by Martha Keyes
Mercy turned to Viola. “And because she is most likely out of all of us to appreciate the scene, perhaps Viola might take your arm?” Solomon was far too well-mannered to counter such a suggestion, and he offered his arm to Viola, whose cheeks were pink with pleasure at the prospect before her.
“Deborah.” Mercy walked abreast of her but spoke at a volume that ensured that everyone could hear. “At the very least, I think the doctor would insist that Mr. Coburn lean on someone on such an expedition as this. Would you mind?”
She didn’t even wait for an answer, rushing ahead to walk by Viola on the pretense of needing to speak with her again, though she shot a quick glance backward to ensure that Deborah was not ignoring her instructions.
Deborah had not ignored them, but the arm she offered to Mr. Coburn was stiff, and she kept her head forward and turned just enough to discourage him from addressing her at all.
Mercy stifled a sigh. It was better than nothing, she supposed.
The ruins and their unintentional gardens were most easily accessed by exiting the dining room. Grand windowed white doors led out to a terrace overlooking the grounds.
Solomon politely answered the myriad of questions Viola put to him concerning the origins of the fire. Though innocuous enough individually, her questions taken together very obviously sought an answer to whether the fire was intentional and malicious. Unacquainted as he was with the particulars of the fire, Solomon’s answers were necessarily a disappointment to her.
But all disappointment was forgotten when they turned the north corner of Chesterley House and came upon the ruined west wing.
Viola stopped short, her hand flying to her mouth as she scanned the scene before them. “‘Beauty for ashes,’” she said in a solemn voice.
Solomon caught Mercy’s eye, and they shared a short-lived moment of mutual amusement until Solomon’s smile flickered, and he turned his head away.
Mercy stifled a sigh and looked upon what remained of the west wing.
Three towering stone walls, charred at the edges, stretched up two stories above them, the holes where the window panes would have been now strung with hanging vines. Between the exterior walls, tangles of greenery and flowering plants covered most of the ground, though a small dirt path wound through.
“Chaotic as this place is,” Solomon said, “the man tasked with the upkeep of Chesterley’s gardens has always ensured that there is a pathway and a couple of stone benches to allow for enjoyment of what was once the pride and joy of the estate.”
Viola broke from his arm and began wandering toward the ruins, her eyes cast up toward the tops of the stone walls, her hands suspended as her fingers grazed the creeping plants and bushes that were attempting to crowd out the dirt path.
Deborah and Mr. Coburn were facing each other, speaking in low but tense tones, and Mercy glanced at Solomon. Her heart gave a little pang at the sight of him there in the ruins. There was something so dashing and captivating about the picture he presented: tanned skin, hair slightly unkempt, surrounded by the anarchy that reigned among the plants. He looked very much the part of a hero of whom Viola would approve.
He seemed to note the private exchange between Deborah and Mr. Coburn as well and turned purposefully away from the star-crossed lovers, bringing him face to face with Mercy.
She saw his hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should offer his arm to her or walk away. For a brief moment, she imagined what it might be like to walk the ruins with Solomon—to walk among the creeping vines as the smell of roses wafted around them, her arm tucked into his.
But it was only a fantasy.
Not wishing to make him feel obligated to attend to her, Mercy offered him a polite smile, then stepped around him. She would take the opportunity to walk the exterior of the ruins rather than through them. She had no desire to force conversation with someone who looked on her company with as much distaste as Solomon seemed to.
The afternoon light shone in thin columns through the ivy-strewn window openings, and Mercy found herself every bit as awed as Viola must have been. Whatever the wing had looked like in its heyday, it was difficult for her to believe that it could be more majestic than it was now.
Certainly that wouldn’t have been apparent as it was consumed in the scalding heat of the flames, though—or even afterward, as it no doubt sat in its sooty and charred state for some time. Mercy envisioned the small sprouts which must have sprung up here and there at first, then more and more with each spring, until now it teemed with life.
Beauty for ashes. That was what Viola had said. And she was right. It would never be as it once was, but somehow the destruction and loss had given way for a different kind of beauty—one that lent the area a mystical, other-worldly feel.
“Miss Marcotte.”
She whipped her head around, and Solomon doffed his hat as he approached her. “I don’t mean to rush you or your cousins, for I am tolerably sure that my aunt would gladly house all of us indefinitely. But I was wondering if it wouldn’t perhaps be the opportune time for Miss Lanaway to return to Westwood Hall? She and Mr. Coburn do not seem to be in a situation to continue the elopement, so I…”
He trailed off, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
Mercy’s stomach clenched, and she debated within herself. The thought of parting ways with Solomon pained her. Foolish as it was, she didn’t wish to do so when things were discordant between them.
But she hadn’t the slightest idea how to turn them harmonious.
“You hesitate,” he said. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “Of course, I don’t at all wish for you to feel obligated to remain with us, which I imagine you do feel, as this is your aunt’s house.” She paused, rubbing the fabric of her dress skirts with her gloved hand. “It is just that Deborah is in a fragile state at the moment—”
“It seems to be the rule rather than the exception, does it not?” Solomon said.
