The Forbidden Orchid Page 6

  I hurried into the house, dropping my basket by the hall tree and wiping my hands on my apron, trying the best I could to get most of the dirt off. I bundled the soiled apron into my basket and went to find the visitors in the sitting room. There, Deacon Wainwright and his mamma were perched side by side on the settee, their hands in their laps, staring ahead like two grim puppets. Mamma sat across from them, dressed in her navy silk gown, which accentuated her porcelain skin and the smudges beneath her eyes, giving her the appearance of tragic heroine. Judging from the unladen tea table in front of Mamma, she hadn’t expected them to call, either. Mamma would never receive callers without something to greet them with.

  “Deacon Wainwright, Mrs. Wainwright, how nice to see you,” I said. “I was not expecting you, otherwise I would not be dressed so. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll make a pot of tea. I think there might be some scones or something or other,” I said vaguely, having no idea what I might offer them. I had charged Violetta with the task of baking early in the day, but last I saw of her, she was squeezed into a corner of the dormer window in the attic nursery reading The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.

  Mrs. Wainwright demurred. “That’s quite all right, my dear. This is not a social visit.” She shook her head, the lace on her widow’s cap waving, and looked down at the carpet sadly.

  “Isn’t it?” I asked, unease crawling up my spine. Papa. Could they be here with news of Papa? Perhaps something dreadful had happened, and they were here to bring Mamma and me the news. Please, God, do not let these two be the ones to deliver news about my father.

  “Do sit down, Elodie,” Mamma said quietly. Her lovely brows were pinched together, and she began to massage her temples, the telltale sign of an impending megrim.

  I sank down on the little footstool next to her; dread filling every corner of my body. “What is it?” I whispered to her. “Is it Papa?”

  “It concerns that vile plant,” Mrs. Wainwright said, answering for my mother.

  For a moment I was confused, still thinking about my father. “A plant? Which plant? Do you mean one that my father sought?” I blinked. “Forgive me, Mrs. Wainwright. I’m at a loss as to what—”

  “I’ve made enquiries as to returning your orchid to Sir William Jackson Hooker at Kew,” Deacon Wainwright said, interrupting me. “As your father lives at Kew, they will know how best to return the bloom to him. If he does not accept it, then Sir William will know what to do with it.” He pulled a card from his pocket and peered at it. “I contacted a Mr. Cleghorn in London, who is a collector of such things.” He waved the card at me. “I described the bloom to him, and he has told me what you possess is quite valuable.” He tucked the card back into his pocket and crossed one leg over the other. His mamma leaned over and plucked a bit of lint off his jacket, smiling demurely at him.

  “I’m sorry . . . but . . . who asked you to do such a thing?” The tone of my voice was calm, but just barely. I knew, as sure as the sky was blue, that Deacon Wainwright had found a way to get back at me for playing him up in front of Reverend Hunt. His revenge was to take my orchid away. He’d managed the one thing he longed to do, to wiggle his way into our lives and begin directing things. He and his dear Mamma.

  I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder. “Quiet, my dear.”

  “But, Mamma, I don’t understand this. How is the orchid his concern?”

  “It is every bit my concern,” the deacon said, affronted. “As the vicar of this parish, I have your soul in my keeping. I cannot sit by while one of my members places her feet on the wrong path, the one that promises to lead her into a life of debauchery.”

  “You are not the vicar,” I said. “You are only a deacon, yet to take your vows.” Although my words were true, they were rude. I didn’t care.

  The deacon scowled. “You are quite lucky that I take any notice of you whatsoever, Miss Buchanan. You are very fond of your own opinion, and most men would not stand for that. As it is, I let you have your say and try not to cast aspirations upon it.”

  “I think you mean aspersions.”

  Deacon Wainwright stood up. “It’s rude to correct someone, particularly for a woman to correct a man, or has no one ever told you so?”

  I stood up, too. “Fine. You may go on saying the wrong things and looking ridiculous for it.”

