The Victory Garden(71)

Then she went into the butcher’s, but the man shook his head sadly. “I wish I could help Her Ladyship,” he said, “but I haven’t seen a chop in weeks. I can offer her kidneys or sausages or a neck of mutton, but that’s about it.” He paused, then added, “I could give you a nice rabbit if the old lady might like that for a change.”

Emily decided to risk the rabbit. She also took the sausages, and then added a fillet of John Dory from the fishmonger. Having completed her commissions, she walked up the high street, her basket over her arm, enjoying looking in the shop windows. The toy shop, the dress shop and the shoe shop all looked sadly depleted. She bought darning wool for Mrs Trelawney and a small sewing kit for herself at the haberdasher’s, then headed for the bookshop.

“Can I help you, miss?” the owner asked.

“Might you have any books on herbs?” Emily said.

“Herbs to use in cooking?” he asked.

“No, books on cultivating herbs and using them medicinally.”

He frowned. “I do have a herbal dictionary that might be of use.” He found it. “It gives the Latin names and drawings of the plants.”

It was three and sixpence, a large expense for someone who had fifteen pounds to her name, but Emily wanted it. At least it would be a start in identifying what was growing in her herb garden. She paid for the book, and was going to leave the shop when she remembered Daisy and Alice. She had promised to teach them to read, and so far had not done much about it. With the winter coming and its long evenings, it would be an ideal time. So she wandered to the children’s section to look at reading primers. She found what looked like a helpful book and was coming back to the counter when she heard an imperious voice saying, “I am looking for a novel by Baroness Orczy. A friend has particularly recommended it. I’m not sure of the title, but it is about . . .”

Emily froze, then stepped back between the shelves. It was her mother’s friend Mrs Warren-Smythe, mother of Aubrey, with whom her parents had hoped she would make a match. What she was doing as far afield as Tavistock Emily couldn’t imagine, but it was imperative this woman did not see her. She waited in the shadows, holding her breath until the shopkeeper came back with three Baroness Orczy books and put them on the counter in front of Mrs Warren-Smythe.

“These are the ones I have at the moment, madam. If you’d care to take a look and see which one was your friend’s recommendation?”

As Mrs Warren-Smythe bent over the books, Emily put down the primer with regret, then sidled towards the exit, moving as silently as possible. Once outside, she looked around, making sure that Mr Warren-Smythe was not lurking outside waiting for his wife, then she walked away as quickly as possible. All the way home, her heart was beating fast. The almost-encounter had unnerved her. She hadn’t considered before that Devon society was small and that her father was a well-known figure. The chances of being recognized were high. Then she told herself that she was overreacting. If she had actually encountered Mrs Warren-Smythe, all she’d have had to say was that she was still working with the Women’s Land Army. It wasn’t as if anyone could tell she was expecting yet. Her hand strayed to her stomach. But soon, she thought. Soon it will be obvious. Then she would have to stay put in the village.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The rabbit, fish and sausages were all deemed acceptable by Mrs Trelawney, and Emily carried her new book on herbs back to the cottage. The drawings were old-fashioned woodcuts, but they were good enough for her to be able to identify many of the plants. She drew a plan of the garden, then went outside and started to write down names. Some plants had died off this late in the year, and she would have to wait until spring to identify them, but others still had enough leaves to make them recognizable.

What’s the point? she wondered as she came back into the cottage. If I don’t know what to do with them, then I’m wasting my time.

She sat down and picked up the journal from the table. She felt a reluctance to go on reading, Daisy’s words still whispering a warning in her head. “It’s bad luck to read someone else’s diary.” But this wasn’t a living person. She’d had the bad luck already, and anyway, she was an educated woman of the twentieth century. Surely she didn’t believe in folk superstitions?

The next entries were frustrating because they referred to the recipes she hadn’t been able to find. But they told her that Susan had also felt compelled to take on the role of herb wife, and had thrown herself into the task with enthusiasm. Emily skimmed over the domestic details, like making new curtains, harvesting herbs and hanging them to dry in the attic. Then visiting her classroom, meeting her pupils. At least there were a few valuable details here and there that she could use. But then she read a sentence that made her pay attention again. “I hope Tabitha won’t mind my using her book, but I left home in too much of a hurry to think about bringing a journal with me. And now I have no money to spend on such frivolities, even if the local shop stocked ladies’ diaries, which I’m sure it doesn’t.”

Using her book? Emily frowned. Then she gave an excited little laugh and turned the leather-bound volume over. The front and back covers were identical. And there, on the front page at the other end of the book, were the words “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.”