Page 2 of Bane Bloom

* Beneath the final line of this entry, there is a single, large blot of ink and nothing more.

The Physic Garden

London’s Chelsea neighborhood—April 17, 1850

My thumb nervously drummed the cover of my portfolio as I waited to see the Physic Garden’s curator.

What are you doing here, Cricket? I asked myself for the hundredth time.

“Miss Gray?”

A slender gentleman with silver hair, a clean-shaven face, and a puzzled half smile had stepped out of the curator’s study.

“Mr. Moore?”

Something shifted behind his smile. A faint glimmer of displeasure? “I am Giles Harding, interim curator. The Society is seeking a replacement for Mr. Moore, who has retired to write a book on British ferns.” Mr. Harding stepped back and opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in?”

This was disappointing news, but I tried not to let him see it. Was I wasting my time here? Would Mr. Harding have the authority to consider my proposal, or would it be better to wait for Moore’s replacement? I squelched an impulse to ask how long that process was expected to take.

Might this be provident? There was always the possibility I’d find Mr. Harding an easier sell. Though I didn’t necessarily believe in fate, I did flirt with the notion that things happened for a reason.

“Please take a seat,” said Mr. Harding, closing the door behind us.

My heart thumped uneasily as I moved to the chair he’d indicated, and he sat down behind a broad mahogany desk. My eyes moved quickly around the study, which seemed also to serve as a library, row upon row of book spines lining the walls. The room was intensely masculine, with dark paneling and furnishings, portraits of stern-looking personages, and a perfume of old book bindings blended with both fresh and stale tobacco.

A casement window set in one wall was the only feature that lightened the ambience; it overlooked a very old glasshouse, the garden’s famed orangery. The casement allowed bright fruity notes to drift in and mingle with the heavier scents. A recent newspaper article on the garden’s history (and failing finances) had said that all manner of fruits were grown here, even pineapples.

Lured by the vivid greens and bright pops of citrus, I continued gazing out the window until my companion quietly cleared his throat.

“How may I help you today, Miss Gray?”

I cleared my throat, too, tightened my grip on my portfolio, and sat up straighter. Mr. Harding’s eyes flitted to the top of my head, and the black, flat-brimmed bowler hat that Papa no longer wore, which I’d feminized by sticking a black-and-turquoise ostrich feather in the band. I wore it whenever I went out, but it was admittedly an unusual accessory for a woman. It occurred to me now that I might have done better to leave it at home.

Shifting slightly in my chair, I said, “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Harding. I’ve come to you with a proposition that I hope may benefit us both.”

His smile remained, but his brows dipped dubiously. “What sort of proposition?”

“One very similar to the proposition made to the Society by Elizabeth Blackwell a century ago.”

His brows dipped further. “Mrs. Alexander Blackwell? Do you mean the authoress of A Curious Herbal?”

“The very one.” Only, much like me, she had been more illustrator than author. Mrs. Blackwell had persuaded the esteemed gentlemen of the Society of Apothecaries to support her in producing a book of botanical illustrations so that she might free her husband from debtor’s prison. She took a house in Swan Walk, adjacent to the garden, to be near her subjects. The book was a success and achieved its aim. I hoped to follow in her pioneering footsteps.

I could see Mr. Harding’s skepticism as he inquired, “You would like to produce an herbal of your own?”

“I would, sir, very much. Though I have no relation in debtor’s prison.” And desperately hope to keep it that way.

“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Gray.” He folded his hands on the desk. “As garden curator I cannot claim to speak for the Society, but I’m not sure we have need for further herbals written by lady botanists.”

Ignoring the unsubtle slight, I hurried on, “But you see, sir, I’m not.”

His brows raised.

“A lady botanist, that is. I am simply an illustrator. But I have an interest in botany, along with what I believe is a rather original idea.”

His face relaxed—or, more accurately, sagged, as if he was fatigued. “Is that so.”

“If you’ll allow me, sir?” I raised my portfolio, sliding loose the band that kept it closed.