by Annis Bell
Sir Frederick came in holding a dish that held a small pile of ashes.
“Look at this.” His voice shook a little.
David and Jane stepped closer and discovered the remains of a small plant sack, a few charred leaves, and the barely recognizable stalk of a plant.
“This was a black orchid. A black orchid!” Sir Frederick sobbed. He touched a blackened leaf tenderly. “Tomkins, that dog in a doublet, he actually did it! The letters, you remember?”
Jane nodded, but Sir Frederick continued, heedless of her response. “I had my doubts, of course. I thought his depictions were perhaps exaggerated, that he dramatized, you know, to keep me paying his way and drive up the price of his work. But he wasn’t lying. God, I would have paid him anything!”
Ever pragmatic, David said, “The man was probably counting on that.”
The orchid grower gazed dismally at the remains of the little plant that had cost an orchid hunter his life. “And what if he did? I’d have given him any sum he requested. That stupid woman, that insane, vile creature! If I’d been at the Trout Inn, I’d have throttled her with my own hands. The terrible part is that Tomkins told no one where he found the orchid. These men are individualists, lone hunters who would rather take their secrets to the grave than pass them on to a rival. If I were a younger man, I’d go out into the wilds myself.”
He seemed to come to his senses then, raising his eyes from the orchid’s remains. In a calmer tone, he said, “What you must think of me. Only a lover of orchids could understand what I’m going through. Poor Tomkins is dead . . . but the loss of such a singular flower is beyond common comprehension.”
“It seems passion and blood are inseparable from this flower,” Jane observed quietly.
Frederick Halston poked around in the remnants of the exotic plant. “Maybe there’s still something I can save.” He looked to Jane. “I don’t want to hold you up. You have had to suffer enough in your stay here. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Before David or Jane could say anything more, he walked into his office, murmuring to himself, “You would have to cross this plant with a Calanthe. If that worked, then . . .”
When the door closed, Jane said, “Unbelievable! Even now, he has more time for his orchids than for his wife.”
David stepped over to the window, just as a carriage rolled across the heavy carpet of snow in the courtyard. “Thomas is here!”
He was relieved to see that Thomas had arrived and could look after Alison. He wanted nothing more than to leave Winton Park. At the same time, he knew that a dark shadow still hung over them, but he would say nothing to Jane of the threatening letter he had been given at the Seven Bells. Not until absolutely necessary.
“David, there’s just one thing, before we join the others,” Jane began.
He looked at her, puzzled.
“Never grow orchids.”
31.
Mulberry Park, Cornwall, New Year’s Day 1861
Heavy snow was falling on the front lawn. The enormous, ancient mulberry trees looked as if they had been coated with powdered sugar. Rufus ran madly through the snow, snapping at the falling flakes, rolling on his back and barking joyfully when Jane threw a snowball for him. It was good to be back. She had wanted so much to be home again, and for Jane, home meant this unprepossessing place in Cornwall.
It was here that Jane felt her uncle’s presence the strongest. She missed Henry dearly, and not only because this was her first Christmas without him. Mary, who now called Mulberry Park home when she wasn’t at the boarding school, was staying with them, and Mrs. Roche had recovered from a bad cough. Floyd was back to his old self again, and Dr. Woodfall had come to visit a few days earlier and stayed on, though not entirely of his own free will. Richard Woodfall would have preferred to spend New Year’s Day with his own family, but the snow had made the roads and lanes impassable. Jane had come to appreciate his presence because living with David had become more and more of a strain.
Ever since their return from Winton Park, he had been more taciturn and bad-tempered than usual. Nothing seemed to please him, and he evaded all questions. He spent hours alone in his office and was constantly sending Blount off to the post office. When he did take her in his arms and kiss her, there was often a sadness in his eyes that tore at Jane, deep inside. How could she help him if he would not share what was on his mind?
“Jane! You’ll catch your death if you’re not careful!” Richard Woodfall called, stamping through the snow.
She turned around and threw a handful of snow at Rufus, who leaped up at her. “Rufus! No jumping!”
Trying to dodge, Jane stumbled, falling backward into the snow. Laughing, she clambered to her feet, fending off Rufus’s cold nose, which was sniffing and snorting at her face in canine concern. She grasped Woodfall’s outstretched hand gratefully.
“You great ox!” she scolded Rufus playfully as she beat the snow from her coat and skirts. Rufus barked and ran away.
“Everything all right?” asked Richard Woodfall. His pale eyes were as roguish as ever.
“Nothing broken, Doctor. Apart from Rufus, there’s not much that can knock me down,” she said, straightening the fur-lined hood of her coat.
“Have you read this morning’s paper? Cunningham won first prize for his Cattleya la-something-or-other. Shall we walk a little? I have to stretch my legs after that breakfast. Mrs. Roche seems to be trying to fatten me up.”
