The Lady's Slipper (3 page)

Her mother’s face swam into her mind, weakly entreating her to take care of her new-born daughter. Over the years since her mother’s death, Alice had struggled with the task until she had become almost a mother to Flora herself.

Alice caught sight of Flora’s face watching. Anger rose in her chest. How dare he barge his way in here? Wheeler’s presence in this special place was an imposition. Alice placed the little mixing dish down with a bang.

‘Well, good day,’ Wheeler said, replacing his hat. ‘I regret disturbing thy painting. I am concerned that the plant may be lost to us. It is the only one, as far as I can discern, and should remain in its natural habitat, the place where God intended.’ This last part was addressed directly to Alice. She smiled politely.

Thomas acknowledged him with a nod and strolled with him towards the door. It was then that she noticed the glass jar of water on the side table, with the brushes still resting in it. The water was pink. Her heart jumped in her chest. Wheeler paused and took it in. He swivelled round and their eyes met. She felt as if he could see inside her soul. Even if he had not suspected her before, in that moment he knew.

‘Goodbye to thee, Mistress Ibbetson.’ He gave a slight inclination of his head, but his lips were pressed into a hard line. ‘But have no doubt; I intend to pursue this further through the law.’

When he had gone, Thomas returned. He tapped on the wooden door to the summerhouse.

‘What a strange man,’ he said. ‘God’s breath, I thought he was going to break the door down. Thee-ing and thou-ing all over the place. Getting me up out of my bed at this unholy hour for some business with a plant!’ He shook his head. ‘For some reason he seemed to think you must have something to do with it. Naturally, I told him straight I would not permit you to be out wandering abroad at all hours. You don’t know anything about it, do you, dear?’

‘Of course not.’ It slid out easily, but it felt awkward to lie to Thomas. She patted his arm. ‘It is a pity. I was hoping he would let me make a proper study of it.’

‘Well, there are plenty of other things in the garden. Is Sir Geoffrey’s commission finished yet?’ He glanced at the painting on the table. She was glad to have a chance to change the subject.

‘Almost. But it is a set of three–different varieties of ferns to hang in Earl Shipley’s dining room. His house has been redecorated in the Dutch style, and Geoffrey has persuaded him they will look fine against his dark wallpapering. It is a good commission. Two are finished and here is the third nearly done. Geoffrey is still overseas in the Americas so I have a little more time.’

‘How much longer will he be away?’

‘As a matter of fact, his ship landed the day before yesterday. But I do not expect to see him for a few more days. He has pressing business on his estate. Jane Rawlinson told me. Apparently he will be busy arranging for his men to deliver the shipment of bulbs and flowers to the gardeners at Hampton Court.’

Thomas nodded his approval. ‘Take care that you do not catch a chill out here.’ He walked away down the path, with his lopsided rolling gait, and she watched him go with relief. He would be riding out to the counting house soon, and she would be left at her own pleasure, to paint and potter, and make plans for the lady’s slipper.

When she retrieved the orchid from the rhubarb patch it looked perfect, thank goodness, despite its stay under a dirty bucket. It made her shiver to look at it. She looked a long time, taking in its shape and texture. It was so fragile, so unsullied. As she sat in contemplation, Flora’s dancing eyes surveyed her from the walls, looking down with her perpetual smile. She would never grow old, would always be seven.

The feeling of Flora’s immobile hand with its perfect shell-shaped nails still haunted her, the unchanged texture of her hair even in death. Alice swallowed hard; she would not succumb to the dark memories. Instead she recalled Flora’s warm body nestling next to hers as they looked at the heavy picture book together.

Gargrave’s Herbal
was the only book with pictures, apart from Aesop’s Fables, and she and Flora had often sat together, marvelling at the life-like woodcut illustrations, turning the heavy fan of pages with their familiar metallic smell of ink, that is until Alice began to tickle her and they rolled over and over screeching with merriment.

They looked for their favourite plants from the book on their daily walks. Flora was entranced by the name of the ‘lady’s slipper’, imagining she would be able to put the little slippers on her pet cat’s paws. She looked everywhere, hoping she would find it one day. Alice had joined in the game, half serious, not having the heart to tell her she never would–and yet, here it was. She could hardly believe it. But now Flora would never see it. A tear dropped into the dust on the table. The flower remained locked in its own stillness as she wept.

