The Victory Garden(68)

The very mention of Finlay’s name is painful to me, and I break off from writing this.

Emily stared at the pages as if the words were shouting out to her. Susan Olgilvy had fled to marry the man she loved and something had gone wrong. She skimmed ahead hastily.

Perhaps the last occupant has married and moved away to a husband and a home, although I find that hard to believe, too, given that part of the schoolmistress’s contract stipulates no contact with the opposite sex. At least the parish council won’t have to worry about my improprieties. There was only one man for me, and he lies buried in Highgate Cemetery, crushed by falling cargo at the London docks, where he was working to make a new life for me.

Emily let the book drop and stared into the fire, lost in thought. Miss Susan Olgilvy had been just like her: she had come from a tragedy and a loss, fleeing to a little-known part of the country to heal her wounds. No wonder Emily had felt a connection to the cottage from the start.

She had to read on now.

July 10 and then July 11

I was studying the garden beneath my window. It is composed of hopelessly overgrown bushes, some half-dead, others covered in a riot of convolvulus. I found myself thinking of the gardens at home—the immaculate lawns, the herbaceous borders, all looking so effortlessly manicured. I’d like to bring this garden back to order and beauty, but how will I know where to start? I was suddenly overcome with weariness and turned away, lest a tear escape from my eye.

I took a long time to fall asleep, and was awoken by an alarming sound. A distant growl and then a loud, distinct thud near my bed. I was awake instantly, leaping out of bed. What could have made a noise like that? A creature landing on the floor maybe? My heart was racing as I felt around in the darkness for the lamp. It had still been daylight when I fell asleep, and I had not thought to test it out. As I leaned forwards, something struck me on the head, and I cried out in panic. Something was running down my face. Blood? I put my hand up and realized that my hair was now wet. Tentatively, I held out my hand and was hit by a cold drop of water.

That was when I realized that it was raining outside. The growl I’d heard was now repeated as distant thunder, and it was clear that my roof was leaking! I made my way around the room until I located the basin, and I placed it beneath the drip. The noise was now even louder, a plink and splash every few seconds, but at least I had stopped the room from getting flooded. At last the rain stopped, and I fell asleep.

I awoke to brilliant sunlight streaming in through my window. Beyond the village green, the hills rose majestically. I heard the rattle of a harness as a wagon rumbled past. I opened my window, and sweet, herby smells wafted towards me: lavender and others that I couldn’t identify. I love the smell of lavender—Nanny always kept lavender bags in my clothing drawers, and my clothes always had that sweet smell. For a second, I was taken back to the freshly scrubbed nursery with the big rocking horse and white bedspread, and Nanny saying, “Time to rise and shine, sleepyhead. Remember, it’s the early bird that catches the worm.”

I noticed the basin full of water on top of the chest of drawers. I looked up at the ceiling and the wet patch in it. I had to find out where the roof was leaking, otherwise I’d have the ceiling down on my head. I wondered if the parish council would be responsible for mending leaky roofs. I sincerely hoped so.

I realized I had to find a way up into the attic. I looked around, and found a square trapdoor in the hallway with a string attached. I pulled, the trapdoor opened and a ladder cascaded down. I found a bucket, hoisted my skirts, then gingerly climbed the ladder.

It was horribly dark up there, but I could see daylight coming in between the slates. I had located the leak in my roof. I felt an absurd sense of achievement as I placed the bucket beneath it. This would demonstrate to those school board members and the villagers of Bucksley Cross that I am not a pampered, upper-class girl, but as resilient as any hardened countryperson. With the bucket in place, I looked around to see if there was anything that might be useful. My first inspection was not encouraging. A chair with three legs. A picture frame with no picture in it. A wooden box full of old bottles. But in the corner was a hatstand—absolutely what I needed to hang my clothes. I dragged it to the opening and lowered it down. Then, I spotted an attractive wooden box. I opened it, and it contained a sewing kit. Again, very useful, as I will need to mend my clothing in the future. (Another skill I shall have to learn, I’m afraid. My sewing abilities have not progressed beyond embroidery, and I wasn’t very good at that!) I carried the box down with me, reaching terra firma successfully.

I managed to shut the trapdoor, then moved my new-found treasures into the bedroom. The sewing box contained only a couple of spools of thread, a thimble and a card of darning needles. No great find. But then I realized this was only the top layer. I lifted it up and then gasped. Underneath was not more sewing equipment, but an ancient-looking, leather-bound book. Hoping for intimate details of a long-ago schoolmistress, I opened it. The writing is in a faint, spidery hand, and I had to take it over to the window to better read it:

Being the recipes for the creation of tinctures, salves, infusions and all manner of medicinals produced from the garden of the herb wife, Tabitha Ann Wise.

Underneath was written: Begun on this day, July 11, 1684.

I felt my hand tremble as I held the book. Today is July 11. I began to feel that I was meant to be here, meant to find this book. The herb wife! I looked out of the window at the neglected and overgrown bushes. Lavender, and was that rosemary? And were the others all herbs? I realized that I had landed in the middle of a healing garden.