by Rhys Bowen
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” Emily asked.
“No, thanks. We’re here on an urgent visit. Maud’s burned herself at that ruddy forge. Go on, Maud, show her.”
Maud pulled back her sleeve and showed a big ugly red and blistered mark on her forearm.
“Ow. That looks painful,” Emily said.
“It is.” Maud nodded vehemently. “I reckon I hadn’t quite realized how hot that fire was. But Alice said you’d know how to make it better.”
“Those herbs of yours,” Alice interjected. “You said you’d found a book and were trying out some of the remedies. Have you got anything for burns?”
“Mrs Soper put butter on it,” Maud said, “but that didn’t seem to help much.”
Emily hesitated. She had only just sworn off any more association with the herb garden, and yet she couldn’t leave poor Maud’s arm untreated.
“Sit down,” she said. “Alice, you can put the kettle on for tea while I see if there is a remedy for burns that I could possibly make.”
She went through to the bedroom where the book lay on her bedside table, along with all the notes she had made. Comfrey, also known as knitbone, was good for treating wounds. St John’s wort worked on burns. Chickweed, marsh mallow and witch hazel were all recommended in the recipe. She thought she had most of these, especially the roots. She retrieved the dried plants from where they were hanging, poured boiling water over them, then let them sit. When it had cooled, she soaked a piece of linen in the mixture and laid it over the burn.
“I think it’s working already!” Maud exclaimed after a few minutes. “Not burning so much.”
“Then let me fill a bottle for you to take with you. You can repeat this whenever you need.” Emily took a clean bottle from the rack in the kitchen and carefully poured some of the mixture into it. “It would be better if it was a salve, but I don’t have any grease. I’ll have to think about that.”
They chatted for a while. Emily told them about Clarissa’s letter.
“So you’ll go and live with her then?” Alice asked. There was disappointment in her voice.
“I think so. I can’t rely on Lady Charlton’s charity for ever.”
“It’s not charity. You’re doing a lot for her, aren’t you? Stocking up her garden and helping her in the library.”
“I suppose so, but I still feel as if I don’t belong here. Do you feel you’d like to stay?”
“I do,” Alice said. “Obviously, I can’t go on living with Nell Lacey forever, but if a cottage becomes vacant, I may take it over. When the war ends, people will come back to this part of the world, that’s what Nell says. Ramblers and sightseers. We could start a little tea shop. Make sandwiches for the ramblers.” She looked up from her cup of tea. “You could stay on here with me. Help me run my tea shop. What shall we call it? The Copper Kettle? How about the Black Cat?”
Emily didn’t know what to say because truly she was torn. But Maud answered for her. “She wants to be back with her own kind, doesn’t she? She’s had her fill of common folk like us.”
“It’s not that at all,” Emily said hastily. “Of course I’d like to stay here with you.”
“It’s all right, duck,” Alice said. “I understand. You want what’s best for your baby. In the long run, right?”
“I really don’t know, Alice,” Emily said. “I can’t decide right now. Clarissa is my oldest, dearest friend, but you have become a dear friend, too.”
“That Mr Patterson is posh like her,” Maud said, giving Alice a nudge. “She went to visit him the other night, and Mrs Soper’s boy said the teacher has looked pleased with himself ever since and hasn’t used the cane once.”
“Oh, please!” Emily didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. “That’s just village gossip! I went to visit him to collect some primers to help Daisy with her reading. You, too, Alice, if you want some practice.”
After they had gone, Emily thought about Mr Patterson. It had struck her that he kept bees. He could supply her with beeswax, which would be perfect if she wanted to make a salve. But then she realized something else. If she went to his house again, it would be noticed. She had seen for herself how dangerous village gossip could be. She was essentially living in a fishbowl, and she would have to tread with caution.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The next morning, Emily walked up to the forge to see how Maud’s burn was doing. She was glad to see Mr Patterson was out in the school playground as his pupils lined up to enter the school. It allowed her to speak to him without creating more rumours. He gave her a little nod of recognition. “I hope the books and the honey proved satisfactory, Mrs Kerr.”
