The Forbidden Orchid Page 9

  I stood up. “How dare you speak to me so!”

  “I’m trying to help you, and you persist in hindering me at every turn! Do you know what the villagers say about you and your family? And I defend you, tell them you are ladies under dire circumstances and require our pity, not our reproach.”

  Violetta let out a little eep.

  “Why yes, I do know what the villagers say. And they are free to think what they want to think. We do not need your help to change their minds! Nor do we need anyone’s pity.”

  “Perhaps I was wrong about you. I think you are very like your father.” He straightened in his chair. “I do believe if given the chance, you’d accompany your father to China.”

  “Oh, how correct you are! I am like my father, and given half a chance, I would get on a ship with my father and sail away. Sail far, far away from here. And from you and your meddlesome ways!”

  I turned, followed swiftly by Violetta, and wove my way through the tables, past the astonished patrons who had heard the entire exchange. I pushed the door open and headed down the Kew Road, away from the deacon and back toward my father’s cottage.

  NINE

  When we returned to the cottage, the deacon following glumly behind me, my father had come back and was sitting in a chair reading a book. I marched straight up to him, not giving him a chance to speak his mind. “Papa, I’m going to remain here with you while we sort out what to do. Deacon Wainwright will escort Violetta back to Kent.” Both Violetta and Deacon Wainwright stared at me as though I had suddenly sprouted wings. “I think it’s best that I speak to Papa alone.” Violetta looked relieved, but Deacon Wainwright looked taken aback.

  “How will you return to Kent on your own?” the deacon said. “I hardly think you are capable—”

  “My daughter is right, sir,” Papa said, not lifting his eyes off the book. “I think it best that you escort Miss Violetta back to Kent. I will take Elodie home on the train.”

  The surprise and relief on Violetta’s face must have matched my own. Papa would see Mamma, which would surely help her recover.

  “Well, that’s . . . that’s . . .” For once Deacon Wainwright found himself at a loss for words. So he placed his hat upon his head and told Violetta to come along. “Mustn’t miss the train. I will explain to your mother what is afoot.”

  “No need,” Violetta said. “I’m sure I can explain it myself, Deacon Wainwright.”

  The deacon’s mouth pressed into a smile. “Very well, then.”

  “Violetta,” I said. “I will return as soon as I am able.”

  “I will look after your plants, no need to worry.” Violetta looked at Papa, and then she darted forward and kissed his cheek. I saw a flicker of affection cross Papa’s face, and then he held her elbow and kissed her back.

  The two took their leave, and Papa slammed his book shut. “The man is a booby.”

  “Papa, don’t be unkind,” I said, turning away to hide my smile. Papa had summed him up perfectly. And I was happy to hear him sound more like himself, even if it were Deacon Wainwright that raised his ire.

  “I hope you don’t plan on marrying him. He’s not for you. You need someone with more gumption, more . . . intelligence.”

  I turned around. “Of course I don’t plan on marrying him. Whatever gave you that idea?” Indeed, I had reconciled myself to never getting married. With Papa constantly traveling, Mamma needed my help with the children. When Dahlia turned seventeen, I would be into my thirties, an old maid and well past marriage. And besides, I didn’t know if I wanted a man telling me what I could or could not do. Best to be practical about these things.

  “Why else would he come all the way down to London to sort me out?”

  “To help. He’s the deacon, and it’s his prerogative to help with these sorts of matters. Mamma’s hands are full with the children, and so he offered to chaperone us to you.”

  Papa held the book upright against his thigh, his fingers tapping lightly on the cover as he regarded me. “That’s as may be, but the man has his eye on you, make no mistake. He has you pegged as a vicar’s wife, and you’d better make it clear as to whether you welcome his attentions. These things can get quite awkward if one person gets ahold of the wrong idea.”

  “He has taken an inordinate interest in my life,” I admitted, my heart sinking. There was that look he gave you, too, a small accusing voice inside me chided. And the time he placed his hand over yours.

  “There you have it. You see?” Papa said. “He does have his eye on you.”

