The Victory Garden: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  This suggestion alarmed Emily. She imagined a procession of tramps at her front door. Instead of answering, she asked, “Would you like a cup of tea? The water has just boiled.”

  “I’d prefer a swig of whisky,” he replied.

  She smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t keep any alcohol here. But if you go down to the Red Lion, tell Mrs Lacey to give you a drink and that I’ll pay for it.”

  He shook his head. “Respectable folk don’t want no dirty tramps in their establishments. There are a few farmers that let us stay in their barns on raw nights in return for some wood chopping, but on the whole they’d just as soon set the dogs on us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Emily said.

  “You wouldn’t understand, nice refined young girl like you,” he said. He glanced down at his cleanly bandaged thumb. “But I thank you for your trouble, and I wish you all the best.”

  He got up and went towards the door. As she watched him walk away, Emily realized that they were two of a kind. She was an outcast, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The encounter with the tramp had left Emily quite shaken. She made herself a cup of tea and sat holding the mug of steaming liquid in her hands, feeling the warmth flow through her chilled body. The wise woman, he had said. Was that the same as the witch? But the wise woman had obviously been a healer, not a curser. And yet others had hinted that the women who had lived in the cottage were cursed. Her thoughts went to that journal. Did it contain the writings of the wise woman? But that was from long ago, from the eighteen fifties. Had there been other wise women since? Emily had to know more. She went through to the bedroom and brought the leather-bound volume back into the lamplight. The ink had faded to a pale brown, and she held up the page as she reread what she had only briefly scanned before.

  From the Journal of Susan Olgilvy, July 10, 1858

  In the Village of Bucksley Cross, Devonshire

  I have done it. I am officially the schoolmistress of the village of Bucksley Cross, Devonshire, installed in my own little cottage at the edge of Dartmoor. There are thatched cottages on the other side of the green, a church with a tall, square tower and a public house that looks quite inviting (although I am sure that ladies do not venture into a public house, especially not spinster schoolmistresses).

  Emily read on, skimming over the woman’s description of the cottage (which hadn’t changed at all since the eighteen fifties), until she came to words that made her heart jolt.

  I try not to think that the whole cottage would fit nicely inside our drawing room at Highcroft. Nor of my claw-foot tub that Maggie, my maid, would have filled for me with steaming water. I must accept this new position in life, grateful at least that I shall be kept busy and that I won’t starve. Mother would be horrified if she saw me now, but then I must not think of her either. She did not try to intervene when Father told me I would no longer be his child if I ran off to London to marry Finlay.

  The very mention of Finlay’s name is painful to me, and I break off from writing this.

  Emily stared at the pages as if the words were shouting out to her. Susan Olgilvy had fled to marry the man she loved and something had gone wrong. She skimmed ahead hastily.

  Perhaps the last occupant has married and moved away to a husband and a home, although I find that hard to believe, too, given that part of the schoolmistress’s contract stipulates no contact with the opposite sex. At least the parish council won’t have to worry about my improprieties. There was only one man for me, and he lies buried in Highgate Cemetery, crushed by falling cargo at the London docks, where he was working to make a new life for me.

  Emily let the book drop and stared into the fire, lost in thought. Miss Susan Olgilvy had been just like her: she had come from a tragedy and a loss, fleeing to a little-known part of the country to heal her wounds. No wonder Emily had felt a connection to the cottage from the start.

  She had to read on now.

  July 10 and then July 11

  I was studying the garden beneath my window. It is composed of hopelessly overgrown bushes, some half-dead, others covered in a riot of convolvulus. I found myself thinking of the gardens at home—the immaculate lawns, the herbaceous borders, all looking so effortlessly manicured. I’d like to bring this garden back to order and beauty, but how will I know where to start? I was suddenly overcome with weariness and turned away, lest a tear escape from my eye.

