The Lady's Slipper

by Deborah Swift

  She licked her lips and thought hard. Mistress would not bother to hide paint-spattered clouts–most of her clothes were spotted already. It had to be blood. A delicious shiver ran up Ella’s spine. There was something going on, and she smelt a profit in it somehow. She stuffed the shoes into her bonnet, and jammed it uncomfortably on her head. Furtively, she glanced out of the kitchen door and down the garden, in case Mistress should be looking, then set off down the lane at an ungainly trot. Within a few minutes the shoes were hidden away under her mattress. When she got back, out of breath but exhilarated, there was as yet no sign of her mistress–no doubt she was still in the summerhouse, painting.

  As Ella rang the bell, the summons for the midday meal, she was almost twitching with excitement. The mistress must have been up to no good, to hide her best indoor shoes in an old turnip sack. She had a good look at her to see if she could see any other suspicious signs, until Mistress said, ‘For heaven’s sake, what are you staring at? Go and fetch the butter.’

  Alice took the risk that Wheeler, having made his enquiries, would go to market as usual and not return the same day. She would finish the painting today, then hide the lady’s slipper somewhere much safer–a permanent hiding place. Once the flower had faded it would be much more difficult to identify.

  As she emptied the jar of pink painting water and refilled it from the wooden butt, she puzzled over Richard Wheeler. He was certainly eccentric–choosing to take his leisure up at the Hall with Dorothy Swainson and her trembling farmers. They all spoke in the same manner, addressing everyone with ‘thee’ as if time had flown by and left them stranded in a bygone age. Wheeler had said he would not let the matter of the orchid drop, and she could believe it; something about him was unbending, like forged iron.

  A week ago when she had met him coming out of the apothecary’s and he had told her about the flower, she had thought he must be mistaken.

  ‘A lady’s slipper? In your wood? Are you sure?’

  ‘I thought it would interest thee, thou being so keen on nature study. Come and see for thyself.’

  So she sent a boy to fetch Ella the maid to act as a chaperone. Then she put on her cloak and followed him to the woods, and there it was. Not half a mile from her own front door–the elusive orchid herbalists had thought never to see again. It was flowering out of season, probably because it was another cold wet summer, as if they had not had enough–with the winter so severe, and the failed harvest of last year. She examined the flower with shaking hands, barely able to suppress her excitement. She knew straight away that it was vulnerable and that she must have it. It might be the only one. She told Ella to wait by the kissing-gate. Ella looked surly but retreated up the path.

  ‘Who else knows that it grows here?’ she asked, in a low voice.

  ‘I mentioned it to a few friends up at the Hall.’

  ‘Was that wise, Mr Wheeler? It is rare and it could even be valuable.’ She bit her lip and tried not to show how disturbing she found the thought of others knowing about its whereabouts. She recalled the tulip craze of a few years before, and the fortunes that had changed hands over the more unusual varieties.

  He laughed. ‘Well, it is valuable to me. It’s a delight. I take pleasure in its growing there. And thou art welcome in my woods to come and look at it at any time.’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Wheeler,’ she said, crouching over the orchid. ‘Any rogue or vagabond might come upon it. It could be damaged. You must let me remove it, and forthwith, for safekeeping.’ Seeing him unmoved, she became more coaxing. ‘Come now, Mr Wheeler, we have a duty to make sure it is properly cared for and conserved.’

  ‘I think nature is quite capable of taking care of her own, Mistress Ibbetson.’

  She stood. ‘With respect, Mr Wheeler, this species is most uncommon. As far as I am aware, this is the only plant in England.’ She recognized that her tone was becoming indignant, and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve heard tell it is also a medicinal plant. Herbalists and physicians will want to ensure it is available for future generations.’

  ‘Well, it is safe enough here.’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘It is away from the byre, and it looks well enough to me.’

  ‘I have some expertise in these matters. From my father, who was a keen plantsman. What if it should wither from disease–or the roots become waterlogged? It should be protected. It is too precious to risk in this way.’

