The Victory Garden(105)

“I wanted to come sooner, but I’ve been rather busy,” Emily said. She bent to give the old woman a kiss on the cheek. “With the baby,” she added.

“I have to say this dear boy has been most attentive.” She looked up to smile at Justin, who hovered in the doorway. “He read me some of his poetry. It’s quite good.”

“Quite good, Grandmama? It’s brilliant.” Justin grinned.

“I’m so glad to see you’re recovering so well,” Emily said. “We were so worried.”

“I just made up my mind I didn’t want to die yet,” Lady Charlton said. “Mind over matter, you know. I want to see the estate back to what it was before the war. Speaking of which, how are you progressing with your cottage industry?”

“Cottage industry?” Justin asked.

Emily smiled. “The ladies of the village have joined me in making salves and lotions using the herbs from the garden. We’ve had modest success, and the first reorders from local chemist shops.”

“You need endorsements from people who matter,” Justin said.

“All very well to say that,” Emily replied. “I’m stuck here with a young baby.”

“Give me samples. I can show them to influential people when I next go to London. And at the very least you can say that Viscount Charlton uses your cream on his boils.”

“Justin, you are a hopeless case,” Lady Charlton said, but she was laughing. They were interrupted by a stern sister, who ousted them from the room.

“Do you feel like a cup of tea?” Justin asked Emily. “Not in the awful hospital cafeteria. There is a cafe across the street.”

As they sat drinking tea, an idea came to Emily. “You know what I’d like to do while we are here?” she said. “Do you think the assizes court keeps archives of old cases?”

“I’m sure they must.”

“Then could I possibly pay a quick visit to my father’s chambers?”

“Why the interest in old court cases?” Justin asked.

“I wanted to find out about a woman who lived in my cottage many years ago. She was arrested for murder, and I wanted to find out if she was really hanged. Our lives moved on such similar paths . . .”

“That’s right. A woman who lived in your cottage was hanged. It’s village lore,” he said.

“Oh.” She sat silent for a while. So Susan hadn’t been so lucky. She’d had no father to defend her.

“But it was an awfully long time ago,” Justin went on. “In those days, they hanged people for the least reason, didn’t they? Like if someone looked at a cow, and then the cow died. And then there was the ducking stool, the hot pokers . . .”

“Ducking stool? That was centuries ago.”

“Well, so was this. The woman they hanged as a witch. She was back in the seventeenth century. Tabitha Something.”

“Tabitha Ann Wise,” she said. She felt a huge flood of relief. The witch hadn’t been Susan after all.

At the assizes, Emily was told Judge Bryce was in court, but she could leave him a message. She wrote briefly about Susan Olgilvy and asked if he could find details of the court case.

They drove back to the cottage.

“I expect you’ll be going to join your friends now that your grandmother is getting better,” Emily said. She was embarrassed that there was a note of wistfulness in her voice.

“Yes, I can’t leave them alone too long to read their inferior drivel when the world could be enjoying my brilliant poetry,” he said, chuckling. Then the smile faded. He turned to look at her. “But I had a long talk with my grandmother the other evening. She wants to get the home farm back on its feet. I told her I’m no farmer, but she’s concerned it’s not producing income and the land is going to waste.”

“So she wants you to come back and run the farm?” Again, she was surprised at the hope she felt.

He nodded. “It used to have a prosperous dairy herd when my grandfather was alive.”

“I probably wouldn’t advise dairy now,” Emily said. “You need too much manpower, and there just aren’t many men.”

“Oh, I forgot—you’re the expert!” He laughed, but she realized he was not making fun. “What do you suggest?”

“Sheep would be easy,” Emily said. “They look after themselves until lambing season and shearing. And it might be a good idea to plant a cash crop, too. Again, one that doesn’t need much manpower. What is the quality of the soil like?”

“How on earth would I know?” He laughed again. “You’d better come and talk to the farm manager. He knows his stuff, but he’s getting old.”

They reached the cottage. “You’ll take good care of Grandmama until I return?” he asked.

“Of course I will.”

“That’s good.” He paused. “And you will stick around? If I’m going to turn into a farmer, I’ll need help.”

“I won’t be going anywhere, as long as you let me live in the cottage,” she said. “Apart from an occasional visit to my parents.”

“As official owner of Bucksley House, I can promise you the cottage is yours for as long as you want it.”

“That’s so good of you.” She felt tears coming to her eyes. “Thank you.”