“Most satisfactory, thank you. I look forward to starting lessons with Daisy as soon as possible. And may I ask you for another favour? Do you think you could spare some beeswax? My friend Maud has burned herself, and I think I could make a salve to help her.”
“Most certainly,” he said. “I have some in the house. If you come to see me as soon as school is dismissed, I shall be happy to give it to you.” He turned away, frowning. “William Jackson! Are you out of line? Ring the bell please, Katie, and then proceed in an orderly fashion. No pushing, Sammy Soper.” He gave Emily an exasperated smile, then followed his pupils into the building.
Emily continued on her way to the forge. Maud and Mrs Soper were sitting at the kitchen table.
“It’s getting better, look!” Maud took off the bandage. The burn did look less angry.
“I told her it’s part of our trade. I’ve had more burns than I could count since I tried to take on the forge,” Mrs Soper said. “But I’ve never heard of putting that stuff on them. But now I can see it works, I’ll give it a try, too. We always used butter. Where did you get the idea for it?”
“There are herbs growing in my cottage garden, and I bought a herb book the other day,” Emily said, not wanting to say more.
“Then perhaps there is a remedy for me in that book,” Mrs Soper said. “I’ve had trouble sleeping ever since my husband went away, and it got even worse when the telegram came to say he’d been killed. I don’t think I’ve had a proper night’s sleep for two years now. Do you think you could make me something to help me sleep?”
Emily shifted uneasily. It was one thing to make a simple herb poultice to put over burns, but a concoction to put someone to sleep? Balsam and lavender to make her drowsy was one thing, but she wasn’t so sure about toying with more dangerous herbs.
“I’d be ever so grateful,” Mrs Soper went on. “You don’t know what it’s like, lying in that big cold bed, staring at the ceiling every night and praying for morning to come.”
“I do know,” Emily said. “I’ve felt the same since my Robbie was killed.”
“Well then, we both need it. You can make it for both of us. For all the women in this village, I reckon. There’s not one of us who hasn’t lost somebody.”
“I suppose I could try,” Emily said, wanting to refuse, but seeing the tired lines of desperation on the woman’s face. She knew exactly what it was like, lying in bed, worrying about her man, and then getting the worst news of all—that he wasn’t coming home. And this woman had the added worry of having two sons who were approaching enlistment age. “I think I did read a recipe that might help somewhere, Mrs Soper.”
“God bless you, my dear,” Mrs Soper said. “I’ve been to the doctors, and they just give me something that knocks me out, but then I’m all groggy the next morning, and you have to have your wits about you when operating a forge, as young Maud here has just found out, eh, Maud?”
Maud grinned sheepishly. “I won’t make that same mistake again, Mrs Soper,” she said.
That evening, Emily studied the old texts. In Tabitha Ann Wise’s book, she had written down a remedy that seemed useful.
For anxiety and the uncalm spirit, for a peaceful sleepe without evil dreames.
Make an infusion of hoppes, skullcap, vervain, valerian, wild lettuce and passion flower. T
o these can be added lavender, lemon balm and chamomile to sweeten the potion and to infuse the air with calming sweetness.
Emily was pretty sure there were no hops growing in the garden, and she had no idea what a passion flower looked like, nor wild lettuce. But she thought she had identified the others, with the exception of skullcap, which sounded rather alarming. She decided to omit that one for now. Further study revealed that the valerian should be a maceration of the chopped root, which was lucky, as the plant itself was almost dead due to the coming winter. She chopped the various ingredients, adding fresh lavender and lemon balm for their scent, and she tried the infusion herself before going to bed. It was a little too bitter, so she decided to add some honey next time. However, she did fall asleep quickly, and she awoke without troubling dreams. Success!
Emily took round a packet of the mixed herbs in the morning and suggested adding honey. Not only was Mrs Soper delighted, but apparently she had told everyone else in the village, so Emily had more requests for her magic brew. Except, that was, from Mrs Bingley. She accosted Emily as she returned from the forge.