  ‘“What if” never served anybody well. Thou art making speculation without cause. It is here now. I see no reason to interfere with it. It is safer in God’s hands than in the hands of any herbalist.’

  God’s hands. Alice felt the familiar dull ache of grief. She still struggled with the cruelty of God’s hand. ‘But…’ She opened her mouth but the words were stuck. She swallowed hard; something seemed to be clotting her throat.

  He showed no sign he had seen her discomfort. His brown eyes regarded her steadily, his hands hung loosely at his sides.

  ‘Let us leave it here where it chose to grow. It looks fine in its own natural setting.’ He smiled. ‘I hear thou art a painter. Perhaps thou wishest to sketch it before the flower fades?’

  Alice kept her thoughts to herself. Only the slight quiver at the corner of her lips betrayed her emotion. Wheeler appeared to be oblivious to it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I will return tomorrow, by your leave.’

  She walked stiffly up the path.

  ‘Come, Ella. We will return to the house.’

  Was it her imagination, or had the girl been smirking?

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Ella’s face returned to its usual dour expression.

  When she revisited the wood the next day, Wheeler stubbornly resisted all her attempts to make him relinquish the orchid to her. Apparently he had heard rumour that a Widow Poulter, the cunning woman from Preston, had been seen in the village and was treating a boy for toothache. He suspected she would want to dig out the plant for her remedies and so he had forbidden anyone to enter the wood. He was of the opinion that Widow Poulter, though perhaps not exactly a witch, moved in very undesirable circles.

  Oh, it was such a beauty! She gauged it with her outstretched thumb, one eye half closed. Her thoughts returned to the task in hand, the drawing of the intricate twisting sepals. It felt good to have the orchid here in the light where she could use the lens and the calipers to check her accuracy.

  She worried, though, that it might die when she tried to split the rootstock. Orchids were complex. Their seeds so small, they were difficult to capture or sow. They needed a fungus for them to germinate–a strange alliance between the light and shadow. This was her little secret, plant lore passed down to her from her father, and she was itching to make use of it. And no one, especially not a rough-hand Quaker like Wheeler, was going to prevent her.

  Chapter 3

  Richard Wheeler dropped the few remaining leeks into the sacks and stacked the empty baskets inside each other. He stood up and straightened his back, before bending to tie the ears of the bag. It had been a good day. The sun was out, the autumn wind had held off and the market had been busy. His stall was popular, for he would not haggle but had set a fixed price for each item. Word was out that whoever came to his stall, whether they be master or stableboy, the price was always the same. Takings were up. He caught the eye of the old soap-seller on the next stall and gave him a broad smile.

  ‘Trade has been brisk for thee,’ he said, nodding at the half-empty table. ‘We could do with a few more days like today.’

  ‘Aye, it’s picked up. Folk are coming out more.’

  They fell silent, remembering. When Parliament ruled, the market had been a dull one, with the alehouses all but closed for gambling and all types of merriment quashed. Now there was uneasy peace, the king was back and business was improving. Times had been hard, particularly for the likes of the soap-seller–goods such as soap were purchased only if there was enough money left over after the family was clothed and fed.

  ‘Well, I daresay I�
�ll be here next week,’ he said. He nodded to Richard and returned to sorting the little faggots of scented lavender and myrtle, the bottles of rosewater and the yellow blocks of sweet-smelling soap.

  Richard watched for a moment as the old man bent stiffly over his panniers. The scent of flowers reminded him of the lady’s slipper. He was disturbed by the recent turn of events. Alice Ibbetson had taken it, he was sure. Yet if he were to openly accuse her it could lead her to the pillory, and he baulked at being responsible for putting any woman, particularly a woman of breeding such as she, through such a cruel indignity. But she had lied brazenly to his face and a part of him wished her come-uppance; he felt like shaking her and telling her to come to her senses.

  Surely she did not think him so lacking in intelligence that he could not see the nose in front of his face? It was possible–since he had changed his silks for homespun, people assumed he was an unlettered tomfool, and this riled him more than he cared to admit. He sighed, turning the conundrum over in his mind.

