that befell my father, Mr. Reginald Buchanan, toward the end of the Second China War in that same country. He was collecting plants for Kew in the summer of 1860 and fell into misfortune. I understand that his sorry circumstances were written up in your newspaper around Christmas of 1860. I’m writing to ask if you can give me any information in regards to this misfortune.

  Yours very truly,

  I hesitated, biting the end of my ink pen. If I signed my name, the editor might not be willing to disclose any information he deemed unfit for a female. I couldn’t bring myself to be so dishonest as to write a man’s name instead of mine, so in the end I used my first initial, letting the editor draw his own conclusions.

  E. Buchanan

  I blotted the letter, addressed and stamped the envelope, and took it to the post office myself to send straightaway before I had a chance to change my mind. After Mr. Pringle’s visit, my billhook remained in my pocket. I felt better when it was within reach.

  While I waited for the editor’s reply, I kept myself busy. In addition to my father’s books about plants, I had quite taken to Mr. Darwin’s The Origin of Species. A lengthy and absorbing read, it required quite some time to make my way through. I kept stopping to consider each page. My favorite chapter was the one called “Miscellaneous Objections to the Theory of Natural Selection.” Here Mr. Darwin considered objections made against his views, and I felt as though I were reading a guidebook to the natural world—God’s manual about how he created it all. Even though many religious people had taken offense from the book, I was heartened to hear that some Church of England members had spoken in favor of it, including Reverend F. J. A. Hunt, the venerable scholar who had made a revision of the New Testament.

  On the first Saturday in April, Reverend Hunt came to nearby Sevenoaks to lecture, and I, along with several other church members, accompanied by Deacon Wainwright, went to hear him. Reverend Hunt had been Deacon Wainwright’s tutor at Oxford, and so he was eager to speak with him at the reception afterward.

  “I was interested to read your comment on Mr. Darwin’s book,” I said to Reverend Hunt. “I was surprised that so many clerics approved of his theories.” I didn’t look at Deacon Wainwright, knowing that such a direct comment against him would fill him with disapproval, but I refused to change my opinion of Mr. Darwin just to please someone, especially someone who declined to let me have opinions of my own. It was odd, this unspoken row we continued to have with one another. Neither of us acknowledged it, but yet we both knew it was there, lingering, simmering under the surface. Perhaps if we had been able to acknowledge it, we might be able to become friends. But then again . . .

  “Yes,” the reverend replied. “As I wrote, in my opinion, it was a treat to read such a book.”

  “Miss Buchanan,” Deacon Wainwright put in, “I fear you misunderstood the reverend’s comments. He only meant it as an enjoyable read, much as one would enjoy a work of fiction. Mr. Darwin’s theory is just that. A theory. There’s simply not enough proof.”

  “Proof?” I asked. “Why does Darwin’s book have to be ironclad in its proof and substance and the Bible does not?”

  Deacon Wainwright’s eyes goggled. “The Bible does not need to be proven. Christianity is based on faith.”

  “But cannot faith apply to Mr. Darwin’s theory, too? I haven’t seen the Galápagos finches and tortoises, but I have faith in Mr. Darwin’s observations.”

  “I believe in God rather than man,” Deacon Wainwright said.

  Sometimes I wondered if Deacon Wainwright was indeed twenty years old. He behaved as though he were much older, as though he were acting an older man in a play, and if you sat in the audience, you’d be convinced he were actually elderly. Only when you saw him up close would you realize that he was young.

  “Sir,” Reverend Hunt said, “I think you’ll find yourself in the minority. Many men have embraced this theory as fact.”

  “I don’t see why Mr. Darwin’s theory disproves God’s existence,” I put in. “Every artist has his process. Perhaps in the fossils in the earth and in the Tree of Life, we are seeing evidence of God’s work and how he created the world. What could be more astonishing?”

  “Very well said, Miss Buchanan,” the reverend said. “What an interesting young lady you are.”

  Deacon Wainwright did not comment. Instead he took a sip of his tea, looking as though he wanted to bite a chunk out of the teacup instead.