Mercy inclined her head. “You have certainly seen the most frustrating side of her personality. Please don’t let that blind you to all of her best qualities.”
Mercy continued before she could take any time to ponder why she was intent on giving him more reason to wish for a match with Deborah. “If she returns home right now in her current state, I fear that things will be mended neither between her and Mr. Coburn, nor between her and my uncle. She will see both as responsible for her unhappiness. On the other hand, if Mr. Coburn can but find a way to reassure her of his regard, I think she can be persuaded not only to return home, but to do so in a manner which will be conducive to mutual forgiveness when she and my uncle meet.”
“How can she possibly be in any doubt of Mr. Coburn’s regard for her?” Solomon asked incredulously.
“The note he wrote,” Mercy said, as Solomon gave a little dismissive toss of his head. “And I suspect that she has acquired the strange notion”—Mercy felt her cheeks warming—“that Mr. Coburn has transferred his regard to me—I assume because I was aware before she that he was the author of the note, and because he has sought my counsel regarding how to best handle things with her.”
Solomon was regarding her carefully. She knew her cheeks were red—she only hoped that he was not misinterpreting it as evidence of any regard for Mr. Coburn above the ordinary.
“I see,” he said. “And in the meantime, you are tasked with the formidable challenge of disabusing Miss Lanaway of such notions, orchestrating a reconciliation between her and Mr. Coburn, and also ensuring that such a reconciliation does not lead them to recommit to the folly of an elopement?”
Mercy sighed, allowing her shoulders to slump. “When you put it that way, it seems formidable indeed.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Well, you may rely on my help, whatever shape that may take.”
She scanned his face, wondering what had led to his softening toward her. “I hope I shan’t be required to rely on your help for much longer. Do you intend to return
to Westwood?”
Solomon let out a sigh. “I have been contemplating what the best course is, and I think that I must at least inform your uncle of how circumstances have changed. But once that is accomplished, I shall likely return to Jamaica.”
Mercy’s heart stuttered. She had assumed that, failing a marriage with Deborah, Solomon would simply find some other eligible young woman to marry. She had never contemplated the possibility that he would leave yet again. His fortune was already made. Why should he needlessly go so far away?
He stared ahead at the stone wall, though his eyes seemed to look through it. “Returning to England was a mistake. There is nothing for me here anymore.”
The words were soft, but they cut at Mercy’s heart. Had she ruined England for Solomon?
A little cry of surprise assailed them from the interior of the ruins. Sharing a worried glance, they rushed toward it, Solomon leading the way.
Deborah and Mr. Coburn had gone toward the sound as well. They were standing far enough apart that it was clear they had not come to an accord.
“What is it, Viola?” Mercy asked, out of breath.
Viola’s hand covered her mouth as she stared down at…what? Plants covered the area. When she removed her hand from her mouth, it was clear that her cry had been one of pleasant surprise.
“Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me,” she said in a reverent whisper.
The other four exchanged uncomprehending glances.
Viola bent down, touching the purple tips of a flower with a light finger.
“Who?” Deborah asked with a touch of impatience.
“Mmm?” Viola said absently, still staring adoringly at the flower before her.
“Who is Jack?” Deborah repeated.
Viola tore her eyes away. “Who? Oh! No. Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me is a plant.” She looked back down at the flower in front of her for another moment. “Surely you have heard of it? It is known by many other names. Wild pansy? Viola tricolor? Heartsease? Love-in-idleness?”
Mercy nodded, but the other three only stared at Viola, nonplussed.
“What of it?” Solomon said, gently prompting her for a bit more explanation
Viola’s eyes widened. “What of it? It is one of the most powerful plants in existence, with special properties to induce love—hence the name love-in-idleness.”
Mercy caught eyes with Solomon and gave him a warning glance, though she herself had to bite back a retort. If only love were as simple as a plant—a pansy, no less.
Deborah, though, did not seem so quick to dismiss Viola’s words. “How intriguing!” She sent an arch glance at Mr. Coburn, as if to provoke him. “And how does one access such properties?”
Viola stood. “One must ingest the juice of the flower.”
“Well,” Deborah said, “that sounds like precisely the type of fun we have been lacking here—no offense to your aunt, of course, Mr. Kennett.”
Viola blinked twice. “What? You mean you wish for me to make the elixir?”
Deborah shrugged. “Do you know how?”
Viola nodded slowly, her gaze flicking toward Mercy, who was watching Deborah with suspicion.
She didn’t fool Mercy. A determined and eager glint had appeared in Deborah’s eyes. She clearly had hopes and plans beyond merely passing the time with something as out of the ordinary as a supposed love elixir.
She only hoped that Deborah’s wish was to reignite the love she felt she had lost from Mr. Coburn rather than to ignite it within Solomon.
Whatever Deborah’s intentions, Mercy knew enough about the plant to know that it was harmless. And welcome to her was the fact that the prospect of drinking an elixir seemed to have brought Deborah out of her touchy, sullen mood, even if only temporarily. And Mercy desperately needed a respite from her cousin’s ill humor. She would be much more easily spoken with in a good humor, however much mischief might be motivating it.
“My aunt taught me how to make it years ago,” Viola said with slight hesitation.