  The market was getting quieter now; the bustle and heave had become dribs and drab, and the light would soon be gone. The sky was turning to ochre, and the manure in the pens began to steam in the chill autumn air. The drovers moved their livestock away down the road, calling out hoy, hoy!, and flicking their hazel switches over lazy rumps.

  Returning his thoughts to the task, he rubbed his hands on his apron and prepared to lay the leftover gooseberries in nests of straw before loading the crates. He was glad to be going home. Standing at the stall made him restless. Almost everything was on the wagon except the fruit–he always left that until last in case it should bruise.

  ‘Fetch me two of those bottles. My lady will need sweetening, since I am so long away.’

  The voice was loud and irritable. Richard stiffened and instinctively reached for his sword, forgetting momentarily that it was no longer there. He knew that voice. Still staying low, he raised his head from the punnets of gooseberries to look at the speaker. He scanned him quickly, almost unconsciously, observing him from the feet up: broad-tongued shoes with silver filigree buckles, long legs in blue silken hose, fine woven breeches, blue damask embroidered coat and matching waistcoat. Above it, a long, pale face with a thin mousy moustache. He was right, it was Geoffrey Fisk.

  What was he doing here? He swallowed hard. A tightness squeezed his chest and throat. He looked down at his own thick grey worsted breeches and then back to Geoffrey’s fine attire. He could almost feel the goosedown texture of the soft-coloured silks and brocade on his own skin, so well did he know them. He longed sometimes to feel the slip of silk stockings instead of the itch of the woollen ones he was now wearing. More than anything else, he felt naked without sword or musket. Keeping himself low, he reminded himself that giving up his sword and his fine things had been a free choice.

  He watched Geoffrey covertly–his expression of bored impatience, the way he slapped his thigh with his riding crop, his face half turned away from the market stalls, looking over to where the horses were tethered. He saw him chivvy a lad and repeat the instruction.

  The lad ran over, calling, ‘Two bottles of rosewater, for the gentleman.’

  The soap-maker placed two bottles in the lad’s basket. ‘Two farthings, if it please you.’

  Geoffrey interrupted, imperiously. ‘There will be no payment. We will take it as tithe.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I have already paid my dues.’

  Richard ducked well out of sight and watched as Geoffrey raised his eyebrows and slowly approached the stall himself. ‘Are you so insolent that you will argue with me?’ He leaned towards the soap-seller, one gloved hand resting on the table. ‘I think you have not paid quite enough. Pass me your purse.’

  The soap-seller backed away, his eyes darting side to side, as if looking for a place to run. ‘If I have offended, Sir Geoffrey, then beg pardon,’ he said hastily, bowing low, his hat in his hand. ‘There will be no charge for the rosewater.’

  ‘I said, hand over your purse.’ Geoffrey’s voice echoed in the sudden quiet. He signalled to the lad with his gloved hand.

  The old man did not move. He looked rooted to the spot. His eyes watered and his hands stayed glued to his hat, kneading the felt brim with his fingers.

  A riding crop came down heavily on the trestle like a musket shot. It swept everything onto the cobbles in a great clatter so that people turned round to stare at the commotion. The bottles and phials shattered and liquid dribbled away in scented rivulets, exploding an odour of lavender and roses. Flowers fell in the dust to be crushed underfoot by the passing handcarts and wagons. The old man fumbled as he untied the purse from his belt.

  Richard saw the gnarled fingers hand over a leather pouch fat with the day’s takings. It was unfair. He knew he should challenge Geoffrey. But he also knew that should he confront him he would risk a penalty himself. And he had worked hard over months for his purse this day, in all weathers–harder physical work than he had ever done in his life before. He had no desire to cross Geoffrey again; that chapter of his life was closed now, no point in reopening old wounds.

