The Lady's Slipper (8 page)

Richard had been surprised that Lady Swainson received them without fuss, almost as if she had been expecting them. She received them in the drawing room and had them lay the young man out on the tapestry day bed, despite the fact that the wound was still pouring blood. She calmed the man with her soft voice, talked matter-of-factly to him, telling him that yes, he was about to die, but to be at peace. She did not use any religious language, but spoke plainly. She asked about his family, and how he remembered them, and how he would like to be remembered himself. He quietened, as if he had drunk a draught, though indeed he had not, and began to talk. Richard asked if he should fetch anything. Dorothy turned briefly to him and said, ‘There is no time. But let us pay him the honour of our full attention for his last moments with us. Listen well.’

And she bent over him and listened while he talked about his parents and his home, and how much he would miss them, and of a grievance he should have settled with his mother but for which there had been no time before he enlisted.

Dorothy Swainson did not speak, she just nodded every once in a while, her brown eyes resting all the time on his face, his hand clasped in hers. Richard and his friend listened too. The young man’s voice grew fainter and more broken, until he seemed too tired to speak. When he was still they sat for a long time, just looking peace ably at this man who was so recently alive. And there had been some thing different in this man’s death than any other death Richard had experienced. It was nothing he could put a label to, but rather an atmosphere, a quality of light in the room he would always remember.

After the last unspeakable battle and the atrocities perpetrated in the name of faith, he had remembered that night like a beacon, and finding no enduring peace he had sent word to Dorothy Swainson asking if he might be admitted to the meetings. He was so warmly welcomed that he had purchased nearby Helk Cottage and its little plot of land so he could be close to the meetings at the Hall. He sold his estate, and all his fine possessions, placing the capital at the disposal of his new-found brethren for their alms work. His life had begun anew. People called such folk the Quakers, and laughed that they trembled before God. But Richard preferred the term ‘Society of Friends’, for that was how they seemed to him, in nature as well as in name.

Alice ate her soup and bread alone in the dining room. Thomas was never in for lunch. The empty chair and the cushion where Flora used to sit stared back at her. The house echoed as she moved in it now, the rooms grown too large and silent. Alice pictured Flora opposite, eating slowly, spooning the food into her mouth with concentration, in her little white lace cap and pintucked apron, her peg doll laid beside her plate. Flora would have loved her painting of the orchid. The watercolour was finished. It had turned out well–working quickly had given the picture a fresh and lively quality.

She had hidden the picture face to the wall behind the others in the summerhouse. The orchid itself she had hidden in an old beehive amongst the ones in the orchard. Wearing her protective veil and gloves she had planted the pot directly into the ground, underneath an empty hive. That way the wooden walls protected it from view, and also from herbivorous animals such as deer or rabbits. The bees were used to her coming and going to collect the honey and ignored her presence. She had left the roof of the hive open so the plant could have sunlight and air. At night, or if Wheeler came back, she could slot the sloping roof back on again. It was a good hiding place. People would not approach other people’s hives for fear of setting a swarm.

After her meal she returned to the summerhouse to finish the commission for Geoffrey’s client, Earl Shipley. She was enjoying the challenge of painting solely in tones of green. She hoped one day, with practice, to be as great a painter as the French woman, Louisa Moillon, whose paintings of fruit and flowers were much in demand and fetched high prices. Geoffrey owned a small panel by her, and it had a quality of stillness she much admired and wanted to emulate. When Alice had shown early talent for painting, her mother had hoped she would paint miniatures and had taken her to see a number of exquisite portraits by Nicholas Hilliard. But except for her sketches of Flora, she found painting people tiresome, and the miniature too constrained. Instead she loved to paint her father’s plant specimens, the flowing beauty of natural forms.

She set out the fern on the table and began to layer in more shadows in the centre of the plant. This time of year there would be an early sunset and she was anxious to make the most of the precious daylight hours–the changing light often meant a piece had to be put aside when the weather was too dull.

She was soon happily engrossed in the lacy texture of the leaves, until the light changed again, and she leaned back in her chair to look out of the window for the passing cloud. The sky was clear. Maybe she was imagining the change in light. But then she caught a glimpse of something brown–a dark shape, something moving through the greenish glass of the window. She went closer to look out. A face loomed up in front of her, peering in from the outside. She gave a cry of surprise and stepped back. The face continued to stare at her through the glass. Alice recovered her composure and went to the door. Warily, she opened it a crack.

