The Victory Garden(77)
We talked for a long while. She told me about India, which she had found a horrifying, brutal place. Beggars with sores all over them, small children deformed by their parents to earn money begging. Flies everywhere. Snakes. She had once thought that one of her black stockings lay in a chair. She went to pick it up and it was cobra.
“It was fine for Henry,” she said. “He was off with the other officers playing polo or pig sticking when they weren’t keeping the natives in check.”
“You presumably had other wives whose company you enjoyed?” I asked.
“Too much of their company, which I did not particularly enjoy.” She sighed. “We lived in each other’s pockets. They gossiped and talked endlessly about their children. Flirting with other officers was a sport for them. And they didn’t seem to mind the heat and the filth. I felt drained and indisposed the whole time.”
I promised to help her regain her health and said I would make a tonic for her. Her husband was pathetically grateful. I went home, studied the herb book and came up with a tonic that would raise her mood, as well as stimulate the blood flow in her body. I hope it will do her some good.
The candle flickered and was burning low. Reluctantly, Emily closed the journal, blew out the candle and pulled the covers up around her. The cat curled up next to her, showing no indication of wanting to spend the night outside.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A few days later, Maud arrived. Emily and Alice took her to meet Mrs Soper. She didn’t seem at all daunted when she was shown the forge and the tasks she’d have to perform.
“I’ve never had to shoe a horse before,” she said, “and my experience with milking cows wasn’t too good, but I reckon I’ll get the hang of it.”
“We’re quite a little community now,” Alice remarked as they walked back together along the village green. “If my Bill could see me pulling the pints, he wouldn’t half laugh. ‘You’ve got muscles on you, girl,’ he’d say.”
“I was picturing Robbie doing the same,” Emily said, and realized she could mention his name without a violent stab of pain. Maybe there was hope that she was starting to heal. That evening, she went over the notes she had taken from the two journals and decided to try some of the recipes using the herbs she had harvested. She had identified and collected a good dozen plants. Some of the recipes called for the flowers, which were not obtainable at this time of year, others for the bark or the roots. A tea with balsam and lavender worked as it was supposed to, making her drowsy. Creating a tincture looked a little daunting, so she left that for later. Then she went back to Susan’s journal, anxious to know if the tonic was successful for her languid Mrs T.
I have been to see Mrs T. on several occasions now. She claims my tonic is doing her good, but she still has no energy and her skin is still so frightfully pale, as if she has no blood flowing through her veins. And she shows so little interest in anything. I have tried reading the newspaper to her, talking about fashions and food, but I get no flicker of response. I suggested that she see a doctor, but she claims she has seen countless doctors who have yet to find anything wrong with her. The last one advised brisk walks in the fresh air and suggested she would be more healthy if she had children. The poor woman broke down in distress as she told me this. Apparently, she is incapable of having a normal physical relationship with her husband, who has endured this patiently over ten years. It seems to me more and more that the problems are emotional, not physical. She is afraid of everything, and thus excludes herself from most of what life has to offer.
More entries followed:
It was a gorgeous spring day, and I offered to take Mrs T. to see the daffodils that are blooming in profusion on a nearby hillside. She claimed the wind was too chilly for her. I wish I knew what to do to break her out of this cycle. It is clear she welcomes my visits, but I think that I am her only caller.
Mr T. and I had a lively discussion on the way home about the Irish question. Words became quite heated, and he apologized as we pulled up in front of the cottage. I told him I enjoyed a good debate and invited him in for a cup of tea. He examined my small herbal laboratory I have set up in the former scullery and was impressed.
Emily read on. Susan said nothing, but Emily could tell that a connection was growing between herself and Mr T.
A strange and wonderful but also frightening event happened today. I can hardly bear to write down the words, but I want to remember every detail, lest I forget it. We were driving back to the cottage as usual. Mrs T. seemed a little worse on account of the spate of bad weather, which affects her head, giving her constant headaches. I agreed to try the remedy for headaches I have read but have yet to make. It involves wood betony, skullcap and the bark of the willow, which conveniently grows beside our rushing stream.
Anyway, on the way home, the heavens opened and we were drenched within seconds. Then there was a flash of lightning and almost simultaneously a great crash of thunder. The poor little mare took off, running away with us at full tilt. Mr T. tried in vain to stop her, but to no avail. We came down a steep hill with a narrow bridge going over the stream at the bottom. I thought we should surely tip over at any moment, and I clung to Mr T. and the side of the trap as it lurched from side to side.
Without warning, a large branch came down across the road in front of us. It was an act of God. The horse reared and stopped dead in its tracks. We were safe. Mr T. jumped down and calmed the terrified animal. Then he climbed up beside me again.