The Victory Garden(78)

“I’m so sorry, Miss Olgilvy. Are you unharmed?” Mr T. asked me.

“A little shaken, I must confess.” I started to laugh nervously. “I thought I enjoyed speed, but that was a little too fast for my taste.”

“My dear girl, you are a marvel,” he said. “Any other woman would have had a fit of the vapours by now.”

“I am not prone to vapours, Mr T.,” I said, still laughing.

“No, of course you aren’t. You are . . . just perfect.” Then he took my chin in his hand, drew me towards him and kissed me. And I am sorry to say that, in the heat of the moment, I returned his kiss. Afterwards, we were both overcome with guilt and swore that this should not happen again.

Emily looked up from the book. Poor Susan, she thought. She had found a man who was right for her, and yet their love could never be. And the second thought that came to her was that Robbie and she had made love in a similar storm. It seemed as if their entire lives were progressing along parallel lines. She read the next entry.

I lay awake in turmoil all night, so bitterly ashamed of myself that I had betrayed the woman who had come to trust me. I realized then what I had refused to admit to myself before: that a connection had been growing between Mr T. and myself. And I could not blame him for that reckless moment. He was a healthy man who had been denied the intimacy a husband can expect. And I had to admit that I was also attracted to his lively mind and his rugged appearance. I had thought that I could never love another man after Finlay. How ironic that the man I could love is married to someone else. At least this proves that the heart can heal.

By morning, I had come to a decision. I should have to break off all contact with Maria T., lest I be tempted again. I would write her a note, telling her that I had been neglecting my duties as a schoolmistress and could no longer find the time to visit her personally. I would send over supplies of her tonic, if she felt it was doing any good, and wish her a speedy recovery.

It was with a heavy heart that I put that letter in the pillar box. I was never to see him again.

Emily closed the diary, feeling tears welling in her eyes. Susan had nobly renounced her own chance at happiness. But now she was curious. Did Susan then remain the spinster schoolmistress for the rest of her days, living a solitary life like Mr Patterson? And what happened to Maria T.? She flicked through the pages of the journal. There were not many more entries, and then sheets of plain paper. So either Susan had abandoned writing her journal soon after or she had bought herself another book and started afresh. Perhaps she had moved on to a new life and had found happiness elsewhere . . . Emily realized she couldn’t stop reading now.

It has been a month since I last visited Maria T. Her husband came to see me, saying that his wife was in a terrible state after having received my letter, and he begged me to reconsider. I told him the truth—that I acknowledged an attraction between us and that we should not put ourselves in the way of temptation again. I could tell he was bitterly disappointed, and he clearly looked forward to my visits as much as his wife did. But he is also an honourable man. “I have grown immensely fond of you,” he agreed. “I find myself thinking about you, going over every detail of our last moments together. But as you point out, I am married to another. I took her for better or worse, and I must abide by my promise.”

When he got up to leave, he took my hands in his. “May I kiss you one last time?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak, but nodded. I felt the jolt of desire as his lips fastened on to mine. When we broke apart, we stood there, holding hands, looking into each other’s faces as if trying to remember every detail. Then he said, “You should go away from here. You deserve a good life amongst bright and lively people. You deserve to make a good marriage and be happy and have children around you.”

I felt like saying, “So do you, but you will not have what you want,” but I wisely kept silent. “You should go,” I said. “People will talk if they see you lingering too long in my cottage.”

He smiled then. His whole face lit up when he smiled. “I love you,” he said simply. Then he walked away.

There were only three more entries. So she took his advice and moved away, Emily thought. She found happiness elsewhere. She turned the page. There was something different about the writing. Until then, the penmanship had been perfect. Now it seemed scratchy and jagged, and there was a blot on the page.

Today, I had a visit from two policemen, who came with terrible, shocking news. Maria T. has died. I was asked a lot of questions pertaining to the tonic I prescribed for her. I showed them the recipe and pointed out that the ingredients were all simple herbs, quite harmless. I thought they went away satisfied, but I was left very shaken. They can’t have thought . . .

November 21, 1858

The policemen returned, and with them was a man from Scotland Yard in London. It seemed that tests had been done on Maria’s body, and they had found traces of arsenic. More questions were asked about the tonic. Then they moved on to my relationship with Mr T. I replied haughtily that there was no relationship with Mr T. He merely drove me to and from his house. One of the policemen was grinning in a most unnerving way. It seemed I had been seen kissing Mr T. “Locked in a passionate embrace,” was how he put it.

“And what better way to get rid of an inconvenient wife than with a tonic that was supposed to cure her,” he said.

I replied most indignantly that I had done nothing wrong. The passionate embrace they had mentioned was nothing more than a friendly hug from a man who wished to cheer me up. As for the tonic, I showed them the recipe.