He watched as the gardener threw aside a vine that had nearly choked out a Chinese lantern plant before moving onto the next one. “Look at this beaut. You don’t see weeds this big every day.”
Raising his eyes to the gardener’s calloused hands, the words died in Eilian’s throat. A plant half as tall as a corn stalk and as thick as a man’s arm rose from the middle of the bed. Veering off from the main stem were undulating leaves and diffuse clusters of yellow flowers. Bernard reached into his pocket and pulled out his gardening sheers.
“Wait! Don’t cut it!” Eilian cried as he ran back to the other side, his foot slipping on the slick tiles. He caught his balance, staggering into the pile of clippings and scattering them across the water’s surface. “That’s not a weed.”
Eilian’s hand shook as he gingerly bent the head of the plant closer. One of its flowers had gone to seed, transforming from a blossom to fleshy green pods. Carefully working one of the segmented seeds free, he turned it over in his metal palm. The orangery’s engine died away beneath the pounding beat of his heart in his ears. While the seed was more elongated than it appeared on the ancient coins, it was clear that it was shaped like a heart.
Chapter Ten
Silphium Hearts
A plant long thought extinct had been growing in his family’s ancestral home for God knows how long. Eilian could barely believe it, but there it was sprouting at the edge of the pool. Like most of his discoveries at dig sites, he couldn’t be certain if he was right, but he felt the inkling of truth in his bones. He was onto something. Pulling down books from Hippocrates, Pliny, and Theophrastus, Eilian pored over the ancient texts. His notebook rapidly filled with half-conceived ideas, possible leads in other works, and what he knew to be true about the plant. The massive desk in the library was soon stacked to the brim with crumbling books and ink-covered parchment. When he ran out of room, Eilian transferred them to the floor near the hearth where he could surround himself with everything he could possibly need. By the time Patrick came in with his afternoon tea, half of the locked cabinets stood open and he had to step over a pile of books three deep to reach his master.
Not often did the ancients agree on anything, but Eilian was certain that silphium had been used as a medicinal plant. According to Hippocrates, it had been used to treat all sorts of ills: wounds, fevers, warts, sore throats, coughs. Pliny’s account supported that the plant had gone extinct at the time of Nero when it was given to him as a curiosity, but the natural historian added that one of its additional uses was to promote menstruation. Eilian stared at the text for a long moment, unsure of what to make of that. He would have to ask Hadley about it later.
Despite all of the information he garnered from the Romans and later from secondhand medieval sources, he still couldn’t be sure what the silphium looked like. If only his ancestral home had been in London, then he could have called upon a dozen numismatists who would certainly have a coin from Ancient Cyrene or Rome depicting the plant. If he sent a letter now, even if it went by express dirigible, it would take at least a week for a reply and more than likely they would only send a sketch or written description and not the actual coin.
Sitting amongst his books and notes, Eilian frowned. He had to tell someone; he had to run the idea past someone else to prove to himself that he wasn’t crazy. Hadley had listened with interest when they discussed his preliminary findings at breakfast, but now, she was busy compiling menus and reading the women’s magazines she picked up in Folkesbury’s bookshop and he didn’t want to disturb her. Ultimately, her knowledge of ancient history was limited and she wasn’t much help past acting as a sounding board. He wanted someone to share in his excitement. Cracking his neck as he climbed over the stacks of books, he paused when his eyes met the pile of papers on his desk. Why hadn’t he thought of him before?
Eilian tossed on his jacket and dashed down the hall. Propped against the wainscoting near the servants’ door, he found his velocipede waiting. At the top of the steps, he lingered on the threshold, watching the rain patter down in a steady tattoo. He could go back upstairs and wait for the storm to pass or he could change into his Norfolk suit to keep from ruining another pair of trousers. Without a second thought, he kicked away from the portico and peddled down the muddy lane toward Folkesbury.