  “He hates me, I’m sure of it,” I said, hoping that was the truth. “He finds me wanting on every turn, and I’m sure his mother does, too.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but perhaps he’s hoping to mold you into someone more to his liking.”

  “He hasn’t been successful and nor will he be.”

  He stood up. “I’m glad to hear you don’t harbor affection for him.” He shelved the book and scanned the offerings for another. “Say the word, and I’ll put a stop to his courtship. I only need write a letter and put him in the picture.”

  “Oh, so now you’re willing to write a letter?” I said, suddenly feeling quite angry with him. “Do you know how horrible it has been, not hearing from you? Mamma has been so ill, and now we may lose our home, and you’ve done nothing.”

  Papa’s hand paused over the books. “Your mother has been ill? From that fall?”

  “No. After Dahlia was born, Dr. Thumpston had her on a horrible concoction that caused her to sleep night and day. Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne it was called.”

  A shadow crossed my father’s face. “Chlorodyne, did you say?”

  “Yes, and the doctor would not tell me what it was or what it could do. I tried it myself and it was perfectly awful, so I poured it out. Mamma is better now, but the shock of maybe losing the house caused her to fall and strike her head. Dr. Thumpston dosed her with the medicine once again.”

  “You were right to pour it out, my girl. Chlorodyne is wicked stuff. The morphine causes horrible cravings. Some say it doesn’t, but I have seen otherwise.” He muttered something about Dr. Thumpston under his breath that sounded like the word quack.

  “We need you, Papa. It’s been so awful. Won’t you come home for a bit?”

  He remained quiet for a little while, and then he finally spoke. “Everything is my fault, and I know that. I will sort Mr. Pringle and the bailiffs out, no need to fear. But I can’t see your mother, not just now. It’s for the best, my dear.”

  “How can that be so? We need you. I know you had some things happen while you were in China, if you’re ashamed—”

  “The less you know about what befell me, the better, Elodie. Please do not ask me about it, for I don’t wish to speak of it. Not now and not ever.”

  I wanted to ask him straight out about those scars on his wrist. I truly did, but I was afraid that if I behaved like Deacon Wainwright, pushing and pushing, I’d lose any ground I’d gained with Papa. So I let it go, saying nothing, and instead I perused his library with him, letting him tell me about the book he was currently reading. And I listened, happy to be in my father’s presence.

  IT WAS LATER, DURING A SUPPER OF TINNED BEEF ON TOAST, WHEN I told him about the flower.

  “A bloom? What kind of bloom?”

  “The orchid. You one you gave us.”

  He turned his head sideways. “I never gave you an orchid.” He laughed a little. “The very idea! Why would I do that?”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling taken aback.

  “But go on, what do you mean? A plant that bloomed in the garden?”

  “No. The flower in the little dollhouse you gave the girls. I put the case in the conservatory at the back of the house. I cleared the conservatory out, and I’ve been filling it with plants. I think the cold pleased the plant, and so it bloomed. It sits
on the top of the statue’s head. Very tiny. Nearly black—”

  He sat up and dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. “A scent similar to raspberries and cream?” His expression was eager. “Elodie, my dear! But this is wonderful. This plant you describe is the Queen’s Fancy. I’ve not been able to get it to rebloom ever. No one has. You say the cold made it bloom? That makes very good sense to me, as the flower is found high in the mountains, where it’s cooler. My word, when I gave the girls the Wardian case I used the last of the plants as simple decoration, never imagining it would bloom.”

  Papa went on prattling about the orchid, but I barely heard him. His words kept clanging around in my head: I never gave you an orchid, the very idea. My face burned with the shame of it. I had completely misunderstood Papa’s meaning behind the dollhouse. And how could I have assumed he meant for me to have the orchid? The gift was not for me, after all. It was a curio, a decoration to delight little children.