  I took a long time to fall asleep, and was awoken by an alarming sound. A distant growl and then a loud, distinct thud near my bed. I was awake instantly, leaping out of bed. What could have made a noise like that? A creature landing on the floor maybe? My heart was racing as I felt around in the darkness for the lamp. It had still been daylight when I fell asleep, and I had not thought to test it out. As I leaned forwards, something struck me on the head, and I cried out in panic. Something was running down my face. Blood? I put my hand up and realized that my hair was now wet. Tentatively, I held out my hand and was hit by a cold drop of water.

  That was when I realized that it was raining outside. The growl I’d heard was now repeated as distant thunder, and it was clear that my roof was leaking! I made my way around the room until I located the basin, and I placed it beneath the drip. The noise was now even louder, a plink and splash every few seconds, but at least I had stopped the room from getting flooded. At last the rain stopped, and I fell asleep.

  I awoke to brilliant sunlight streaming in through my window. Beyond the village green, the hills rose majestically. I heard the rattle of a harness as a wagon rumbled past. I opened my window, and sweet, herby smells wafted towards me: lavender and others that I couldn’t identify. I love the smell of lavender—Nanny always kept lavender bags in my clothing drawers, and my clothes always had that sweet smell. For a second, I was taken back to the freshly scrubbed nursery with the big rocking horse and white bedspread, and Nanny saying, “Time to rise and shine, sleepyhead. Remember, it’s the early bird that catches the worm.”

  I noticed the basin full of water on top of the chest of drawers. I looked up at the ceiling and the wet patch in it. I had to find out where the roof was leaking, otherwise I’d have the ceiling down on my head. I wondered if the parish council would be responsible for mending leaky roofs. I sincerely hoped so.

  I realized I had to find a way up into the attic. I looked around, and found a square trapdoor in the hallway with a string attached. I pulled, the trapdoor opened and a ladder cascaded down. I found a bucket, hoisted my skirts, then gingerly climbed the ladder.

  It was horribly dark up there, but I could see daylight coming in between the slates. I had located the leak in my roof. I felt an absurd sense of achievement as I placed the bucket beneath it. This would demonstrate to those school board members and the villagers of Bucksley Cross that I am not a pampered, upper-class girl, but as resilient as any hardened countryperson. With the bucket in place, I looked around to see if there was anything that might be useful. My first inspection was not encouraging. A chair with three legs. A picture frame with no picture in it. A wooden box full of old bottles. But in the corner was a hatstand—absolutely what I needed to hang my clothes. I dragged it to the opening and lowered it down. Then, I spotted an attractive wooden box. I opened it, and it contained a sewing kit. Again, very useful, as I will need to mend my clothing in the future. (Another skill I shall have to learn, I’m afraid. My sewing abilities have not progressed beyond embroidery, and I wasn’t very good at that!) I carried the box down with me, reaching terra firma successfully.

  I managed to shut the trapdoor, then moved my new-found treasures into the bedroom. The sewing box contained only a couple of spools of thread, a thimble and a card of darning needles. No great find. But then I realized this was only the top layer. I lifted it up and then gasped. Underneath was not more sewing equipment, but an ancient-looking, leather-bound book. Hoping for intimate details of a long-ago schoolmistress, I opened it. The writing is in a faint, spidery hand, and I had to take it over to the windo
w to better read it:

  Being the recipes for the creation of tinctures, salves, infusions and all manner of medicinals produced from the garden of the herb wife, Tabitha Ann Wise.

  Underneath was written: Begun on this day, July 11, 1684.

  I felt my hand tremble as I held the book. Today is July 11. I began to feel that I was meant to be here, meant to find this book. The herb wife! I looked out of the window at the neglected and overgrown bushes. Lavender, and was that rosemary? And were the others all herbs? I realized that I had landed in the middle of a healing garden.

