Page 25 of Bane Bloom

I smiled. “That’s because you’re so kind, Annie.”

I meant it. I didn’t think I’d ever met anyone so kind in my life.

Returning my smile, she rose from the table, and together we cleared the dishes. She was readying to wash up, but I put my foot down this time, and soon she and her basket were headed back out to her cart. I stood at the garden gate and waved.

The sun was climbing, and this day promised to be fine. I remained for a moment with my eyes closed, feeling the sun’s warmth and listening to the birds and the nearby stream.

When Annie and I had come out, I noticed a well that I hadn’t before, and now I went in search of a bucket so I could fetch water for washing. I found one just outside the door off the kitchen and carried it back around the house. This was not a chore I was accustomed to, and on my way back, much of the water sloshed onto my skirt.

As I neared the kitchen door, I noticed Thomas had come outside. He was seated near his hut on a large round of wood in the sun, untangling a fishing net. My heart gave a jump as he looked up, and I sloshed more water onto my skirt.

“Call for me next time, Miss Gray,” he said, “and I’ll fetch it for you.”

Heat stung my cheeks as I called back, “I’m all right, thank you.”

Inside, I dumped what was left into a basin. Belatedly I noticed an apron hanging on a peg and put it on.

As pragmatic as I prided myself on being, I had never once entertained the notion that Papa and I might do without a maid. And Nancy was one of our largest expenses. As I washed the breakfast dishes, it occurred to me that without her, I would not be here. My art had earned me this opportunity. If I’d had to keep house for Papa and me, those skills might never have had time to develop.

Once I had everything tidied, I went back upstairs to get my day started—later than I’d intended, but I could not regret Annie’s visit. She did really seem to care about the welfare of Pine Cottage’s temporary residents, which made me feel less alone, even if her concern had not been able to help Mr. Carroll.

I found the other bedroom upstairs to be the very opposite of my own. Where mine was bright, pleasantly sun-faded, and simply furnished, this one felt elegant and heavy. The bed was a beautiful old work of art with wine-red curtains, and the walls had been painted forest green.

A large portrait hung over a bureau, and I wondered whether it might be of Thomas’s grandfather. His hair was silvering by the time of the portrait, and his eyes were much darker, so it was difficult to say. But I thought there was some resemblance in the lines of his mouth—and certainly in the somber expression.

The gentleman, propped by a walking stick, stood in a bluebell wood—the very one we’d passed through in coming here, I suspected—the flowers’ vivid coloring matched in his waistcoat. Not a true blue, but more of a deep blue-violet. Though his eyes met those of the viewer, his stare was unfocused, giving it a weightlessness. The background of the portrait had been done in the rich hues of deep woodland shadows, creating some tension around what might be lurking there. The setting felt of equal importance to the man. It was as if the man was a part of the setting, rather than simply being framed by it.

Rossetti would approve.

The items that related to me had been heaped together to one side of the door—half a dozen thick wooden flower presses and a box of paper for pressing.

Upon closer inspection, I found that two of the presses had already been filled with labeled plant samples. Strange that the Society had not collected them. Perhaps, like the presses themselves, they’d simply been left for the person who would continue the work.

By the dates included with the labels, the samples had been taken in October, and they were all nicely dried now. Mr. Carroll had saved me a great deal of work.

I went back to my room for a journal before carefully removing the sheets of leaves and flowers and placing them in an empty trunk that rested near the presses, noting them down in the journal as I went. When I discovered “spearwort” (buttercup) and loosestrife in the second press, my heart beat faster—these plants were growing around the pool. Had Mr. Carroll taken a sample of the Bane Bloom as well? I reached the bottom of the stack without finding one.

Though I completed this process in under an hour, it left me feeling that I’d had quite a productive morning. I drifted over to the window to have a look out at the lake before heading down to begin my own sample collecting.

We had grand views of the Thames from our house in Chelsea, yet there was no comparing that to this. For one thing, the water in Buttermere was so clear you could see the stones at the bottom, at least in the shallows. The sun was high now, and a breeze set the bright green baby leaves dancing and spinning in the trees. I could hear lambs from the nearby farm bleating, and the now-familiar chuckle of the stream.

Movement near the house caught my eye, and I saw Thomas on the beach below, readying a rowboat.

A rather devious thought bloomed in my mind.

He can’t get away from me in a rowboat.

I hurried out of the room and down the stairs without stopping for a wrap or my hat, before I had time to talk myself out of the impulse. I left the house through the kitchen door and crossed quickly to the beach. The stones slowed my progress, and Thomas looked up as my shoes ground against them.

“Are you going out to set your net?” I asked, breathless.

“Aye.” The word was slightly drawn out, like he was speaking it reluctantly.

“May I go with you? I’d like to see the lake.”

One brow lifted as his gaze shifted to the water. “Can you not see it now?”

“Well, yes. But . . .” But what? “I suppose I thought it might be . . . diverting.”