  He stood up and disappeared behind the shelves, returning at once with a leather-bound notebook and a stub of a pencil. “You must tell me everything you know about the plant, when it produced leaves, a spike, when it flowered. What does it look like now?” He opened the notebook and flipped to an empty page. “This will solve all of our problems in one fell swoop. I’ve been working on propagation techniques in orchids. I think I’ve cracked the secret of getting the seeds to sprout. You see, orchid seeds require fungi to germinate and if I can get the plant to produce a seedpod, there’s no need for me to return to China. I can grow as many Queen’s Fancies as Mr. Pringle wants.” Papa laughed. “As anyone wants!”

  “Papa!” I shouted, near tears. “Stop!”

  He looked at me, startled, holding the pencil aloft.

  “I don’t have the orchid any longer. It was taken.”

  “When Mr. Pringle’s men came?”

  I shook my head. “No. It was stolen after I showed the bloom to Deacon Wainwright. He took it upon himself to enquire about posting the plant back to you at Kew. He . . . he said it would undo my constitution. That it was unseemly for a girl to look at it.” I expected Papa to nod in agreement, but he surprised me.

  “Not that old twaddle. Men seem to think women will lose their minds from looking at an orchid, but the male species is the one driven mad over this plant, as I can attest myself.”

  “Deacon Wainwright had arranged for the orchid to be returned to you. He’d written to an orchid enthusiast his tutor at Oxford knows, a Mr. Cleghorn.”

  The pencil dropped from Papa’s hand and clattered onto the floor. “Granville Cleghorn?” he whispered. “Oh. Tell me it’s not him.”

  “Yes, that’s his name. Why?”

  “Cleghorn is Pringle’s nemesis. They both despise each other and think nothing of setting their plant hunters against one another like soldiers. It’s my best guess that Cleghorn sent someone to steal the orchid. It’s not beyond him to do so.”

  “The only evidence the thief left behind was a large handprint on one side of the glasshouse,” I said. “But the other side bore a scratch on the glass, as though someone had tried to use a tool.”

  Papa looked grim. “And so now I know who the thief was. Cleghorn’s man—his plant hunter, Luther Duffey. There was no matching handprint because he has only one hand. The other is an iron hook. That explains the scratch. Duffey is the man I mentioned to Wainwright, the one who would be pleased to slit my throat.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would he take the orchid?” I crossed my fork and knife on my plate, having lost my appetite.

  “Mr. Cleghorn has desired the Queen’s Fancy ever since I found it four years ago, but his hunters have been unable to locate it, and I have been very careful to keep its whereabouts unknown.” He stood up and pulled a leather-bound sketchbook down from the shelf and opened it to a page, turning it toward me. On it was painted a map of some sort, but instead of words, there were line drawings of mountains, rocks, trees, and cliffs. The drawings were beautiful and highly detailed. “My maps are never labeled with destinations. You must know where to start to follow this map.” He ran his finger over the route. “Here you begin at Foochow, up the Min river, and then into the mountains toward Wuyishan.”

  “Like a treasure map?” I asked.

  “Exactly so.” Papa closed the book and shelved it. “Pringle refused to sell Cleghorn a Queen’s Fancy at any price; that is how much he despises him. But now Wainwright, that ass, has delivered the very thing into Cleghorn’s hands. I’m sure Cleghorn has wasted no time in writing to Pringle to crow over his finding. No wonder Mr. Pringle will not be placated. No wonder he demands that I return to China.”

  “Can’t Mr. Cleghorn coax the stolen Queen’s Fancy into a seedpod and sell the resulting plants? I can’t imagine Mr. Pringle wanting a plant that everyone has.”

  Papa shook his head. “I’ve kept the technique a very great secret. Cleghorn’s men know very little about science, and he’s no friend to Kew, so I doubt he possesses such knowledge.” He sat quietly for a moment, pondering. “Well, if we no longer have the orchid, then to China I must return.” This he murmured, more to himself than to me.

  “I’ll help you, Papa. Whatever you need,” I said. “I shall help you.”

  THAT EVENING WE LOOKED OVER MR. PRINGLE’S DEMANDS TOgether. He specified that each flower must be in spike, bud, or bloom. Any plant not in this state would be rejected. The usual blooming season for the Queen’s Fancy orchid in its natural habitat was late summer. It was already April, and it took at least a hundred days to reach China, so Papa had very little time to waste. He would need to leave for China as soon as he had brought me home.