“I hear you are brewing up concoctions for people in this village.” She gave Emily a cold stare. Emily said nothing. “You do realize that this is tantamount to practising medicine without a licence—a criminal offence.”
“I hardly think a few sprigs of lavender and other herbs constitutes practising medicine. These are old folk remedies.”
“The people in these parts are still very naive and easily influenced,” Mrs Bingley said. “I wouldn’t want to see them taken advantage of.”
Emily fought to keep calm. “You don’t think I am charging them for these, do you? Look, Mrs Bingley, I was doing a favour for a woman who hasn’t been able to sleep since her husband died. If a few herbs can help her to feel drowsy, then I’m sure there is nobody in the world who could object, except you.” Emboldened now, she went on, “I get the feeling that you are jealous because my friends and I have settled in so well here. Maybe if you were a little more pleasant, you might get along better with your neighbours.”
Emily gave a curt nod and left the woman standing there. She felt rather pleased with herself as she went up to the big house. On the way, she paused to examine the seedlings. The net had held in place, but some of the tender plants had been flattened in the last rain. As she bent to straighten them, she experienced a strange sensation that caused her to stand up again. Her hand went to her stomach. It was more than a twinge—it was a sharp jolt. Her brain went to appendicitis, but then it came again, right under her hand, and she realized with astonishment what it was. The baby was kicking her. She stood still for some time, her hand covering the side of her stomach, waiting to feel it again. Since the sickness had subsided, she had almost forgotten about the baby. Now here was proof that it was alive and growing inside her. She felt scared, but a little excited, too.
As she went on up to the house, she decided she would write to Clarissa and accept her kind offer. It would be good to be with a friend, especially a friend with medical knowledge. She was happy here, but it was rather remote. So that night she wrote a letter, telling Clarissa how grateful she was and how she looked forward to their being together again. She felt a pang of regret that she’d be letting down Alice, Daisy and Lady Charlton, but this had only been a temporary solution, after all. However, she decided to say nothing to Lady Charlton—not until the time came for her to make her move.
The next day, they were together in the library going through a shelf of travel books. The cataloguing was taking longer than it should have because they were studying the pictures together, and Lady Charlton was reminiscing about her adventures at the Pyramids and with the Bedouins in Morocco. Suddenly, a sound floated to them on the breeze. They both stopped and looked up.
“What’s that?” Lady Charlton asked.
“It’s church bells,” Emily replied. “Church bells are ringing.”
And, to their astonishment, the bells of Bucksley Church joined them. They went outside. It was a misty November day, and the air resonated with the sound of bells.
Daisy appeared at the door. “Is it an invasion, do you think?” she asked nervously.
Simpson came running up the drive as fast as his old legs could carry him. “It’s all over!” he shouted. “The war is over. They just signed the armistice. Eleven o’clock this morning, on the eleventh day of the eleventh month.”
“Thank God,” Lady Charlton said.
There was great excitement in the village. A party was planned in the church hall for the next Sunday. The schoolchildren were put to making decorations and planning a concert. Ration restrictions were being eased, and it was agreed that there would be a pig roast. Even Mrs Trelawney was in high spirits, making pork pies and agreeing to use the last of her pickled cabbage. The village hall was festooned with paper chains. Nell and Alice had supplied beer from the pub, and Mr Patterson had donated six bottles of his home-made wine. There was lemonade for the children.
Even Lady Charlton agreed to attend this time. She was dressed in a very grand, black Victorian dress, with a cape trimmed with sable. Emily had had a little trouble with deciding what to wear. Her waistline had expanded beyond the two good frocks she had brought with her. Her skirts were now held together with elastic. She had to make do with draping her good shawl artfully across herself. As the church hall was always chilly, this was quite acceptable. The day started with a thanksgiving service, then they processed across to the hall to where the tables were laid for the feast. Mr Patterson played the piano, and two of the older pupils accompanied him on violin and recorder. To begin with, everyone was in high spirits. The pig had been roasting on a spit outside all night, and the aroma wafting in through the door was mouth-watering.