  “I’ve memorized the ending of the book, and I think about it every day,” I told him. “From so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved. So well said.”

  “It echoes Genesis, does it not, Miss Buchanan?” he said. “Deacon Wainwright. I wonder, have you actually read the book in question?”

  “No, I have not. I don’t need to read it.” Deacon Wain-wright set his teacup down on a silver tray on the side table with a clatter. “And what is more, sir, and please forgive me for saying so, I don’t wish to. I refuse to speculate on the mind of God.”

  UPON OUR RETURN HOME, I SAW A LETTER ADDRESSED TO ME IN UNFAMILIAR handwriting on the hall table. I could hear Violetta arguing with Lily in the sitting room, so I snatched the letter and crept upstairs before anyone saw I had returned home. I sat at my desk and slit the envelope open.

  April 5, 1861

  Dear Mr. Buchanan,

  I have made enquiries with regard to the incident that befell your father at the end of the China War. I regret to say that I was unable to locate any article referring to Mr. Reginald Buchanan. The only incident at that time happened in mid-September 1860 and involved a correspondent for this very newspaper, Mr. T. W. Bowlby. After the allies captured Tien-tsin, Mr. Bowlby accompanied Admiral Sir James Hope and several others to Tungchow to arrange peace proceedings. They were set upon by a Tartar general and thrown into prison, where they were terribly mistreated. Only a handful of men lived to tell the tale of their torment. The individuals who lived said that the captors had tied their feet and hands behind their backs as tightly as possible with leather cords, and then tipped water on the bindings to increase the tension as the cords dried. The men were kept in this position until the condition of their hands and wrists became putrid and riddled with vermin.

  Twenty-seven men were captured and taken to the Board of Punishments in Peking; of these, 12 died of their suffering, including 4 Englishmen—Mr. Bowlby, Lt. Anderson, Private Phipps, and Mr. De Normann—and 8 Sikhs. Three Englishmen were released—Harry Parkes, consul at Canton, Henry Loch, and Hugh McGr
egor—and 11 Sikhs. One, Captain Brabazon of the Royal Artillery, remains missing presumed dead. The remains of the three Englishmen, returned by the mandarins, were all buried in one grave in a Russian cemetery. In retaliation for the men’s ill treatment and subsequent deaths, the allies burned the Summer Palace to the ground.

  I wish I could have been more helpful to you. Any further information it may be in my power to give is most heartily at your service.

  Yours sincerely,

  John Thadeus Delane

  Editor of “The Times”

  I dropped the letter as though it were painted in poison and pushed my chair back from my desk. An image rose in my mind of these men enduring their tortuous bonds, the straps growing tighter and tighter with each moment. I rubbed my own wrists, imagining the pain of it. To die from such a wound must be agony, and I wondered how the survivors had managed to live. As horrible as this story was, I was relieved my father was not part of it. But I had come to an impasse in regards to my father’s ordeal in China. The news of his incident was not in the Times after all. I couldn’t understand Mr. Pringle. Perhaps he had been fibbing to me, but for what reason? I sighed and tucked the letter in my writing case and went to tell Violetta that I was home.

  AFTER OUR OUTING, I HOPED THAT DEACON WAINWRIGHT WOULD not visit us for a good long while. But a week later he and his mother came to call. I was walking up the back lane after searching for plants in the wood, swinging my woven basket by the handle when I saw him. He was marching up the lane, leaning forward, as if a stout wind was at his back, his hands clasped at his chest as though in prayer, his black vestments fluttering around his skinny frame as he strode. His mamma accompanied him, clinging to his arm. I hoped they would walk past our house, but no, they turned into our front garden. I hid behind the oak tree waiting for them to go inside. Dash it all! Why did they have to call and catch me on the hop like this? My hands were filthy, and mud rimed the hem of my skirt. I was sure there were leaves in my hair, as I had been crawling through a thicket in attempts to reach a little fern that I wanted for my collection.