Soil and Ceremony

by Julia Byrd

  “No one will come looking for them, I promise.”

  The interior of the house was cool and dim, and it smelled not unpleasantly of soil and greenery. My coat and hat went on a bench. I glanced up the staircase and thought I saw a flash of movement, but then it was gone. For a moment I felt awkward, unchaperoned in an unmarried woman’s home, although widows have leeway in such niceties. I thought of her pouring great glugs of whisky the night before.

  “Let me just put the kettle on for tea. I have no maid here, sadly. Will you sit in the parlor?”

  “I’d rather watch you boil water.”

  She dimpled at me. “In that case, the show is staged in the kitchen. This way.”

  The kitchen was a good deal cozier than the porch and foyer had been, with colorful rag rugs on the floor and copper pots on hooks. Juno rummaged in a cupboard, emerging with a blue glass vase. I rinsed my hands in a big washbasin before seating myself at the round oak table.

  “I met your neighbor on my walk here. Farmer Miller and his boy.”

  “Did you? I like his wife very well.” She dropped her flowers into the vase. “Tell me your fancy Latin name for these lovelies.”

  “Ah, hmm, yes,” I said, pretending to consider. “After years of schooling and arduous memorization, I can state with some certainty that the Latin name for that spherical, many-petalled flower is Chrysanthemum chrysanthemum.” Not a name to be treasured by anyone with a stammer, but I was undeterred.

  “Chrysanthemum chrysanthemum? You’re teasing me,” Juno said.

  “Only a little. They’re really just ‘mums.”

  “Did you truly undergo so many years of schooling?”

  I shouldn’t have mentioned it, even in jest. I had far too much education for any groundskeeper. The other boys had plenty of taunts for a stutterer, but I had enjoyed learning, and I’d always been big enough to be useful in team athletic pursuits.

  I wished, for a moment, to hide behind a jumbled, unintelligible response, but Juno would see through it. How many times in the past had I sealed my lips for my own convenience?

  “It hardly matters now,” I said softly. It would be some time before I could wash the dirt from my hands and pick up my books again.

  “Why not?”

  Juno turned to the sink basin, filled the teakettle from a jug and clattered among spoons. She freed me from her dark gaze, and I used the moment to gather my thoughts. I scarcely knew her. As much as I was drawn to her, as much as I enjoyed her off-kilter approach to life and her warm smile, I wasn’t ready to talk about my old life or my brother’s farm and house, waiting vacant for me to bring it back to life.

  “The cemetery grounds only require my arms and back, not my education,” I said blithely. “By the by, where have you been stashing your ill-gotten plants? Might I be permitted to visit them?”

  She faced me, braced her hands on her waist, and pursed her lips. “You know I pay attention, Benjamin Hood. I hear the things you don’t say. But yes, come and see your relocated shrubs.”

  Juno passed by in a rustle of skirts, and I understood her coolness was a consequence of my avoiding her question. I owed her nothing. We were virtual strangers.

  On the other hand, perhaps I was indebted to her for a bottle of whisky and some measure of my newfound verbal aplomb. But why had she done it at all? “Juno, wait—”

  “Right through here!” she called back, disappearing into the narrow hall beyond the kitchen.

  I sighed and followed.

  The rear of the house was closed off by a wide door that slid into a pocket in the wall, and Juno hooked her finger into an attached brass loop and tugged. The door glided away on a well-oiled track.

  I must have made some noise of surprise when I glimpsed the room beyond, for Juno smiled and bobbed a little curtsy. The space was filled from wall to wall with greenery. The rush of air that hit me was damp, warm, and pungent with rich dirt. I took a step forwards, drawn by Juno’s receding figure as she ventured down a crowded aisle of plants. “What is this—”

  “My conservatory. It’s not really a conservatory, of course. It was the dining room until my husband passed away. But I had no need for a dining room, and this room had the best light and these big glass doors. You see?”

  I took another step inside. A long, raised planter bed ran along the center of the room, dividing the floor into two aisles. Identical trays lined both opposite walls. Each bed overflowed with vegetation, and more plants hung in baskets from hooks in the ceiling. And, as she had said, double doors on the back wall admitted a good deal of sunlight.

  I felt suddenly ridiculous that I had brought her common roadside ‘mums and dared to utter Latin names. Juno clearly knew and cared about gardening. There were many species I recognized, and more I did not. I noted Rubus idaeus, the common raspberry, and an enthusiastic mint plant that seemed determined to overtake an entire table. Tall grasses stood proud in the corners. Everything was orderly and healthy, and I touched my fingertips to a neatly lettered stake that labeled a leafy plant as silverbeet.

  Juno had no showy blooms, no roses or fragile peonies. Nothing had been planted for its color or its rarity. The plants were workmanlike and native to England, or at least well suited to our climate. I’d tended many of the same species in Maida Green.

  Which question to ask first? Juno looked at me, clearly waiting for some reaction. She stood beside a small shrub with oblong, fuzzed leaves. No wonder she smelled of sage.

  “Why do you—why is all this indoors?”

  She turned and looked across to the other bed. “That silverbeet would be fine almost all throughout the winter ahead, but many of these others are summer annuals that I’m cultivating indoors through the colder months. Over there you can see my beans—”

  “No, I meant…I understand many of these couldn’t survive the winter outdoors. But, Juno…it’s your dining room.”

  “This is my conservatory.”

  You can’t just say something to make it true. She had proved me wrong again. It had ceased being a dining room and was a conservatory. It served its purpose better than another room I had been in, a long glass room intended for plants but filled only with dust. I smiled, then reached up to fondle a strawberry dangling from a basket. “You keep these little red devils well contained.”

