The Victory Garden(94)

There was a silence, then Emily said, “I am lost for words, Mr Patterson.”

“Reginald, please.”

“Reginald, I always knew that you were a kind man, but this goes beyond kindness. To give up your solitude and your way of life for someone you hardly know is a great sacrifice.”

“Hardly a sacrifice, Emily. I have come to look forward to our little chats, and I enjoy your lively mind. I think we would be quite compatible, quite good companions, eh?”

“Yes, I believe we would,” Emily said. “I, too, enjoy our little chats. But this is so sudden, so unexpected—I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing right now. I do not demand an immediate answer. Think about it. Consider it. Consider your future and what might lie ahead if you have no male protector and no solid means of employment.”

“What you say is true, Reginald,” Emily agreed. “But marriage? That is such a big step.”

“You do not find me too repulsive, do you?” he asked.

“Not at all. I find you an altogether pleasant man, one that I should be happy to call my friend for years to come. But marriage should include love, should it not?”

“I think you’ll find that many marriages are matters of expediency rather than romance, my dear. You would not be the first woman who married for financial security. But I repeat—take your time. Think it over.”

Emily walked back to the cottage with her head reeling. It would indeed be the answer to many of her worries. She would be taken care of, and so would her child. But I’m twenty-one years old, she thought. I have a whole life ahead of me. Do I really want to be stuck in the back of beyond for the rest of my days? And then another thought followed. He’s a nice enough man, and I’m sure he’d treat me well, but I think of him as an uncle, an older friend of the family. Could I possibly learn to love him? It was one thing enjoying fireside chats, but what if he wanted to claim the rights of a husband? She tried to imagine him kissing her, taking her into his arms . . .

And the moment she considered this, an image of Robbie came into her mind. Robbie’s bright, suntanned face and unruly, red-blond hair. The way his eyes sparkled when he looked at her. And how she felt when he had made love to her. How could anyone replace him? How could she ever love again?

She didn’t mention Mr Patterson’s proposal to anyone, not even Lady Charlton. They had almost finished cataloguing all the books and artefacts, and Emily felt that she should be turning her attention to the spring garden, but Lady Charlton resisted this strongly. “A woman in your condition? Unheard of.”

“I’m sure women work in the fields in places like Africa and China until their babies are born,” Emily pointed out.

“This is not Africa or China, nor are you a peasant woman,” Lady Charlton said. “The men are back on the farm, aren’t they? We’ll ask the farm manager to send over one of them to dig up the beds, then you can decide what should be planted . . .”

Her voice trailed away at the end of this speech. Emily looked at her with concern. “Are you all right?” She pulled up a chair. “Here. Sit down. You look very pale.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me but old age,” Lady Charlton said, but she sat, gratefully. “Actually, I am rather tired these days. I don’t think my heart is working as well as it should.”

When Emily went back to the cottage, she studied recipes for a weak heart. Hawthorn blossoms were recommended as a cardiac tonic, along with yarrow and wood betony. Other notes included using periwinkle and something called heartsease, which turned out to be Viola tricolor, the little pansy-like violet that was now springing up in her front garden. She went out and picked plenty of hawthorn blossoms from the hedgerows, and the next day, when she went up to the house, she brought a bottle of the tonic with her.

“I’ve made something for your heart,” she said.

The old woman took a sip. “It tastes disgusting. Have you put hemlock in it?”

“Of course not! You can add honey or sugar if you like.” Emily smiled. “But it should do you good.”

“I think you’ve inherited the powers of the witch,” Lady Charlton said, a few days later. “I do feel a lot more sprightly. I’d like to know what is in your tonic.”

Emily wrote down the ingredients for her, and Lady Charlton nodded. “An interesting mixture. Well done.”

Then Emily turned her attention to experimenting with creams and lotions. The beeswax felt too sticky for a face cream, so she sent away for glycerine, and also asked if lanolin could be procured from the local farms. It was too early in the year for the first lavender, but she tried other spring flowers, as well as the last of the lavender she had dried the year before.

“Try this,” she said to Nell and Alice at the pub. They both agreed that it smelled nice and made their hands feel soft. “Then let’s get started, shall we?” she suggested. “Let’s try a sample batch.”

The cottage was too small to work in efficiently, so they took over the back room at the Red Lion. The local women threw themselves into the task with enthusiasm. Small tins were ordered. Various mixtures were tried, and Emily also found a recipe for soothing lotions—good against bruises, sprains and rashes, so the recipe said. Rose water, borage juice, witch hazel and chickweed. It was too early in the year for roses, but she bought rose oil at the chemist and added a few drops to the liquid. This seemed to be a big success. The women said it felt lovely when they patted it on their faces, and it also helped with bruises. So bottles were ordered, and Mrs Soper’s oldest boy, who possessed artistic talent, designed labels. It seemed their commercial enterprise was getting well underway. Local chemists agreed to stock a few bottles and tins, then ordered more.