Page 6 of Bane Bloom

“Blasted rat!” squawked the bird, and both of us laughed.

Papa’s eyes glistened. I squeezed his hand and bent to kiss his cheek. “Just think what stories I’ll have to tell when I return.”

I climbed into the coach with a heavy heart, and I waved from the window until we’d turned a corner and I could no longer see him.

On the way to the train station, I continued to remind myself that this commission was a godsend, and that it would be my first-ever holiday away from London. Moreover, the Lake Country was bound to inspire new illustrations for The Fairy Herbal. There would almost certainly be flora in Cumberland that I’d never encountered before.

This optimism held throughout the long train journey north but began to falter on the evening mail coach ride from Penrith to Keswick, the largest village between me and my final destination. After a restless night in an unfussy inn—my first spent away from home—I was all but done in.

Still, I stepped up cheerfully as I could to take my seat beside an old fellow returning home to Buttermere with a cartload of oats and other dry goods. I had understood from Mr. Harding that a carriage route available for this last leg went about five miles out of the way, so here we were.

But I soon found that the slower pace and open air did me a world of good. I had already seen landscapes on this journey that I’d never dreamed of. The shops and vegetable and flower markets along the busy Thames—sights I’d known all my life—had been replaced by spring-green fields, rolling hills, great castle and abbey ruins, misty moorland, and fluffy sheep with the run of it all. So many sheep!

On these remaining miles of uneven, steep roads between Keswick and Buttermere, my wonder only increased. How right Papa had been to call it the “wilds of England.” Sparkling streams, plunging waterfalls, glittering lakes, and fearfully high peaks. In the valleys, wildflower meadows opened before me, edged by great old oaks, while thorn blossoms studded the hedgerows. Clumps of golden-yellow gorse flowers ornamented hillsides and roadside ditches alike, scenting the air with a creamy, nutty perfume.

The old farmer, Mr. Sewell, was friendly and kept up a steady chatter, though bless me, I could hardly understand three words per utterance. His northern dialect was peppered with unfamiliar terms I had to puzzle out—“force” (waterfall), “fell” (high hill), “beck” (stream), and “tarn” (water-filled hollows in the barren hillsides).

Invigorated by it all, I could hardly wait to free my sketchbook from my trunks. I had assured Papa that I thought of this commission as an adventure mainly in an attempt to lift his spirits, but now I began to truly feel it. And it was more than just the fresh air and staggering views. For the first time in my life, I was truly my own mistress. I had commitments to Mr. Harding, of course, and responsibilities to Papa and Nancy as always, but I could conduct myself as I liked here. Go on long walks, explore this new world, sketch for hours and hours each day, eat and sleep when I liked. A giddiness came over me that I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about.

My enthusiasm began to dampen, however, as a few clouds that had looked harmless enough in the beginning were joined by rather threatening-looking ones. Soon raindrops were pelting my hat brim.

When we reached The Mill, an old gabled stone-and-timber-frame inn built next to an equally old stone bridge, Mr. Sewell informed me that Pine Cottage was more than a mile away still, at the opposite end of the lake, and I nearly wept. I think he noticed, because as he unloaded my trunks, he suggested I wait inside the inn for “Thomas” to collect me.

I cannot overstate how relieved I was to find a cozy dining room with a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. Water beaded off my wool mantle onto the flagstones as I hung it on one of the pegs next to the door.

When I turned, a young woman was coming to greet me. She had golden hair and a welcoming smile. Her belly was swollen with child. Wiping her hands on her apron, she asked, “Can I help you, miss?”

“Good day to you,” I said, voice raspy in my exhausted state. “Mr. Sewell has just brought me from Keswick. I’m staying at Pine Cottage, and someone is coming for me, but Mr. Sewell thought it would be all right if I waited here out of the rain.”

“Of course it is,” she said. “You must be chilled. Sit down by the fire, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea. I’ve got some bread just out of the oven, too.”

Her kindness brought a wave of homesickness.

All is well now. Nothing very terrible has happened. Pull yourself together.

“Thank you,” I said, mustering a smile, “but please don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. You just make yourself comfortable.”

I sat at the table closest to the hearth and took off my wet gloves, then removed my hat. Though the mantle had kept me mostly dry, it wasn’t very thick, and I did feel chilled. The blazing fire brought immediate relief.

After a few minutes, the woman returned with a tray. I’d never been so glad to see a teapot in my life. She transferred the tea things to the table, along with a plate of sliced bread that was still steaming. She set butter and a pot of jam next to it.

“Now, that’s damson jam from our own tree. If you’ve never had it before, it’s much like a plum.” She met my gaze. “My name’s Annie—Annie Foss—and my husband and I run this inn. I’ll go back to the kitchen and leave you be, but if you need anything, just call.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Foss,” I repeated earnestly. “You are an angel.”

She laughed lightly. “Well, I guess I know what it’s like to ride from Keswick in the rain!” Eyeing me curiously, she continued, “You’ve been sent by the apothecaries, Miss . . . ?”

“Forgive me. My name is Cricket”—her brows dipped slightly in confusion, and I corrected—“my name is Catherine Gray. And yes, I’ve been sent by the London Society of Apothecaries to catalog the glasshouse at Pine Cottage.”

Nodding, she lifted the teapot and filled my cup. “We wondered whether they’d be sending anyone else, after poor Mr. Carroll.”

I frowned. “Mr. Carroll?”

Her eyes flitted to my face as she set the pot down. Her expression had grown troubled. “The gentleman who came in the autumn. But I see you haven’t heard of him.”

“Indeed, I haven’t.” Surely Mr. Harding would have mentioned if someone else had been sent? Poor Mr. Carroll. “Did something happen to him?”