‘Yes, what is it you want?’

‘Mistress Ibbetson?’

‘Yes,’ Alice said, repeating, ‘what do you want?’ The woman was shabbily dressed, her cloak was old and mended, and her collar and cuffs rubbed and grey. Obviously a servant. Two shrewd brown eyes in a round moon face looked out from under the hood.

‘I am Margaret Poulter.’ She paused, looking at Alice inquisitively. ‘Margaret Poulter,’ she said again, smiling a grey-toothed smile, ‘the herbalist.’ She shuffled in and dropped a heavy brown leather bag on the flagstones.

She wasn’t behaving at all like a servant, how odd. The name took a few moments to register. Alice’s mouth went dry, and her stomach turned to liquid as the facts clicked sickeningly into place. This was Margaret the herbalist, the one Wheeler had told her about, who was thought to be something of a witch. This nondescript woman with her grey hair sticking out like a hedgehog was Margaret Poulter. Alice wiped her hands nervously on her skirts. She was not what Alice had imagined at all.

Unsure how to respond, she merely nodded, but her mind was racing. If Margaret Poulter was a witch then it would be best to try to keep calm and not antagonize her. The woman was looking with interest at the portraits of Flora. ‘By, what a bonny lass,’ she said.

‘Can I help you?’ Alice did not like the old woman looking so close up.

She did not seem to hear, but moved to bend over the fern on the table.

‘This seems a good healthy specimen.’ Margaret plucked off a leaf and held it to her nose. Alice refrained from saying anything, she did not dare, but hoped she wouldn’t do it again as the picture of it was as yet unfinished.

‘Mash the leaves, and it is good on open wounds, in particular if you mix it with woundwort. It will stem the bleeding.’ She flung off her cloak and laid it over the back of a chair.

Alice realized with dismay that she was intending to stay some time.

‘Now then, where is this wild orchid of yours?’

She thought quickly.

‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’ She led the way out of the summerhouse with the old woman hurrying a pace behind–over towards the orchard, past the beehives and out of the garden gate. Hearing Margaret’s uneven footsteps still behind her, she turned past the box trees and into the lane next to the house. Here she stopped and knelt over the verge, pointing out a small, insignificant-looking plant with rows of minuscule lilac flowers.

Margaret narrowed her eyes. ‘Not that orchid, you crafty woman, not the common spotted orchid. Did you think to pull the wool over my eyes? You might fool Wheeler, but I have more wit than Wheeler any day.’ She grabbed Alice’s wrist.

Alice tried to pull away but finding the woman surprisingly strong she said, ‘Let me go! I don’t know who you are or what you want. I have shown you the only orchid I know of in these parts.’

Margaret hung on with claw-like hands and brought her wrinkled face close up to Alice’s. ‘Come now, Mistress Ibbetson, you know that is not true. We could be friends.’ She smiled lopsidedly. ‘We both have a mind to see the flower grow wild for all to enjoy. Show it to an old lady, now.’

Alice twisted her wrist trying to free it.

‘Leave me be. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh, but you do.’ Margaret sniffed. ‘I just want to see it, is all. I have waited fifty years for a glimpse of it. I’m sorry if I startled you. My mother and grandmother before her both spoke of it, its scarlet ribbons and pretty little petal like a shoe.’

Alice finally managed to wriggle free. As she did so she caught sight of a movement at the upstairs window of the house. She was just in time to see Ella move back behind the curtain. That was all she needed, to look a fool in front of Ella. The girl was already getting above herself. But this was really too much, to be manhandled by this old woman

She turned on Margaret. ‘Get off my property.’ Then in a lower, more controlled voice, said, ‘You have offended me. Please leave, and do not return.’

Like the weather, Margaret’s demeanour had changed again. She regarded Alice steadily. She planted her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll be leaving when I’m good and ready. My cloak and bag are in your garden, so if you’ve finished your bit of play-acting, we’ll go and get them. Then you can show me the flower.’

Alice realized she was not going to get rid of the woman so easily. Feigning a haughtiness she did not feel, she marched back to the summerhouse. Margaret hobbled rapidly alongside, seemingly ignoring Alice’s ill-humour, talking all the while under her breath. ‘That’s henbane, and there’s cuckoo pint, over there with the white hood, that’s good for coughs, and here’s knotgrass, for shining up your pewter, and the hawthorn–look at those berries, must be going to be a hard winter.’