  Emily felt a strange rush of excitement as she stared at the page. So that was what the tramp had been talking about: the wise woman, the herb wife. The overgrown garden was a herb garden, and maybe somewhere in the cottage was that recipe book from long, long ago. For the first time in several weeks, she felt a small bubble of hope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Emily awoke early the next morning with a new sense of excitement and purpose. Susan Olgilvy’s journal had struck a chord with her. Their paths were too similar to be mere coincidence. They had both come from good homes, had run away to marry the men they loved, then had fled to this faraway corner after the deaths of the men they had hoped to marry. She looked out of her window at the overgrown and tangled garden and wondered if somehow she was destined to come here. It was, after all, a garden that had brought Robbie and her together, and fate had trained her as a land girl. Had all the women who came to this cottage been fleeing to a place of sanctuary? Had they all taken on the role of herb wife? The wise woman? It was a little overwhelming, but a challenge, too. She felt a strong sense that this was something she was meant to do—a way to bring some kind of meaning to a life in chaos.

  She put on her dressing gown and opened the back door. The crisp, cold air made her gasp, and her breath came out like a dragon’s smoke, but she set out along the narrow flagstone path. Her knowledge of plants was woefully inadequate, but that was lavender on her right, and under that tangle of dying bindweed was rosemary. The scents came to her as she brushed past each plant, some familiar, like mint and sage, others exotic and unknown. Some had no scent at all. But all were now dying off for the winter. If she was to make use of any of the plants, she would have to harvest them soon or wait until spring.

  She jumped as something rubbed against her bare leg.

  “Mew?” Shadow the cat looked up at her hopefully. She bent down to stroke it. “I have no food for you, my dear,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go off hunting for yourself.”

  It was almost as if the cat understood her. It stared at her with unblinking yellow eyes, then disappeared into the undergrowth. Emily shivered in the cold, and retreated to the warmth of the cottage.

  The first task was to find the book of spells. She paused in wonder as that word passed through her head. Recipes, she thought to herself. Not spells. Was the wise woman also the one they had referred to as the witch? Surely she was looking for simple herbal cures such as her nanny had used for a sore throat: slippery elm, friar’s balsam, oil of cloves for a toothache. She was about to go back into the cottage when she glanced up at the rising sweep of moor behind the estate. On the crown of the hill, a lone pony stood, silhouetted against the rising sun, his mane streaming out in the wind. He was so beautiful that Emily remained unmoving, watching him. Then he tossed his head and galloped off over the crest of the hill.

  Somehow, she took this as a good sign—that the gods of nature had blessed her intention. She knew this was stupid. She had grown up in a boringly traditional household, one in which God or religion were rarely discussed. One went to church on Sundays because it was expected. Her mother insisted on sitting in the front pew to display her new hats. She was also on various committees that did charitable work around the parish. But Emily couldn’t recall them ever praying at home. Apart from one highly religious nanny who had not lasted long, she had never felt any personal connection to religion. In fact, the only time she had prayed was when her brother went off to war. “Please keep him safe,” she had pleaded. The memory of her brother’s funeral came to her vividly: her mother sobbing behind a black veil, her father standing proud and erect. And that time, she had not prayed but railed against God. “Why did you let this happen to him? Why didn’t you keep him safe?” But God had not answered then, and since that moment, she had avoided all contact with the Almighty.

  Emily went back into the cottage, lit the stove to make tea and put on the large pan of water to wash with. Then she went looking for the book that Susan Olgilvy had mentioned. Tabitha Ann’s book of herbal remedies. It was certainly not with the books in the trunk. She had been through them before. And there was nowhere to hide it amongst the few furnishings downstairs. She went up the steep stairs to the attic, glad that someone in the years between Susan Olgilvy and herself had put in a staircase and she hadn’t had to climb a ladder that dropped from a trapdoor in the ceiling. Wind whistled through the attic as she picked her way through cast-offs from long ago. She came upon a box full of bottles and jars, some with faded labels on them, now too faint to read. These would be needed. She wondered if Susan Olgilvy had used them. She would have to read the rest of the journal to see if Susan had taken on the role of herb wife.