***
Leona Rhodes held the needle poised above her embroidery. From beneath his thick spectacles, Argus was watching her. She wanted to ask him what he was staring at, but doing so would only imply that there was something to look at and that was the last thing she wanted. Maybe he wasn’t looking at her, maybe it was only paranoia, and he was simply staring into space. Then, he smiled. For a second, she hesitated, the nausea thickening her throat. With a swallow, she smiled demurely and turned her attention back to her embroidery hoop. If she went to look for Nadir, would Argus think it strange?
Her head shot up as the doorbell jangled in the hall. Barnes trudged past the parlor, ruffling the heavy curtain as the front door opened. She held her breath, her heart thundering in her chest at the thought of the dark little maid at the door with another letter. Thus far she had made sure to keep out of sight, but what if Nash decided he was tired of discretion? A man’s excited voice rose from the hall, and she sagged into the armchair with relief as Argus turned his attention to the foyer.
The butler pulled the curtain back just far enough for his broad face to poke through. “Lord Dorset is here to see you, sir.”
Nodding, the couple rose to their feet as the earl was ushered in. His dark suit had been soaked through with rain while his trouser legs were spattered with mud. Eilian ran a hand through his hair, returning it to its usual configuration of sickled spikes. Despite his rain-soaked face and clothes, his smile and eyes were bright.
“Lord Dorset, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to our home in such dreadful weather?” Leona asked, relieved to have the attention off her for a time. “Did you bring Lady Dorset with you?”
“No, not this time. I came to speak with Mr. Rhodes on a discovery of some importance. That is, if you aren’t too busy.”
Argus shook his head and led him into his office. Eilian’s eyes ran over the shelves before coming to rest on the cabinet of Roman coins and pottery fragments. The pudgy man once again offered him a drink, which he declined, but as Argus poured himself a glass, Eilian knelt before the case. His grey eyes gleamed as they came to rest on a tiny, lopsided coin. The edge of the image had been rubbed smooth as if by a nervous hand or the course of water, but in the center, the engraving was unmistakable. An alien plant complete with a stout stalk and a cluster of round flowers at its top grew from the metal. It wasn’t identical.
“Mr. Rhodes, may I see that coin there? The one with the plant.”
“Of course, help yourself.”
Opening the cabinet, Eilian gingerly plucked the coin from the shelf and placed it in his prosthetic palm seed side up. With his free hand, he dug into his pocket for the heart-shaped pod. His hand shook as he laid them side by side. The shape, the texture, the ring of raised flesh around the edge was all the same. It was as if the artist had drawn it based on another’s description and not from the real thing.
“What do you make of it, Mr. Rhodes?” Eilian asked, holding out his prosthetic hand to allow the other man to study the coin and pod.
“It’s a bean?”
“It’s a seed. A silphium seed.”
His palpebrous face darkened as he put his glass on the mantle and adjusted his spectacles. “It can’t be. It died out with Nero, probably burned with Rome.”
“Pliny was wrong. How was he to know someone brought one to Britain?” Eilian dropped his voice. “I found it growing in Brasshurst’s orangery. Nash was telling the truth.”
“But— but how did it get there? How do you know it’s the real thing? I mean, neither of us are botanists.”
“I don’t, but look at it, Rhodes. You can’t deny that the seeds are the same, and the plant—if you squint y
our eyes—looks just like this.”
Argus shook his head, retrieving his drink from the mantle and holding it close. “I don’t know...”
“Many historians have made greater discoveries than this with less proof. We can’t pretend as if it was never found.”
He swallowed hard. The earl’s eyes gleamed and his prosthetic hand flexed and gestured in time with his left as smoothly as if it were still flesh and bone. He was impassioned by his discovery, and Argus Rhodes, who had never had colleagues, didn’t know how to respond to that.
“Are— are you going to write a paper on it? After more research, of course.”
Eilian cocked his head, watching the Egyptologist from the corner of his eye as he returned the coin to its rightful place in the cabinet. He wasn’t nearly as excited as he expected him to be. Did he not understand the implications of discovering a plant that had been so important to Rome’s economy that they mourned its demise?