Jane clapped her hands to free her gloves of snow. “I’d love to take a walk. And yes, I did read that about Cunningham. I could imagine Sir Frederick turning scarlet with anger. Then, of course, I thought of Charlotte. I’m glad she and the children have gone to Italy. She can recuperate fully there and get some distance from everything.”
“Won’t she have to give her testimony at the trial at the end of the month?”
“No. Sir Frederick will do that. One can’t really put the poor woman through that. I’ve written everything down in a statement to the court, but I may still have to appear as a witness. If I see Miss Molan again, it would be my pleasure to testify against her.”
“You’re a fearless one, Jane. I know no other woman ready to so selflessly put herself out for others.” Richard spoke with an undertone that made Jane prick up her ears.
They had reached the end of the lawn, and Jane stopped walking. “But?”
“Well . . . you often put yourself in danger,” said Richard.
“Has David been talking to you? Are you supposed to warn me to be more cautious?” she said, more rudely than she had intended.
“Jane, your husband is deeply concerned.”
“So I’ve heard. Unfortunately, he never shares those concerns with me.”
Richard gently grasped her arm. “He has his reasons. I’ve known him longer than you have, and right now I have the impression that something is weighing heavily on his soul.”
“Why can’t he tell me that, Richard?” Jane faced him and tried to read what was behind his friendly expression.
“Let’s go back. This snow is never going to stop.”
Briefly, Jane looked up at the gray sky. The snow was settling like a heavy curtain all around them. “If this keeps up, you might have to harness a sleigh behind your horse.”
“Just like when I was in Russia.” Woodfall went on to describe icy Russian winters, which were far from romantic. Instead they were times of deprivation that claimed many lives. “Still,” he concluded, “some part of me misses those days.”
They had reached the steps leading up to the main entrance, where they found David waiting for them.
“What are you rattling on about, Richard?” he said by way of a greeting. “Jane, is he boring you again with his old war stories?”
“Not at all. Thank you, Richard.” Jane swept past David into the house. She was disappointed and angry that her own husband would tell her less about his past than a near stranger would.
She let Floyd help her out of her coat and wa
s about to go up to her room when David’s voice held her back. “Jane, come into the library. Please.”
Turning, she saw him already striding ahead then waiting in the doorway for her, his expression flinty. As soon as she entered before him, he swung the door closed.
“What is the matter with you? Have I done something? You ignore me and go out walking with Richard instead.” His voice grew louder, and the scar on his cheek turned a deeper shade of red. His dark hair, which he wore a little shorter now, fell over his forehead.
“I ignore you? Oh, David, please, that’s silly. You’ve buried yourself in your papers for weeks, barely saying a word to me, and with hardly a glance my way.” She lifted her chin. “Except in our bedroom. At least there I seem to fulfill a need.”
David’s nostrils flared, and his voice was hoarse as he shot back, “You are intentionally provoking me, Jane, and my patience has its limits.”
“Really? How, pray tell, am I straining the limits of your patience? Help me understand, please, because I don’t know what else to do!” She stepped toward him, holding out a hand. When he didn’t move, she moved closer and looked him directly in the eye. “I am lonely, David. I miss my uncle. He was my family. Now all I have is you. And what are we, David? Is our marriage really only a formal arrangement? I know nothing about your family. You haven’t even introduced me to your father.”
His eyes flashed. “My father? You think my father is family? I would spare you that particular encounter. Should you ever get to know him, you would soon realize that the last thing you want from him is to be a father!”
“David.” Although they were standing just a few inches apart, Jane felt so far away that she thought she might lose him forever. Tears filled her eyes.
“Don’t.” His voice was raw as he pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I very much want to be a better husband to you.”
Sniffing, she tilted her head back. “You’re not so terrible. Now, for example.”
When she saw a spark of humor flicker in his eyes, she knew that all was not yet lost.
“Jane,” he began. His voice was so serious that she felt her stomach clench anxiously. “Myron, the boy from the streets, the one who was killed on the docks.”
“That poor little man. You really liked him, didn’t you?”
“He deserved a chance, but someone begrudged him that because they wanted to hurt me.” David closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. “Someone from whom I once took something is now out for revenge.”
Slowly, a grim suspicion formed in Jane’s mind, and her hands burrowed into his jacket.
“I’ve been making inquiries. Rooke has been helping me in London, and Thomas, too, with his connections in India. The Seven Bells in St. Giles doesn’t belong to Big John, but to an English businessman in India.”
“Devereaux,” she whispered.
David nodded and stroked her back. “Do you now understand why I’m so worried about you? Why I don’t want to let you out of my sight for even a minute, because I don’t know if there is some hired killer somewhere just waiting for the right moment to strike?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” How could she have doubted him so deeply? she wondered.
“Because I needed to be sure. What was I supposed to do? Lock you in the house?”
She raised her eyebrows. “What do we do now?”
“I’ll find him. There is no other way.”