  Emily put the box of bottles by the stairs and then went through the rest of the discarded items in the attic, but could find no pretty wooden sewing box. She had to conclude that Susan, or one of the subsequent women, had taken it with her. She felt an absurd sense of disappointment. There was no point in harvesting any of the herbs without the recipes. She left the box of bottles at the top of the stairs and made her way down again. Then she washed and dressed, and after a breakfast of bread and jam, she wound her scarf around her neck, put on her mackintosh and went out to work in the garden. As she came out of the back door, she almost stepped on an object. A dead mouse lay there. The cat sat beside it, looking rather smug.

  “Why, thank you,” Emily said, “but I’m afraid I don’t eat mice. You’d better finish this yourself.”

  She resumed working in the kitchen garden. Simpson came past as she was cutting back a large bramble that was taking over a vegetable bed.

  “Nasty things, brambles,” he commented. “Watch yourself.”

  Emily nodded, then said, “Simpson, I notice we don’t have winter vegetables planted. I’ll clear the beds, but do you have seedlings started somewhere?”

  “I don’t,” he said. “To tell the truth, I’m not up to all the bending and planting any more, and what with the work for Her Ladyship, there hasn’t been time. I wasn’t hired to be a gardener, you know. I was the groom and then the chauffeur, and now I’ve become jack of all trades.”

  “So what do we do about planting winter vegetables? Can we buy seedlings somewhere?”

  He nodded. “Dawes nursery and feed store should have what we need, just outside Tavistock. I have to go that way this afternoon to see about a coal delivery. Do you want to come along with me and choose for yourself?”

  “Thank you. I’d like that,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my taking over your work in the kitchen garden?”

  He gave a wheezy chuckle. “Of course I don’t mind, my lovey. It’s all a bit too much for me these days, what with my rheumatics and this cold wind. You just carry on with what you’re doing and we’ll all be grateful.”

  As he went to walk on, she called, “And, Simpson, what do you know about the herb garden?”

  “Herb garden?”

  “The one around the cottage. Was there a wise woman living there during your time here?”

  He frowned. “There was a schoolteacher before Mr Patterson came. She tended the herbs, I seem to remember. But the local folk didn’t like her much. She was bossy and interfering—told us the way things should be done. And tried to force her herbal remedies on people whether they wanted them or not, so I’ve been told.”

  “What happened to her?” Emily asked cautiously.

  “Sh
e left, eventually. Got a place in a bigger school somewhere else, and the parish council built the new school building with the house attached, and they hired Mr Patterson. He’s been here twenty years now. I can’t say we’re too fond of him either, but at least he keeps himself to himself.”

  Simpson went on his way and Emily resumed tackling the brambles. So it seemed there had been no herb wife for a long while, and yet the tramp had read the sign on the gatepost. Now she was curious: she wondered how long Susan had stayed as the schoolmistress and whether she had taken the precious book with her when she left. She couldn’t wait to get back to the cottage to decipher more of Susan’s elegant, faded script.

  As she ate her lunch in the kitchen, she told Mrs Trelawney that she was going to make sure there were vegetables to keep them going for the winter.

  “I wouldn’t say no to that,” the woman replied. “Cauliflower. Make sure you plant plenty of cauliflowers. Her Ladyship loves my cheese sauce.”

  “I’d like that, too,” Emily said, glad that the woman was no longer treating her as the enemy.

  They looked up as the bell rang.

  “That will be Her Ladyship wanting her lunch, I expect,” Mrs Trelawney said. “You go, Daisy. You’ve got young legs.”

  Daisy went and returned almost immediately. “Her Ladyship wanted to remind Emily that she is dining with her again tonight,” she said. “And she asked you, Mrs Trelawney, to make something special. She said she had grown tired of nursery food.”

  “Nursery food, indeed.” Mrs Trelawney sniffed. “Doesn’t she realize there is a war on and we’re all on rations? What does she think I’m going to do, wave my wand and conjure a nice joint of beef out of the air?”

  “I have to go into Tavistock to buy seedlings,” Emily said. “Which butcher do you use? I could see if they have any good meat today.”