  Mrs. Wainwright let out a little squeak of outrage.

  “Elodie!” Mamma said.

  “I can see you are not yourself right now,” the deacon said. “And once more, this is a perfect example of how that flower has affected you. Indeed Dr. Thumpston and I discussed this very thing only yesterday when he came to me, concerned about your welfare. I understand you have been pushing at him, questioning him about your mother and the medicine he prescribed, the very one you came to me about, not trusting the good doctor’s opinion.”

  “Am I not allowed to ask questions?” I asked. “How ridiculous.” I caught sight of Mrs. Wainwright, who had pressed her lips into a line until they nearly disappeared. Her fingers twitched in her lap as though she, too, longed to scold me—and perhaps to pinch me. Mrs. Wainwright had the look of a pincher.

  “I will be back tomorrow morning to crate the orchid up and take it away. And then we shall put all of this behind us. Perhaps then you shall be released from this plant’s grip and see sense.” He put his too-small hat on, pulling it hard onto his head, his curls poking out around the edge.

  “I shan’t see sense! For if seeing sense means seeing things your way, then I’d rather be a lunatic.” This I addressed to his back as I followed him and his mother through the sitting room and to the hall, where he opened the door and stepped out into the rain, leaving his umbrella behind in the wrought iron stand by the front door. I would not tell him he’d left it. He and his mamma could jolly well get wet.

  I returned to the sitting room, where Mamma remained, watching the rain patter against the window. “Can you believe the deacon, Mamma? He thinks I’m going to let him take my orchid!”

  Mamma shook her head and pulled her gaze from the window. “Elodie, I am in agreement with him. I had no idea you possessed such a thing. The orchid must go back to your father. As the deacon explained to me before you came in, it’s not something a young girl should possess. I don’t want you to be the talk of the village. It’s bad enough people know your father is gone and we are women on our own.”

  My face burned with shame. I felt as though my mother had caught me doing something wanton and evil, possessing something unsavory. The thought of the villagers thinking this shamed me even more. And for a moment, just for a moment, I almost gave in, but then I tried another tack. “Papa gave it to us, Mamma. He wouldn’t give me something unhealthy. I know he wouldn’t.”

  “My dear, your father has very poor judgment in many things. I understand he also gave you Mr. Darwin’s book, even though he knows I would disapprove.”

  “But Papa said—”

  “Your Papa is not here!” Mamma said, her voice cracking with emotion. “He is not. And what is more, I do not believe he’ll be coming back. I have to seek counsel from a man I trust, and the church is my solace, as it always has been. The bloom must go back. I cannot go against what the deacon advises.”

  “He’s not yet a vicar!” I said, knowing my orchid was slipping from my grasp.

  “As the deacon, he speaks for the vicar, and you know that. Please, Elodie, do not gainsay me. Please.” Mamma looked heartbroken, torn between her love of the church and her love of me. I felt ashamed then, and I knew I had to let the flower go for her sake.

  I knelt at her feet and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Mamma, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to be selfish.”

  She hugged me back, resting her chin on the top of my head. “Flowers took my husband away, Elodie. I don’t want to lose you to them, too.”

  “That will not happen, Mamma,” I said. “I promise.”

>   That night after everyone had gone to sleep, clad in my nightgown and with a candlestick in hand, I visited my orchid to admire it for the last time. As I held the candle close to the glasshouse, the light flickered against the dark bloom, the statue’s face serene underneath her elaborate hat. I opened the little window, hoping some of the raspberries and cream scent had lingered, but it had disappeared as soon as the sun had set, as was the flower’s wont, and all I smelled was the earthy scent of damp compost.

  I reached in and touched the little petals, saying good-bye, knowing I would never see anything of its kind again.

  THE NEXT MORNING, DEACON WAINWRIGHT DULY ARRIVED, CARRYING a small wooden crate. I couldn’t bear to let him remove it from atop the statue’s head, possibly crushing the bloom in his clumsy hands, so I bade him to wait in the sitting room with Mamma and Violetta whilst I packaged the orchid myself.

