The Victory Garden(93)
“I still can’t believe I won’t see her again,” Emily said to Lady Charlton, trying desperately not to cry in front of the old woman.
“I felt the same when Henry died, then my son, James,” Lady Charlton said. “There is nothing to say except that life is unfair. You will get over it, just as you will get over the death of your beloved lieutenant, but only time will heal your wounds, and then not completely. We just have to make do with what we have left and treasure those around us who are still alive.”
“But I have nobody,” Emily wanted to say, but didn’t. She also now had no alternative—she was stuck there in the little cottage in the village of Bucksley Cross, whether she liked it or not.
Later that evening, she was sitting alone in the cottage, not wanting to engage in polite conversation, when there was a tap at her door. Please, no, she prayed. Not another case of influenza. She opened it, and was startled to see several people standing in the darkness. One carried a lantern. They looked as if they were a band of carol singers, only it wasn’t Christmas.
Mrs Soper revealed herself in the lamplight as she stepped forwards. “We’ve come to say thank you, Emily,” she said. “We may call you by your first name, may we not? Because you are one of us now.”
Emily looked around the group. “I was glad to help,” she said, “and so glad that my remedy actually worked so well.”
“You took a big risk for strangers,” Mrs Soper said. “I know my family and me wouldn’t have made it without you, and so I wanted to say we know there’s a little one on the way. We’re all going to be making the layette. Anything you need for the baby, you shall have it.”
“And I’ve got the pram I used for our Lizzie,” Mrs Hodgson added, coming through the group. “I don’t know how to thank you enough. Your coming here was a miracle.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Emily’s eyes were welling with tears. “Would you like to come in? There’s not much room, but I can make you a cup of tea.”
“Cup of tea?” Nell Lacey’s voice came from the back of the crowd. “We’ve brought a bottle of whisky with us. We’re going to have a toast to beating that ruddy influenza.”
That night, Emily lay in bed with Shadow curled up beside her. I do have a place where I belong after all, she thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Spring came to Bucksley Cross. First, the snowdrops appeared on the hillside, then the crocuses, and at last the whole of the grounds of Bucksley House were filled with daffodils. And in the herb garden, there were new leaves and the first flowers. Emily did more identifying from the herb book, and picked, dried and carefully labelled the new herbs. She had now started attending the meetings of the Women’s Institute, and they were being given a lecture on how to make jam with local wild berries when one of the farm wives said, “It’s all very well and good, knowing how to make jam, but how do we pay for the sugar? That’s what I want to know.”
“That’s right,” someone else said. “My husband isn’t coming home, is he? How am I supposed to exist on my widow’s pension?”
“We should have young Emily make her miracle potion and sell it in case the flu ever comes back,” Mrs Soper suggested. “I bet it will work on other things, too—chicken pox and the like.”
“I couldn’t do that, Mrs Soper,” Emily said. “I’m not a qualified doctor. I’m sure that selling medicines is against the law.”
“Well then, what about that hand cream?” Alice asked. “It worked wonders on my chapped hands.”
“Yes, why not?” Nell Lacey agreed. “I tried it, too. Lovely, it was. Smelled nice, too.”
“We’d have to have enough beeswax and have small tins made to put it in,” Emily said, but she could sense her own growing excitement. “And I’m not sure if my small garden will produce enough lavender.”
“I’ve got lavender bushes behind the house,” one of the wives said. “And Lady Charlton has every flower you could ever think of growing in that big garden of hers. Lovely roses. I reckon this is something we could all do. You just show us, Emily, and we’ll all help. We’ll have our Bucksley Dartmoor cream in all the posh shops.”
Emily felt their enthusiasm and saw their hopeful faces. “We can give it a try,” she said. “And if it goes well, perhaps we can work on a face cream and lotion, too, now that the flowers are coming out.”
Mr Patterson was also enthusiastic about the idea. “You’ve given me the incentive to put in more hives,” he said. He and Emily were meeting again once a week, and nobody seemed to want to gossip about it any more. Emily enjoyed her evenings with him, discussing books and her herbal remedies. One evening, when she was getting ready to leave, she could sense that he was nervous, and wondered what she had done. He cleared his throat.
“My dear Emily,” he said. “I know that a little one is expected soon, and I know the truth of your circumstances. Mrs Bingley told me some time ago, meaning to spoil our friendship, I’ve no doubt. But I do know that you are not a widow.” He paused. He’s going to tell me he doesn’t want to associate with me any more, Emily thought. Then he cleared his throat again. “I have been a confirmed bachelor for many years, and I am a good deal older than you, but I wondered if you might consider marrying me, to ensure that the child is born with a legitimate name. I know how hard it will be for a child with no father and no name. I am not what they would call a good catch.” He gave a little smile. “But I am not without funds, and I think you can see that the schoolhouse is a snug enough little dwelling. And I would take good care of you both. I think you enjoy our little village, and you are well liked here, well respected. I do not think you would be unhappy with such a life.”