The Victory Garden(76)
“Surely many writers do not meet with success until they are older than you,” Emily said tactfully.
He smiled again, the frown lines disappearing from his face. “Kind of you, Mrs Kerr. But I have to admit that I lack talent. When I have tried a story, I can see it is but a rehash of a novel by a master.”
“But you should not stop trying,” Emily said.
“Indeed, I will not.”
After what she considered was an appropriate amount of time, Emily got up to leave.
“Just a minute.” Mr Patterson held up his hand. He darted into the kitchen, then returned holding a small jar. “Please accept some of my honey. I keep bees up on the hillside, and the heather makes such an agreeable flavour.”
“How very kind. Now I have something to look forward to with my breakfast,” Emily said.
“I do hope we can do this again,” he said as he accompanied her to the door. “I found our conversation most agreeable. That is what one lacks in a village. Stimulating conversation is, I am afraid, at a minimum.”
“I look forward to it,” Emily said. “And if I can ever turn my little cottage into a civilized place, I shall return the favour.”
“You don’t mind living there?” he asked, the frown returning. “One hears such awful rumours about the place . . . Why nobody has lived there in so long and what befell former residents. Old wives’ tales, I’m sure, but nonetheless . . .”
“I feel quite at home there, Mr Patterson,” she replied. “What’s more, I am working to bring the herb garden back to life.”
“That’s right.” He broke into a smile again. “There used to be a herb garden. I remember hearing about it. One can do so many wonderful things with herbs—teas and salves.”
“I aim to try some of them. If I am successful, I will let you know.”
“Then I wish you bonne chance,” he said.
Emily felt the warm glow of the parsnip wine as she walked back along the lane. She had worried that she would be all alone in the world, but already she had found friends. Mr Patterson was, like herself, a fugitive from the outside world.
After she had undressed, she brought Susan’s diary into the bedroom and pulled the covers up around her while she read by candlelight. Shadow appeared as silently and mysteriously as ever, and without waiting to be invited, he jumped up on to the bed beside her. She felt the warmth of his slim body against her and the vibration of his purring. The diary continued in matter-of-fact fashion: new remedies tried, small encounters with problem pupils. It seemed that the Lord Charlton of that time was a bachelor who chose to spend most of his time in London. Susan thought it a pity because she greatly admired the grounds of Bucksley House, which were kept in immaculate condition.
Emily mused that Susan had shared nothing of her own loss and distress after those first pages. One would never know how lonely she was, whether she wished for her former privileged life, even how she managed to fend for herself in the cottage. She got on with it. Which is what I am doing, Emily decided.
A breakthrough came when one of Susan’s pupils developed whooping cough and was suffering with wrenching bouts of coughing. Susan made a batch of Tabitha Ann Wise’s cough syrup, and the result was more successful than she had dreamed. The child’s spasms lessened, and he became more comfortable immediately. Thereafter, other members of the community started coming to her with various maladies.
Then came another long entry:
Interesting encounter today. A Mr T. appeared on my doorstep. He was concerned about his wife, and hoped I could do something for her. They had recently returned from India, and were leasing a house about three miles away. His wife had not been able to endure the Indian climate, and was in poor health. Would I at least come and see her, and perhaps be able to concoct a tonic for her to restore her to health?
I pointed out to him that I was no physician. I could make teas and infusions that eased simple ailments: rheumatism, gout, colds and influenza. But if her problems were more serious, then she needed the help of a doctor.
“What she needs, if you really want to know,” he said, “is a woman friend. Someone who is concerned about her health and is helping her to get better. I truly think the tonic could contain sugar water and she would improve, if she really believed in it.”
With some reluctance, I agreed that I would come. He came for me in a trap with a sprightly little grey on the following Saturday. On the way there, he told me that he had been in the army, the Bengal Lancers, and had enjoyed the excitement of military life, but he had resigned his commission out of concern for his wife’s health. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do next or where he wanted to settle. Maria favoured living somewhere like Bath, but he couldn’t stomach city life and the daily round of polite society. He was born to be a man of action, he said.
The house was a good solid stone one, such as we had at home in the north, set amid extensive grounds, but quite remote from any village. Maria T. was lounging on a daybed, a coverlet tucked around her, even though the day was a pleasant one. She was pretty in a pale, Nordic sort of way, with almost white-blonde hair and skin as translucent as the china dolls I had played with as a child. She held out a languid hand to me. The hand was like ice, and I cradled it between my own.
“I felt the heat so dreadfully in India,” she said. “And now I am afraid I feel the cold. I do nothing but shiver and require the servants to fill hot-water bottles for me.”