  I vowed this would be the first and only time I would enter my conservatory with an unhappy heart. I stood before the glasshouse with my grim task, set the crate on the floor, and reached out to open the little window. But my hand froze in midair. I stared, disbelieving.

  The orchid was not there.

  I scanned the bottom of the glasshouse, thinking maybe it had toppled from its perch, but it wasn’t there, either. I searched the conservatory, knowing such a hunt was fruitless, because unless the plant had suddenly sprouted legs, I couldn’t imagine how it could have moved from the glasshouse to another location all on its own.

  Someone had to have taken the orchid, but who? Who would know the plant was valuable apart from Deacon Wainwright and the man he had written to in London? The conservatory door leading out to the back garden didn’t have a lock, so it would be nothing for someone to come in and take what they wanted. Everything else in the conservatory was where it belonged, not so much as a pot overturned. My gardening tools were the most valuable things to hand, easy to sell quickly, if some passing vagrant had been the thief. But my trowel, spade, and fork all hung on the pegboard near the door, which is where I placed them after I cleaned them each evening.

  I sat down on my stool, disbelieving. Someone had stolen my orchid.

  Because I had not returned in the sitting room with the crate, Mamma sent Violetta in to find me.

  “If you meant to aggravate Deacon Wainwright by making him wait, your scheme was a success,” she said, leaning against the door.

  “It isn’t here,” I said.

  “What isn’t here?”

  I pointed at the glasshouse. “The orchid. It’s gone. I saw it last night after everyone had gone to bed, but now it’s gone. Someone’s taken it.”

  Violetta leaned close to the glasshouse, peering in. Then she straightened up and looked at me. “It’s gone!”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  Violetta bit her lip. “Did you take it? Did you hide it from Deacon Wainwright? I wouldn’t blame you if you did. You can tell me, Elodie. I won’t be angry.”

  “No!” I stood up from the stool. “I wouldn’t do that to Mamma! She asked me to give Deacon Wainwright the orchid, and I promised her I would. Someone’s stolen it, I’m telling you.”

  “He’ll never believe you,” Violetta said, shaking her head.

  “That thought had occurred to me.”

  She took a breath and blew it out. “Well, what do we do now?”

  It heartened me that Violetta had said we and not you. Since the quarrel we had had over Papa when the doctor came to visit Mamma we hadn’t spoken much. My little sister could hold a grudge longer than anyone I knew.

  “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll just have to tell him.”

  “Perhaps Mamma took it, with the intention to give it back to you as soon as Deacon Wainwright left.”

  As much as that suggestion filled me with hope, I knew it couldn’t be the reason for the plant’s disappearance. I would dearly love for Mamma to produce my orchid, smiling, and telling me everything was going to be all right. Color this fantasy by placing my father at her side, and all my Christmas wishes might come true, too.

  “She was adamant, Violetta. She cares naught for the thing. Indeed, I think she sees it as another needless problem father has created. What is worse, now Mamma is going to be upset, and that is something I don’t wish her to be. She’s only just risen from her sick bed.”

  “What if . . . what if we tell him the plant died?”

  “I’m sure he’d ask to see its carcass. He’d want proof.”

  “Maybe the maid threw it away?” Violetta was grasping at straws, but I loved her for it.

  “We’d have to involve Mary and encourage her to tell a fib. I don’t want to do that to her. It wouldn’t be right.”

  A step fell on the tiles. Impatient with waiting, Deacon Wainwright had come to chivvy us along. “Forgive me, ladies,” he said, “but if I am to make the morning post for the train to London, I must take the orchid now.”

  My sister and I exchanged a glance.

  “Ladies, please,” he said, looking quite irritated.

  I would simply have to come out with it and let the chips fall where they may. “The orchid’s gone,” I said. “Someone has taken it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems that an intruder has come into Elodie’s conservatory and taken her orchid,” Violetta said. “We think sometime in the night when we were all asleep.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I gestured to the glasshouse. “See for yourself, do. Someone’s been in and taken it.”