Alice shut her ears to the old woman’s mutterings. Witch or no witch, she thought, she would not let the old woman make her look a fool before her servants. Back at the summerhouse, she picked up Margaret’s cloak, bundled it together and thrust it out towards her. Heat rose to Alice’s face, and almost in tears with embarrassment, she said, ‘If you do not leave right this minute, I will send Ella for the constable.’

Margaret reached for her cloak. ‘Hold off, hold off. I’m going. Don’t upset yourself, you’ve had your share of sadness, I can see that.’ Her eyes were soft.

Alice wavered, feeling a lump come to her throat. But then she saw Margaret’s eyes take on a steely glint. ‘I’ll be back, though, before the flower fades, when you change your mind. And I know you will. My mother told me your orchid has healing properties. Nerveroot, she used to call it. Said it was a visionary plant. Makes you see things–people from the other side. I’d like to take a look at it, just once. When you’re ready, I’ll be back.’

Alice didn’t reply. She just lifted up the bag and heaved it clumsily onto the path. She was surprised at how angry she felt, and at how heavy the bag was. It seemed to be full of glass bottles, which chinked as it landed.

‘In the meantime,’ Margaret said, ‘you must mind the orchid well. And be careful. I saw three ravens on my path this morning. Three ravens is an ill wind.’ She pulled the brown hood over her unruly grey hair and stepped forward. As if it was a secret, she whispered, ‘I’m staying at the Anchor, if you find anything ails you.’ Alice wasn’t sure if this was a threat or an offer of assistance. She drew away, but Margaret was already picking up her bag, and the squat figure in the threadbare brown cloak was soon out of sight round the garden gate.

Alice sat down on the window seat. First Wheeler, and now this. How could Margaret Poulter have possibly known that she had taken the orchid? Was she an acquaintance of Wheeler’s? That did not seem plausible, given that he was one of the strange sect of ranters from the Hall–and he had been hiding its existence precisely from people like Margaret. Had she got wind of it from Geoffrey? Again, Sir Geoffrey Fisk was hardly likely to befriend someone of the class of Margaret Poulter, still less tell her of the orchid.

She paced the summerhouse, trying to unravel the conversation in her mind. Margaret Poulter seemed to know altogether too much, and, even more disturbingly, she seemed to be warning her of something. Despite the fact the sun had broken through, Alice shook her shoulders, ridding herself of some invisible pestilence. She was uneasy. The flower was causing her more strife than she had bargained for. What if Thomas were to return home and find that beggarwoman Margaret uninvited in the garden? It would be difficult to explain away. Perhaps a walk would help her clear her mind and make sense of it all.

She locked the summerhouse with the little bronze key she kept hanging with her pomander, from a ribbon on her belt. She paused by the door to slip the pattens over her shoes. She had left them, as she always did, outside the door, so she would not tread mud into her painting room. And as she slipped her feet inside, she remembered her shoes.

They were still in the sack of turnips where she had left them two nights ago. So much had happened since that they had fallen completely out of mind. Best dispose of them before Thomas should ask awkward questions about why she had ruined such an expensive pair. She hurried into the house and into the kitchen. Betty Tansy, the cook, was there rolling out pastry for an apple pie.

Cook bobbed, and said, ‘Good afternoon, mistress. Apple pie for supper. We’ve far too many apples this year. Ella’s going to wrap them and put them in the loft to keep through winter.’

Alice nodded. ‘I’ve a mind to take some for the harvest festival. If you’ll give me a basket, I’ll take some from the sack in the pantry.’

‘I’ll get some out for you, mistress, we’ve plenty.’ Cook was already brushing off her floury hands and coming round the table.

‘No need.’ Alice lifted one palm to stay her. ‘You carry on with the pies. Pastry spoils if it is left too long.’

‘Yes, mistress.’ Cook returned to her rolling pin.

Alice picked up a wicker basket from underneath the long table and went into the cool dark of the pantry. Hastily she filled the basket with apples from the windfall bag. Then she felt inside the turnip sack for the shoes. She could conceal them under the apples to get them out of the kitchen. Her hands searched round inside the sack, feeling only the gnarled heads of turnips. She opened the sack wide and put both hands inside. They must be here somewhere, she thought.

‘Looking for something, mistress?’

Alice turned round. Ella was slouching in the doorway, a sly smile on her face.