“Ancient botany really isn’t my field of study, but aren’t you intrigued by the idea of finding out why this plant was so important to the Romans? Haven’t you ever wondered why they harvested it to the point of supposed extinction?”
“I suppose.” Refilling his glass, Argus settled into his desk chair. “Have you spoken to Nash yet?”
“No. Part of the reason I came to see you is because I wanted to ask your opinion on how I should approach Mr. Nash. You have dealt with him more than I have, and I don’t want to publish a paper or bring the plant to the world’s attention without his permission, even if it is on my property. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
“He’s never going to let you. You may as well take that seed and grow your own. He’s been claiming that plant existed for years, but he’s never shown it to a single soul.”
***
Leona smiled to herself as she pressed her ear to the plaster between the study and the parlor. Now she finally had something she could wield against Nash. Going to the constabulary would have only ended in exposing her own sins, especially when the sergeant was such a dear friend of Mrs. Nash, but the plant was more than she could have hoped for. A few more kernels of information were all she needed to gain a little leverage.
When the earl left and her husband settled down after dinner, she would slip into his study and take what she needed. She made a mental note of every name Lord Dorset mentioned while her husband sat mutely on the other side of the wall. Even if Argus, with his limited imagination, couldn’t appreciate the fortuitousness of Lord Dorset’s discovery, she did.
***
Pilcrow stood outside the Gothic face of Brasshurst Hall, staring up at the ivy-scarred stone. While the vines had been removed upon the ninth earl and countess’s arrival, the ghosts of the plants remained as veins across the great house’s face never to heal but as a testament to years of neglect. It wasn’t the size of the house that made her pause; she was accustomed to feeling small even in the dower house, which was scarcely an eighth of the size of the manor. It was that their eyes were watching her from the portal. She had never been a woman to give into fancies or superstition, but after following Mrs. Nash to mass and hearing the sermons of fire and brimstone year in and year out, how could she not feel the hollow-eyed saints casting their gaze upon her from the ring of the portal? In her breast pocket out of sight was a note to the lady and master of the house, which she was to deliver directly to one of them and not to a servant as usual. Her hand shook as she reached for the bell pull, hoping it would be the lady of the house who answered. She could weather a slap, but she always feared the pitiless knuckles of an angry man. Maybe if she let herself disappear into the doorway, the stone saints wouldn’t see what the Nashes were making her do.
She licked her cracked lips as briny rain dripped off the roofline, down the brim of her hat, and onto her nose. When no one seemed to be coming, she tucked her coat closer and trotted away from the bright blue door. Mrs. Nash wouldn’t be venturing out of the house in this weather, so maybe she could stop at the tavern for a hot meal and a bit of time to herself. As she reached the gravel path, a voice called out behind her.
The maid turned but froze upon seeing the figure in the doorway. She had never seen hair so red. It was as dark as blood, but it brought out the light dusting of freckles over the woman’s nose and ruddy cheeks. Her eyes were a bright blue, and while they could have been striking to the point of being unnerving, they were softened by her rounded features and expressive brows. The dark blue skirt and jacket she wore over her plain shirtwaist were simple but well made, unlike her lady’s fussy dresses.
“Wait! Do come back. I’m so sorry I didn’t get to you sooner, but I didn’t hear the bell. Who are you looking for?”
“Lord and Lady Dorset, mum,” she called.
“I am she.” As the umbral maid drew closer, Hadley’s eyes widened. “Please come inside; you are soaked to the bone.”
Before Pilcrow could protest, the countess was ushering her inside with one hand and closing the door with the other. Lady Dorset shook her head as she appraised the maid’s thin form, which appeared even more drawn and frail when wet. Her wool coat hung from her bony shoulders while her threadbare hat sagged where water had run from the brim. The hollows of her cheeks cast hungry shadows across her ashen skin. With a little prodding, the countess convinced her to remove her coat and follow her into the great hall.