  Clearly thinking we were trifling with him, the deacon strode up to the glasshouse and glared at it, as though he’d dearly love to smash it to bits. Then he turned his wrath on me. “Do you take me for a fool, Miss Buchanan? I don’t appreciate having my time wasted nor do I appreciate being lied to. Now I will give you the benefit of the doubt because I know you wish to keep the flower, but hiding it like this and trying to pin it on an intruder is such a childish thing to do.”

  “Can you only address me in anger, sir?” I said. “You claim yourself to be a man of God, but you talk to me as a buffoon and a cad!”

  He jerked his head back as though my words had slapped him directly in the face. “I apologize if you’ve taken my tone of voice as anger,” he said, not sounding sorry in the least and not adjusting his tone at all.

  And then Mamma appeared at the door, surrounded by a cloud of my little sisters. It was the nursemaid’s morning off, and Mamma looked harried and not a little angry herself. She held a crying Dahlia in her arms; Chrysantha, Lily, and Peony clung onto her skirts. “What is happening? Why is there shouting?”

  Violetta hurried over and took Dahlia, patting her back and making shushing noises.

  “It seems Miss Buchanan is claiming someone has stolen the orchid,” Deacon Wainwright said.

  “I didn’t take it, Mamma,” I said. My anger was beginning to turn to tears. I didn’t want Mamma bothered with this business, and here she was, dragged in once more. “I promised I would give it to Deacon Wainwright, and I fully intended to. I don’t know what happened.”

  “I do believe your daughter is telling tales, Mrs. Buchanan.”

  “I take offense at that suggestion, Deacon Wainwright!” A spark of Mamma’s old self sprang to life. She possessed an anger that matched my father’s in its intensity. “My daughter does not tell tales. If she claims the flower has been stolen, then I believe her. Shouldn’t you be more concerned with whether an intruder has entered the house than whether my daughter is telling tales?”

  Deacon Wainwright tugged at the bottom of his jacket, breathing so hard that the whistle in his nose sounded like a teakettle rising to the boil. “Of course, you are correct, but I doubt a thief is the cause of the orchid’s disappearance. After all, nothing else has been taken.”

  “In light of the fact that nothing else h
as been taken, perhaps the bloom finished and dropped off its perch,” Mamma said. “This is a flower we are speaking of, after all, and they do not last forever.”

  “Overnight?” Deacon Wainwright said, disbelieving. “With-out withering beforehand? Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “The plants my husband collects are odd things indeed, Deacon Wainwright,” Mamma replied, her voice now soothing. “There is one he told me about, a giant lily that blooms in one night. There is a grass that grows four feet in one day. How can we know this plant’s nature as it dies?”

  I highly doubted Mamma’s explanation was the cause of the orchid’s disappearance because there was nothing left of the plant, not a snippet of root, not even a dried petal, but I could see on Mamma’s face her desire to see this plant business put behind her. She had the same look on her face as when two of my sisters argued over a dolly and she wished for the ruckus to end.

  “Well, I was only trying to help, and I can see that I may have overreacted, Miss Buchanan,” he said to me in what was plainly a sorry excuse for an apology.

  “I do understand you mean only kindness, Deacon Wainwright,” Mamma said, taking Dahlia back from Violetta. “It seems to me that the matter has been settled one way or the other. The flower is gone, out of Elodie’s hands, and that’s what you were after, isn’t it? Now, I think we all need a cup of tea. Let us go into the sitting room, and I’ll call for Mary.”

  The deacon straightened his shoulders, and after sticking me with a cold look, he followed Mamma out of the conservatory. My sisters trailed behind them, leaving Violetta and me alone in the blissful silence.

  “Heaven help you when he becomes the new vicar of this parish,” Violetta said, folding her arms. “You’ll have no peace.”

  “I shall go off plant hunting with Papa then. A tribe of cannibals would probably be more welcoming.”