  The old soap-seller looked grey and tired. His back slumped as he felt in the dirt for the lumps of soap, anything he was able to salvage. Crestfallen, he filled his poke with the broken bottles and dusty bundles. Uneasy, Richard watched him load the mule. A sickness gnawed in his belly. I am a fine friend, he thought, a spineless maggot who lets an old man be bullied and robbed in broad daylight. Somehow the incident had diminished him, made him shrink inside himself.

  Geoffrey climbed onto the mounting block and onto his horse, the twisted whalebone riding crop in his hand. He did not even glance at the old man as he jogged past. His two servants followed behind his big bay mare with the loaded packhorses. He jostled past the people and livestock, flicking the cattle with his crop if they got in his way.

  ‘Stop.’ Richard felt a voice come out of his throat as if it belonged to someone else. Somehow he had stepped into the path of Geoffrey’s horse. The horse startled and let out a whinny, trying to side step.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? Get out of my way.’

  Richard stood his ground. He lifted his head and took a deep breath.

  ‘Thou hast treated the soap merchant ill. It is not seemly to treat people in such a way.’ There, it was out. He had said it plain.

  ‘And who are you to tell me how a gentleman behaves?’ Geoffrey’s tone was one of mild annoyance. He looked Richard up and down; a suggestion of a well-disguised sneer on his lips, before it gave way to the shock of recognition. Geoffrey’s horse, sensing something amiss, tossed its head.

  Richard realized he would have to carry this through, now that he had begun. ‘The man deserves proper payment for his goods.’

  ‘You,’ Geoffrey snapped, and Richard found himself addressed like a servant. ‘Richard Wheeler. I see now who you are. Remove your hat when you address me.’

  ‘I shall take off my hat only if thou removest thine.’

  By now a curious crowd of tradesmen and stallholders had gathered round, anxious to be a part of whatever little drama was unfolding in the corner of the square. There were several short intakes of breath when Richard refused to take off his hat.

  ‘Do you dare to insult me?’ said Geoffrey. ‘I said, remove your hat.’

  ‘All men are equal. I defer to no one, and no one defers to me. Give the soap-seller fair payment.’ It felt good to be doing something. To feel his character expand to fit the clothes. He repeated, ‘When thou removest thy hat, then I shall remove mine.’

  He heard a few murmurs of agreement from the crowd. They had seen so many changes of rule in the last few years that they were ready to be on whichever side was winning.

  Geoffrey’s cheeks grew blotchy and his lips tightened. Richard saw the knuckles stand out white against the reins and round the leather handle of the crop. Geoffrey raised his arm in a sudden movement.

  The crop flashed through the air. Richard’
s hat was off and onto the ground before he had time to move. The crowd gasped as it rolled away under the wheels of a cart. The shock of it made Richard take a step back.

  ‘That’s better. Now get out of my way.’

  Richard swayed, and a trickle of blood trailed from his ear and onto his neck, but he carried on with new resolve as if nothing had happened.

  ‘My hat may be gone, but my purpose is not. Give the man back his purse.’

  More agreement from the crowd. The people pressed closer in, to see what would happen next. By now the two men were surrounded. Richard saw Geoffrey take in the growing number of people. During the exchange his servants, sensing trouble, had sidled away. Geoffrey was left alone, outnumbered by a hostile crowd, who had taken the side of the underdog.

  He panicked and tried to kick his horse on through the throng, but the people closed around him like a wall, and his horse was skittish and would not obey. It clattered and skid on the slippery cobbles, eyes rolling white with fear.

  In a fury, seeing he was trapped, Geoffrey lashed out at anyone within reach. There was a murmur, then a hubbub of outrage. Those at the back of the mob started to pick up animal droppings, handfuls of rotting vegetables and stones. Those nearest to him clawed and dragged at his legs trying to unseat him, and others grasped at the reins, restraining his horse.

  The horse danced on the spot, tossing its head, its neck white with a lather of sweat, hooves churning. With one last vicious swipe of his crop, Geoffrey knocked over a woman who was clinging to the stirrup. He kicked his terrified horse into a gallop. A group of youths set off in pursuit until, outrun, they contented themselves with a rain of stones, which fell clattering like hail onto the cobbles.