Grace was said. The pig was carved, and for a while the hall fell silent as everyone ate.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Nell Lacey said. “After so long.”
“I don’t know exactly why we’re celebrating,” Mrs Soper replied. “What is there to celebrate? That’s what I want to know. We’ve all lost someone. Life will never be the same.”
“We’re celebrating that at least no more sons will be lost,” Nell said. “Your boys will grow up without you having to fret that they’ll be sent to the front.”
“My boys will have to grow up without their father,” Mrs Soper said bitterly. “Who will teach them the trade properly? Granddad here knows his stuff, but his eyesight is so poor that he’s not much help. We women are muddling through right now, but how long can we keep going? And if we have to close the forge, then where will folks get their horses shod?”
“Maybe we’ll all take to motor cars instead,” one of the younger women suggested, “and motor tractors. I saw one working in a field the other day. Going ever so fast, it was.”
“If you ask me, this village will start dying,” Mrs Soper said. “Who will be coming back to work at the home farm? And if nobody is working, who will buy from the shop? Or who will visit the Red Lion? We might as well call it a day and move to the nearest town.”
“There’s no way you’d find me living in a town,” Nell Lacey said hotly.
“Nor me,” Mrs Upton from the shop replied.
Emily had been sitting at one end of a long table, next to Lady Charlton, who had been afforded the place of honour.
“Then I say it’s up to us women now,” Lady Charlton said. There was silence as they turned to her. “Maybe we give up the smithy, but there are other things we can do. Market gardening at the farm instead of livestock. Chickens instead of cows. People will always need to eat. This young lady has got my winter vegetables going, and we can all do the same. We can survive . . .”
“And some of the boys will be coming back,” one of the young wives from the cottages said. “My Joe is alive and well, last I heard. His ship will be coming back from foreign waters, and he’ll go back to the farm.”
“And my Johnny,” Fanny Hodgson, another of the young
er women, spoke up. “He’s alive still. He wrote to me just two weeks ago. He’ll be—”
She had a squirming toddler on her lap and a young boy running around with the other children. Suddenly, this boy let out a scream.
“It’s Dad!” he yelled. “He’s coming now!”
Women jumped up from the tables and raced across to the windows. A young man in a soldier’s uniform was walking up from the bridge, his kitbag over his shoulder. Fanny Hodgson gave a little cry, handed her toddler to another woman and pushed her way through the crowd, running down the path to meet him, arms wide open.
The whole crowd stood in silent awe as the couple came into each other’s arms, embracing with abandon. Emily blinked away tears—tears of joy for this couple, and tears of regret that she would never have a reunion like this.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The days after Johnny Hodgson came home were ones of hope for Emily. Two more men returned—labourers on the home farm. There was optimism in the air, and she found herself thinking about the future. Maud had been right. She did miss her own kind. She did miss having someone to share thoughts and worries with. Lady Charlton was being extremely kind, Emily knew. And she had come to look upon Emily as a young relative. Alice and Daisy were also great pals, but somehow it wasn’t the same. Even though Daisy was making strides with her reading, Emily realized she would probably never tackle Dickens or read poetry. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she wanted to move out of the cottage before the curse could strike her. She told herself over and over that she was a modern woman and she did not believe in curses, but she couldn’t put Susan Olgilvy out of her mind. Had she been hanged? She wanted to know more, and yet she was afraid to learn the truth.
There is nothing I can do about it anyway, she told herself. Best to forget I ever read that diary. And yet it seemed she was destined to take over Susan’s role in the community. Several more women had approached her to ask for the sleeping potion she had given Mrs Soper. She found herself walking through the herb garden and wondering what plants might shoot up again in the spring. She had noticed some remedies to “appease the torments of childebirthe,” and considered making a batch in order to be ready.