In the scullery Ella the housemaid was preparing a broth for the midday meal. As usual she took her time, and helped herself to small pickings. She was always hungry. Today it was a bit of boiled ham, along with potato, turnip and a few yellowing leeks. As it was the cook’s day off she would not be there to call her a rivy-rags if she wasted anything, so she threw the big rooty ends in the swill bucket. She did not bother to wash the vegetables but rubbed the earth off with her hands before chopping them and adding them to the pot with the ham. For good measure she threw in some salt from the crock. She crossed herself and tossed some over her shoulder; she didn’t want to leave room for Robin the Devil or his bad luck to enter.

As she scraped at the potatoes she stared glumly at the wall. She counted all the unwed men she knew in the village, at least ‘them that aren’t ugly or kettled’. She was born for better things than to be scrubbing carrots and carrying coal for the fire. A young man with a fat purse–that was what she needed.

She wiped her hands on her rump and went into the pantry for more turnips. The shelves were well stocked. She could sneak enough oats for two bowls of gruel or enough wheatflour for a large loaf if she was wily and didn’t do it too often. Once she had even managed a small pot of clover honey.

She ran her hand along the shelf of preserves with its jewel-like jams and jellies. In some households these were kept under lock and key, but her mistress was daft enough to leave them out in the pantry. She peeled back one of the muslin cloths and poked her finger in, bringing it out with a large globule of golden plum jam. She stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked, before doing the same with another jar.

It was redcurrant jelly; sour and tart. She coughed and spat it out, ground the stain into the flagstone floor with her clog. She arranged the muslin covers again as if they were untouched, and pushed the jars to the back of the row.

She peered into the gloom under the shelves and dragged out the sack of turnips, but it tipped over, spilling them at her feet. She cursed, bending down on hands and knees to pick them up. As she dropped the first turnip back inside the sack, she felt something soft. She whipped out her hand with a little shriek. Rats had got into the pantry again. Gingerly holding the neck of the sack open with thumb and forefinger, she squinted inside.

Something butter-coloured was poking out. She reached in and drew out a damp satin shoe, partially wrapped in brown paper. Mouth open, she held it aloft in the light for a better look. It belonged to her mistress, of that she was certain–she had seen it in her chamber. But what was it doing in the turnip sack? It was a moment or two before she thought to look in the sack for the other one. When she had recovered its twin, she sat on the stone step by the kitchen door and contemplated them both.

The thought of putting them back did not even cross her mind. It was ‘finders keepers’ as far as she was concerned. She slid off her wooden-soled clogs and tried one of the shoes on. It was too small, but she admired the look of her cold red foot encased in something so fancy. Of course such brightly coloured clothes showed that you were ungodly and vain, but she liked the feel of the soft material, the cream lining against her calloused toes. These were the sort of shoes she deserved, not roof-beam clogs. It was a shame it was so dirty. She looked at the other one and rubbed at it with her hand. There were some dark brown spots that wouldn’t come out. She spat on it and rubbed again–even now the marks did not shift. It looked like blood. How could you tell the difference between blood and paint?

She licked her lips and thought hard. Mistress would not bother to hide paint-spattered clouts–most of her clothes were spotted already. It had to be blood. A delicious shiver ran up Ella’s spine. There was something going on, and she smelt a profit in it somehow. She stuffed the shoes into her bonnet, and jammed it uncomfortably on her head. Furtively, she glanced out of the kitchen door and down the garden, in case Mistress should be looking, then set off down the lane at an ungainly trot. Within a few minutes the shoes were hidden away under her mattress. When she got back, out of breath but exhilarated, there was as yet no sign of her mistress–no doubt she was still in the summerhouse, painting.

As Ella rang the bell, the summons for the midday meal, she was almost twitching with excitement. The mistress must have been up to no good, to hide her best indoor shoes in an old turnip sack. She had a good look at her to see if she could see any other suspicious signs, until Mistress said, ‘For heaven’s sake, what are you staring at? Go and fetch the butter.’