“When do we leave for India?”
“We?”
“How do you expect to keep an eye on me if I stay here?”
“Let’s discuss that later.”
Afterword
Why a black orchid? I am a great admirer of parks and greenhouses, which is ideal when undertaking my research because I get to spend time among ancient ruins and relics, and in parks steeped in history. Plants have been collected for centuries. They were used as food, for religious ceremonies, and for medicinal purposes.
One fascinating figure is the doctor Paul Hermann, who in the seventeenth century was commissioned by the Dutch East India Company and who became one of the first to go in search of rare plants. Botany soon developed into an area of study quite distinct from medicine, and suddenly, in the Age of Enlightenment, numerous scientific expeditions carried thousands of new kinds of plants back to Europe. Alexander von Humboldt, for example, brought back over six thousand different plants, barely half of which were already known to Europeans. In the pre-Victorian era, William John Swainson collected plants in Rio de Janeiro. He used orchids as packing material for the plants he sent to London, believing the orchids to be a kind of parasitic weed. However, one orchid bloomed during the crossing, triggering an orchid frenzy in England that soon spread throughout Europe.
A few years ago, I visited Kew, as the Royal Botanic Gardens in London are more generally known. Among other attractions, an herbarium and the Palm House—today one of the oldest existing Victorian hothouses—were built in the 1840s. Construction began on the Temperate House, which housed plants from the temperate regions of the world, in 1860. Indeed, in England and Europe in the mid-1800s, numerous botanical gardens and huge trade nurseries were established, a development assisted by the advent of faster ships, which made it possible to transport tropical plants back to Europe more expediently and in relatively undamaged condition.
It was in Kew that I first heard about the nineteenth-century obsession with orchids, for it is in Kew that the sketchbooks of probably the most famous orchid grower, John Day, are housed. Orchids are among the strangest, most fascinating, and most intimidating flowers. They practically laugh at observers, returning their stares, and there is something uniquely erotic about them. It is no coincidence that they take their name from the Greek órkhis, meaning “testicle.” The flowers themselves are described as having lips and mouths.
Even Confucius called the orchid the queen of aromatic plants. From 1840 onward, more and more wealthy collectors, obsessed with orchids, sent notorious orchid hunters out into the world to bring back the rarest and most beautiful specimens from the jungles of South and Central America and from Asia. At auctions, individual specimens could attract prices of up to 12000 Goldmarks (approximately US $100,000). These adventurers forged paths into unexploited rainforests and through swamps, defying poisonous snakes, hostile indigenous peoples, diseases, and natural disasters. These reprobate soldiers of fortune were responsible for wiping out entire orchid populations by simply cutting down the trees on which the sought-after plants lived.
Insights into the orchid hunters’ adventurous lives can be found in letters between the orchid grower Frederick Sander (1847–1920) and his hired plant hunters, and in Victor Ottmann’s account of his experiences in tropical America, published in 1922.
The notorious black orchid soon became synonymous with an unattainably rare treasure, not least because of the tales spread by the orchid hunters themselves. Specimens were found that approached the black ideal—dark-violet orchids. In South America in particular, very dark specimens were found, several on the slopes of the Pichincha volcano. Only in recent years have growers like Fred Clarke in Florida managed to create a hybrid sold as a truly black orchid—the Fredclarkeara After Dark.
Please excuse the fact that some of the dates and information in this novel may not agree precisely with actual history or geography, but this story is intended more to entertain than to instruct. Sometimes, the historical circumstances were bent to fit with the story arc or the wills of my characters. I hope very much that any such bending has been for the reader’s pleasure!
Find out more about the Lady Jane series at www.annisbell.com.
Acknowledgments
As with any of my novels, my readers deserve my biggest thanks! I receive a tremendous amount of support in my work in so many marvelous and different ways, and I am humbled and grateful for all of it.
I would like to thank the amazing team at AmazonCrossing for their competent, creative, and ever-enthusiastic he
lp!
My heartfelt thanks also go to everyone who assisted in the creation of Lady Jane’s adventures, and to my family most of all—for everything, always—you are simply wonderful!
About the Author
Annis Bell is a writer and scholar. She has lived for many years in the United States and England, and currently splits her time between England and Germany. The first book in her Lady Jane Mystery series was The Girl at Rosewood Hall.
About the Translator
Born in Australia, Edwin Miles has been active as a translator in the literary, film, and television fields for many years, and has worked, among other things, as a draftsman, teacher, white-water rafting guide, and seismic navigator.
After undergraduate studies in his hometown of Perth, he completed his MFA in fiction writing at the University of Oregon in 1995. While there, he spent a year as a fiction editor on the literary magazine Northwest Review. In 1996, he was short-listed for the prestigious Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award for young writers for a collection of short stories.
After many years living and working in Australia, Japan, and the United States, he currently resides in his “second home” in Cologne, Germany, with his wife and two very clever children.
