Page 13 of Bane Bloom

But why did he leave without finishing his work?

Sighing, I returned my attention to the lake, watching a rowboat progress across this end, circles rippling out around it. The opposite end, toward the village, lay beneath a layer of fog. The great fells jutted around the lake basin like guardians. A few other houses dotted the shoreline and lower slopes, but none closer than the farmhouse we’d passed as we left the woods.

I took hold of the casement handle and pushed it open. Cool, moist air bathed my face, and I heard the burble of the nearby stream.

This is a paradise.

It had come to me without forethought. This landscape, different from what I was used to in almost every way . . . it had woken my senses. I was eager to know it better. To lose myself in it.

This country is wild still.

I shivered, wondering whether Carroll’s thoughts had run a similar course. The possibility he was resting at the bottom of the lake cast a shadow over my enchantment.

Yet dwelling on Carroll and his mysterious fate wasn’t going to help either of us. I decided I would write Mr. Harding in a day or so on the pretense of letting him know I’d arrived safely. Maybe by then I would come up with a delicate way of inquiring.

Turning from the window, I removed my hat, took a sketchbook and box of pencils from one of my trunks, and went back downstairs.

Before going to the glasshouse, I peeped into the dining room, which had a long table with eight chairs. They were the heavier furnishings of another age, and they gave the room a homey, rustic feel rather than a formal one—though here, too, I found a crystal chandelier.

A foxed mirror with chipped gilding hung above the hearth and would help brighten the room by reflecting candlelight. A pewter candelabra rested at the center of the table, but again the formality was lessened by a basket of pine cones placed beside it. Rather than being papered, this room had been painted a deep burgundy.

There were windows at both ends of the room, with the one next to the door to the kitchen facing the lake.

Curiosity satisfied, I went back to the sitting room, hesitating a moment outside the glasshouse door. I noticed a thin vine had managed to penetrate the gap between door and frame at the bottom. It had grown along the floor and wrapped itself up the base of a tea table next to the reading nook. By the heart-shaped leaves, I guessed it was a variety of morning glory. The tips of two tightly closed white blooms barely protruded from under the tabletop.

I opened the door carefully so as not to damage the vine, though I wondered whether its encroachment on the sitting room was authorized.

Inside the glasshouse at last, I caught my breath at the change in atmosphere—warm and humid, smelling richly of earth and botanicals both bitter and sweet. To my untrained eyes, everything growing here appeared abundantly healthy. Thomas seems to know his business.

I, on the other hand, had never cared for a plant in my life and could scarcely be considered more than an amateur botanist. Botany had become a popular hobby among ladies, tolerated—so far—by a society only too eager to correct when a woman stepped out of bounds.

My learning had come from wherever I could get it. Mrs. Blackwell’s herbal, and Nicholas Culpeper’s. He had been a Society member as well as a physician and an astrologist. I’d taken opportunities to study specimens in the small gardens of friends and neighbors as well as on our trips to Battersea Fields. Papa had a patron with a conservatory that I’d been lucky enough to visit on several occasions. That gentleman had a friend at the Physic Garden and, after admiring my artwork, had kindly assisted me in obtaining my appointment with the curator.

A combination of study, timing, and luck had brought me to this moment, and I had a strong sense that it was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I stepped at last onto the cobbled walkway that spiraled among the plant beds. There were smaller paths, too, that cut between sections of the spiral.

Despite the structure’s mostly glass walls and ceiling, I didn’t have the impression of being out of doors. The humidity and effusive greenery almost gave the place the feel of an underwater garden. Vining plants, broadleaf plants, plants with clumps of tall spikes. Even a fig tree at the glasshouse’s center, overhanging a table and two chairs, creating an inviting spot for tea. A lantern rested on the table, and others hung from hooks on stakes along the walkway. Though not in use now, they would create a magical atmosphere after dark.

As I strolled through the garden, I easily recognized the crepey flowers of a mauve opium poppy, the purple bells and acrid leaves of belladonna, the pale yellow blooms of henbane with their dark purple veins, and the spiky, oval fruit casings of night-blooming thorn apple. The reason for Thomas’s warning was quite clear—a collection of such plants was often referred to as a “poison garden.” Though dangerous botanicals often had medicinal uses, it was no undertaking for an amateur.

Among these baneful beauties were innocuous ones as well. Purple vervain, associated with folklore. Lady’s mantle, prized by alchemists. Cottage garden herbs like borage and yarrow.

I began to feel overwhelmed at the sheer number of plants—I had four weeks to sketch and dry samples. Eager as I was to start sketching, the collecting and drying would take time, so I would need to begin with that task.

But perhaps not today.

As I moved toward the chair and table under the fig tree, I noticed a stove resting to one side in an open, tiled area. Though the light that came through the glasshouse’s many windows would provide warmth even on gray days, it wouldn’t always be enough. Even in late April, nights were likely still quite cold here, and part of Thomas’s job would be to know when to light the stove to protect his mother’s and grandfather’s plants.

His mother. Recalling what Annie had told me of his parentage, I wondered whether prejudice had played a part in the decision to relegate Thomas to the hut out back. Maybe the Society had wished to avoid being tainted by association with a child born out of wedlock, which would become less important if he was only the groundskeeper. But why would he put up with such treatment?

No wonder he’s angry. I’m angry for him.

I sat down in one of the cushioned garden chairs—and noticed something I couldn’t believe I hadn’t before. Also sheltering under the tree’s broad, pear-shaped leaves was a small pool with aquatic plants growing in and around it. The border of soil contained buttercup and a few spikes of purple loosestrife, the latter well known for controlling bleeding and treating dysentery. There were also fronds of dainty blue forget-me-nots and clumps of rushes with tiny yellowish flowers.

The pool itself contained a single plant, and the closer I looked at it, the more puzzled I became. Some kind of water lily, based on its habitat and floating, round leaves. Its flower, however, was like no water lily I’d ever seen.

Though the bloom was large, with petals layered in the manner of lilies, the petals were rounded and formed a cuplike shape similar to that of a Christmas rose—or, more properly, hellebore, since the plant wasn’t related to roses at all. But it was the color that particularly struck me.