“Please, take a seat by the fire. How long were you waiting?” Hadley asked after speaking to Charlotte who appeared at the tug of the bell-rope. Drawing close to the hearth, she laid the water-logged coat across the grate. “I hope it wasn’t long. I heard the bell, but with my husband and butler out, I didn’t realize no one let you in.”
“I was only there a moment, mum.”
Pilcrow’s eyes ran over the massive hearth before skimming over the columns of the upper arcade and skylights. She glanced down the darkened hall to see if anyone would call out to stop her as she sat stiffly on the edge of the embroidered chair. It had been years since she sat anywhere upstairs. If Mrs. Nash knew she was sitting in the earl’s house like an honored guest, she would be furious.
“You’re shaking.” When Charlotte reappeared with a tray of tea and placed it on the side table, Lady Dorset quickly poured a cup for Pilcrow and handed it to her with a gentle grin. “I can’t believe your master sent you out in this weather. Wait here.”
Disappearing down the hall, the countess returned with a wool blanket. With a snap of the fabric, she carefully wrapped it around the maid’s shaking shoulders. As she crouched beside the chair to ensure it was tucked close, the maid shrank back into her seat. If it had been made of a darker fabric, the woman would have disappeared, but there was nowhere to hide against the red Damask. At Hadley’s touch, Pilcrow flinched, averting her gaze to her lap, and drew the shawl closer.
“Thank you, but you needn’t trouble yourself for me, your ladyship. I’ll be fine.”
“Have you eaten? Our servants will be having something soon, and I’m sure they could spare you a plate.”
“No, thank you, your ladyship,” she replied, her words betraying the ache in the pit of her stomach that she had grown accustomed to, “I already ate.”
“Your name is Pilcrow, isn’t it? You’re Mrs. Nash’s maid, I think.”
“Yes, mum, her lady’s maid.”
“So what brings you to Brasshurst in the rain? I do hope it isn’t the church business.”
For a moment, she tried to avoid the countess’s probing gaze by taking a long sip of tea. The warmth flooded her chest and chased away the damp cough tickling her lungs. In the inner pocket of her coat was the letter Mr. Nash had given her. All morning he had picked through his stacks of London papers, combing the society pages and announcements for anything he could discover about the Sorrells. When he had reached an article reporting a strange meeting at the British Museum where Lord Sorrell’s fiancée had simultaneously confessed to cross-dressing to travel to the Middle East and discredited Sir J
oshua Peregrine, an archaeologist of feeble renown, Mr. Nash’s brows arched and his thin lips curled into a wry smirk. What exactly was in the letter she couldn’t be sure, but it was never anything good. Half of the village hated her. As she passed, they would mutter an oath under their breath or shoot her black looks that seemed to accumulate on her person until she appeared more specter than woman. They would never dare to treat her masters that way even if she wished they would, so punishing her would have to do.
Pilcrow’s grey eyes flitted between the grate where her coat hung limply and the countess’s bright face. She had dried her coat, offered her food and tea, given her a blanket, and even remembered her name, which was far more than the Nashes had done for her in the twenty-three years of service with them. It would be easy enough to slip the letter from her pocket and toss it in the fire before she left. No one would be the wiser. If Mr. Nash asked, he could confirm that she had been to the manor and talked only to Lady Dorset.
The words hung in her throat, but with another sip of tea, her chest loosened, allowing them to work free, even if they were soft and stilted. “Since you’re new here, mum, Mrs. Nash would like to offer my services to you in case you require anything.”
Chapter Eleven
Ancient Paths
The wind blew through the trees, carrying with it the sea’s salt and the musk of wet earth. Donning his best suit and hat, Eilian followed the gravel path across the lawn and into the ornamental garden. Along the way, he passed the moss-consumed walls and foundations of buildings long forgotten. He considered straying from the path, but if he wanted Nash to take him seriously, he would have to stay out of the dirt, at least on the way there. The white rocks crunched beneath his shoes as he mounted the hill. Halfway to the top, Eilian stopped.
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