Alice took the risk that Wheeler, having made his enquiries, would go to market as usual and not return the same day. She would finish the painting today, then hide the lady’s slipper somewhere much safer–a permanent hiding place. Once the flower had faded it would be much more difficult to identify.

As she emptied the jar of pink painting water and refilled it from the wooden butt, she puzzled over Richard Wheeler. He was certainly eccentric–choosing to take his leisure up at the Hall with Dorothy Swainson and her trembling farmers. They all spoke in the same manner, addressing everyone with ‘thee’ as if time had flown by and left them stranded in a bygone age. Wheeler had said he would not let the matter of the orchid drop, and she could believe it; something about him was unbending, like forged iron.

A week ago when she had met him coming out of the apothecary’s and he had told her about the flower, she had thought he must be mistaken.

‘A lady’s slipper? In your wood? Are you sure?’

‘I thought it would interest thee, thou being so keen on nature study. Come and see for thyself.’

So she sent a boy to fetch Ella the maid to act as a chaperone. Then she put on her cloak and followed him to the woods, and there it was. Not half a mile from her own front door–the elusive orchid herbalists had thought never to see again. It was flowering out of season, probably because it was another cold wet summer, as if they had not had enough–with the winter so severe, and the failed harvest of last year. She examined the flower with shaking hands, barely able to suppress her excitement. She knew straight away that it was vulnerable and that she must have it. It might be the only one. She told Ella to wait by the kissing-gate. Ella looked surly but retreated up the path.

‘Who else knows that it grows here?’ she asked, in a low voice.

‘I mentioned it to a few friends up at the Hall.’

‘Was that wise, Mr Wheeler? It is rare and it could even be valuable.’ She bit her lip and tried not to show how disturbing she found the thought of others knowing about its whereabouts. She recalled the tulip craze of a few years before, and the fortunes that had changed hands over the more unusual varieties.

He laughed. ‘Well, it is valuable to me. It’s a delight. I take pleasure in its growing there. And thou art welcome in my woods to come and look at it at any time.’

‘Oh no, Mr Wheeler,’ she said, crouching over the orchid. ‘Any rogue or vagabond might come upon it. It could be damaged. You must let me remove it, and forthwith, for safekeeping.’ Seeing him unmoved, she became more coaxing. ‘Come now, Mr Wheeler, we have a duty to make sure it is properly cared for and conserved.’

‘I think nature is quite capable of taking care of her own, Mistress Ibbetson.’

She stood. ‘With respect, Mr Wheeler, this species is most uncommon. As far as I am aware, this is the only plant in England.’ She recognized that her tone was becoming indignant, and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve heard tell it is also a medicinal plant. Herbalists and physicians will want to ensure it is available for future generations.’

‘Well, it is safe enough here.’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘It is away from the byre, and it looks well enough to me.’

‘I have some expertise in these matters. From my father, who was a keen plantsman. What if it should wither from disease–or the roots become waterlogged? It should be protected. It is too precious to risk in this way.’

‘“What if” never served anybody well. Thou art making speculation without cause. It is here now. I see no reason to interfere with it. It is safer in God’s hands than in the hands of any herbalist.’

God’s hands. Alice felt the familiar dull ache of grief. She still struggled with the cruelty of God’s hand. ‘But…’ She opened her mouth but the words were stuck. She swallowed hard; something seemed to be clotting her throat.

He showed no sign he had seen her discomfort. His brown eyes regarded her steadily, his hands hung loosely at his sides.

‘Let us leave it here where it chose to grow. It looks fine in its own natural setting.’ He smiled. ‘I hear thou art a painter. Perhaps thou wishest to sketch it before the flower fades?’

Alice kept her thoughts to herself. Only the slight quiver at the corner of her lips betrayed her emotion. Wheeler appeared to be oblivious to it.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I will return tomorrow, by your leave.’

She walked stiffly up the path.

‘Come, Ella. We will return to the house.’

Was it her imagination, or had the girl been smirking?

‘Yes, madam.’ Ella’s face returned to its usual dour expression.