  Papa carefully considered how he would travel. A steamship was most expedient, but it would be too easy for Mr. Cleghorn’s men to follow him. They needed only to make an enquiry at the ticketing agent to find out which ship Papa traveled. They could purchase a ticket and bunk in the same room with my father if they pleased.

  Instead, Papa decided to seek passage aboard a tea clipper. Tea clippers, built for speed and cargo, traveled with a small crew and rarely took passengers, but Papa had a few contacts in the Merchant Navy who might be able to help him find a place on a China-bound clipper. Tea clippers often kept their destinations secret so as to stop other ships from beating them to the port and purchasing the best tea from underneath them. So Papa would be able to travel as secretly as possible.

  I wrote to Mr. Pringle, telling him that Papa would embark on the journey and that he agreed to the contract. I also wrote to Mamma and told her that I would remain with my father and help him organize his journey. I fibbed a bit over his condition, saying that he appeared rejuvenated by the idea of traveling again. The lie stabbed at me like a thorn in my finger, and I had to write the letter over three times until I’d got it right.

  Papa gave me his bed upstairs under the eaves and set up a pallet on the sitting room floor. That night I lay in bed thinking about Papa returning to China and the orchid. As dangerous as the journey would be, I wasn’t lying when I told Deacon Wainwright that I longed to go with him. The thought of returning to Kent, to my staid and simple life, filled me with sadness. I longed to see for myself where the orchids grew, the magic of such a place. I wished with all my heart that I could accompany my father. But I couldn’t. I knew that. Girls didn’t travel to such places. And even if they did, Mamma needed me.

  A NOISE WOKE ME IN THE NIGHT, AND I SAT UP, MY HEART THRUMming hard. What was it? I clutched the blanket in my fists and listened. There it was again—a sound similar to the call of an owl or maybe a loose shutter a-swing on a rusty hinge. I pushed the blanket back and swung my feet to the floor, waiting, listening. Perhaps I’d imagined it, but no, there it was again. I stood up and went to the top of the stairs.

  My mind couldn’t comprehend what my heart already knew. My father was weeping. They weren’t tears of sadness; his sobs were marke
d with pain and fear.

  I wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but I didn’t know if he would welcome that, or if he’d rather keep his emotions to himself. I took a hesitant step forward, unsure of what to do. The wooden floorboards squeaked under my feet, and the sobbing stopped abruptly.

  I waited for a moment. If he called out to me, I would go. But I heard nothing.

  I crept back to bed and buried my face in the pillow, choking back my own tears. For the first time I wished with all my heart that I’d never put the dollhouse into my conservatory, that I’d never shown the orchid to Deacon Wainwright, that I’d never lain eyes on the Queen’s Fancy orchid. If the orchid had remained a jumble of roots upon the little statue’s head, Mr. Pringle would not have driven my father back to China. After all, Papa had never meant for the roots to produce anything. I had forced them to life.

  It was all my fault.

  TEN

  The following morning Papa and I made our way to the East India Docks on the north bank of the Thames. Papa had refused the breakfast of eggs and bread I’d made. Instead he sat drinking tea, his brow furrowed and his jaw set. After he took each sip, he clapped the pottery mug onto the table, fingers clenched tight around the handle, as though the cup were struggling to fly away.

  I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him that wasn’t an apology. I wanted to beg his forgiveness for everything, but I was terrified to say the words because I didn’t want to hear Papa give voice to what I already knew. That it was my fault he had to return to China. Instead I kept quiet, putting myself to use—tidying up the house, helping him find his boots, and writing a note to Sir William, putting him in the picture. All I could do to make up for my folly was to help Papa as much as I could.

  As we grew closer to leaving, Papa’s face broke out in a flush, and a gloss of sweat marked his forehead. The long journey to the docks seemed to calm him a little, but he’d spent the entire journey writing in his notebook, only looking up twice when the growler stopped abruptly.