“Wonderful!” Deborah said with a clap. She looked to the others. “Now we have the perfect way to pass the time until the doctor arrives this evening.”
“I think I shall decline,” Solomon said with a chuckle, “but thank you.”
Viola primmed her lips together. “Well, if that is the case, then I am afraid we all must pass.”
“What?” said Deborah, dismayed. “Surely not!”
Viola sighed. “Yes, for there are very strict rules governing the use of the plant’s powers, and it would certainly throw off the balance of the supernatural world if an odd number in the group partook of the elixir.”
Mercy’s brows came together. There were five of them—but four without Solomon. A decidedly even number.
Viola seemed to realize this, though. “As the maker of the potion, I of course cannot partake.”
Mercy narrowed her eyes. This was the first she had heard of such rules. Viola was clearly intent that Solomon should drink her elixir—and Mercy had little difficulty imagining why.
“Then the solution is quite simple,” Mercy said lightly. “I, too, shall refrain.”
Viola pursed her lips, clearly displeased with Mercy’s meddling. “I fear that solves nothing. I sense a great need for the potion amongst you all, and I simply cannot make the elixir properly when I know it is not being valued as it should be.”
Deborah sent a pleading look at Mercy. “For heaven’s sake, Mercy. And you too, Mr. Kennett. We must all partake of the elixir Viola shall make, for who among us isn’t in need of more love? And a bit of fun. Besides, if you don’t believe in its powers, I see no reason for you to refuse to participate. I think it very poor-spirited of you.”
Mercy saw Solomon open his mouth to protest, but she nudged him with her elbow. She was desperate for a respite from attempting to cajole Deborah into a better humor, and if drinking a harmless concoction made from the juice of crushed pansies kept both her and Viola happy, then so be it.
Solomon needn’t know of the ulterior motives Mercy suspected Viola had.
He looked down at her curiously, and she sent him a speaking look. “This is the shape your help may take at the moment,” she murmured. “It is harmless, so...why not?”
He gave a low chuckle and nodded once at her. “But it goes without saying that I will hold you responsible if I do fall in love with some strange creature.”
“I shall take full responsibility,” Mercy said.
“Very good!” Deborah rubbed her hands together.
Mr. Coburn darted a nervous glance at Deborah, reluctant, it seemed, to offer up any protest when she was in support of the plan.
And so it was decided.
Viola seemed to alternate between excitement and a renewed hesitation. Mercy had observed it before. While Viola’s interest in her aunt’s lore and practices had been keen, so had been the fear of God put into her by her father. Such a warring of oppositional forces had meant that Viola’s learning from her aunt had not been thorough but rather sporadic, lapped up with eagerness until her conscience invariably set in and required her to set it aside.
But her excitement seemed to overtake her hesitation, and she instructed them to wait while she prepared the elixir.
Deborah, on the other hand, was clearly taking great pleasure in the entire situation, uttering comments meant to provoke Mr. Coburn like, “I wonder where the elixir shall direct my love?”
Hearing such things, Solomon would direct a glance full of meaning at Mercy. He clearly put as little stock in Viola’s beliefs as Mercy did.
Mercy hoped, though, that with a bit of nudging, Deborah’s apparent trust in the power of the plant might be used for good. If she could but be persuaded that she stood in no danger of losing Mr. Coburn’s love, all might yet be arranged between them.
With any luck—and with the doctor’s blessing for Mr. Coburn—they could all make the journey home that evening.
And Mercy would say goodbye to Solomon yet again.
; Chapter Fourteen
It had been five years since Viola watched her aunt prepare the heartsease elixir. And, even then, it had been done on a day when her father was meant to return from a days-long visit to the other parish he oversaw, leading Viola to rush nervously to the window at any and every sound from outside.
But such anxiety at the possibility of her father’s sudden return had meant that Viola’s memories of the steps to create the mixture were somewhat hazy, and her memory of the words meant to be said over the finished elixir a bit tenuous.
She carefully picked off the flowers of the heartsease plant, setting them in a small basket, trying mightily to remember everything her aunt had taught her. She muttered the words of the incantation to activate the deepest properties of the plant, frowning as parts eluded her.
The opportunity before her was no small one. Certainly she would be glad if things could be settled happily between Deborah and Mr. Coburn, but she cared deeply what happened between Mercy and Mr. Kennett. She only wished her skill matched her will to help love flourish again between them. Would that her aunt was here!
Her hands paused at the stem of one of the shoots, and her brow furrowed. Was she to use the petals only? Or were the berries and leaves to be used as well?
She picked a handful of the dark, glistening berries for good measure, hoping that the evasive wisps of memory would return to her as she made up the elixir.
Armed with a basket full of heartsease—and a few roses and sweet violets in which to mull the petals—she rushed from the ruins toward the house, again muttering under her breath the beginnings of the incantation.
The servants of Chesterley House looked at her with raised brows as she entered the kitchens, but Viola was too focused to heed their looks and whispers for more than a moment.
Perhaps the best course would be to do whatever she could to help the magic along. Surely the mystical powers that be could take her poor but well-intended attempts at bringing about more love in the world and turn them to the benefit of Mercy and Solomon?