  “Naturally. Otherwise, I might awaken to find strawberries draped over all my rugs and furniture.”

  “If I may ask, what is the reason for all of this? Do you find keeping plants to be a soothing pastime?”

  “Pastime?” Juno lifted her chin, her eyes bright. “A pastime is a frivolous thing, a way to while away the hours. Everything here has a purpose. Those leaves by your elbow, dried and mixed in a tea, are good for a woman’s monthly pains. The little yellow flowers here are supposed to aid in conception, and these are for inflammation of the joints. Some are vegetables that I harvest and give to women whose nutrition is lacking. Others have virulent uses that I will not mention. But by and large, these are wholesome plants. Your Viburnum tinus is there,” she said, pointing. “And was that once your forest pansy? I needed them because my soil has been too alkaline.”

  I touched the nearest vibrant leaf. What virulent brews had she mixed in this room? And yet I believed her when she said she helped people. “You could have asked, you know, before stealing them. I might have given them to you.”

  Juno shrugged. “I knew you weren’t one for casual conversation, so I left you that note. Plus, I couldn’t risk a refusal. I have been desperate for the right mix of sweet, neutral, and acid to keep everyone alive and happy.”

  “Haven’t we all,” I murmured. “Have you tried lavandula officinalis for your alkaline soil?”

  Juno shook her head. “You of all people must know that lavender is not a native plant, and it’s too damp here.”

  I did know, of course. How strange it was to find someone who challenged the depth of my knowledge. I cleared my throat and sought another topic. “Yes. I…I brought
your ribbon back.”

  A touch of my fingertips against the length of black silk inside my pocket had reminded me. I pulled it out and dragged it between thumb and forefinger as I stepped closer to Juno.

  “How kind.” She angled her spine towards me and cast a coquettish glance over her shoulder. “Will you tie it in a bow around my neck?”

  She was so sure of herself it was natural for me to close the gap between us. She moved my blood and made me feel like an eligible bachelor instead of a misfit gravedigger. I brushed a few strands of hair from her nape, and she shivered. As I looped the ribbon around her throat and loosely tied the ends, she tilted her head to one side, exposing the soft skin below her ear. It was an invitation. I was not fool enough to squander such a chance. “Here?” I asked gruffly.

  “Please,” she whispered, leaning back into me.

  I lowered my head and brushed the spot with my lips. She exhaled. My hands moved to her waist and tugged her close. My mouth drifted along the column of her throat.

  Tiny gold knots pierced her earlobes, and I nipped at one of them when she made a noise of feminine approval.

  “Ben,” she murmured. “I believe I enjoy your company.”

  I lifted my head and fought back a smile, feeling roguish and pleased with myself. “I am of a similar mind, my lady.”

  She twisted and raised her hands to my shoulders, smiling up into my eyes. “You, too, enjoy your own company?”

  “For too many years. Now I would like to enjoy yours. May I come and see you again?” I wanted to leave before my gentlemanly manners slipped away. She had cast another spell over me.

  “I have an errand that brings me to your burial ground tonight. Shall I knock on your door before I leave?”

  Juno visiting my cottage alone, after dark? It sounded improper, dangerous…and tempting. “Yes.”

  Chapter 6: Rite of the Infants

  At Maida Green, I was surprised to see Everett bent over a shovel. He was so intent upon his task, he didn’t notice my return.

  “I thought I gave you the day to yourself,” I called out.

  He straightened. His face was drawn and serious. Only then did I realize he was digging in the infants’ corner, right beside the little grave I had dug only a few days prior. The lingering buoyancy from my visit with Juno fell flat. The first part of the row memorialized a half-dozen infants brought up from London over the past few years. The last three graves were all for babies who were born and died in our village.

  “I had to come back,” he said. “Where have you been? The vicar sent word that another infant grave is needed for tomorrow morning. The messenger boy came to me when he couldn’t find you.”

  “Another infant,” I repeated, ignoring Everett’s complaints about my absence. Then, although I already knew the answer, “From London?”

  “No. Not from London.” His voice was low.

  It was too many. Far too many—but how does one draw such a conclusion? Was there any acceptable number? The passing of two newborns in a few months could be a coincidence in a village our size, but four was excessive. My mother had been shocked at the third death. “Here, hand me that spade. I can do it.”

  “It’s nearly done now.”

  I well knew how terribly quick it was to dig an infant grave. “Thank you for handling it.” I stood and watched while he squared up the corners neatly.

  “It’s not good, Ben.”

  “I know.”

  Everett dropped the shovel, and we gazed down at the little row of graves. Pfeiffer, Roberts, Horvath, were the surnames carved into stone. Three families tied together by life in our village and by the final resting place of their children. And now, a fourth family would be joining them.

  “People are worried.”

  Something in his tone was strange. It wasn’t just sadness, but also…fear. “What have you heard, Everett? Did you know the family of this infant?”

  He gave me a brief smile. “You always called me Toth, before.”

  “Say what’s on your mind before I start calling you stubborn.”

  “Strong words from the man who began speaking his mind about twelve hours ago. It’s just that I don’t like to be head of the only dark-skinned family in the vicinity when pale-skinned babies start dropping like mayflies in July. People will be looking for someone to blame.”

  My stomach tightened. “Who’s blaming you? Or your mother?”

  “Nobody, yet. A woman crossed the street at the sight of Lucy and me last week. That’s how these things start.”

  “Babies die. They’re fragile, they get sick.” I was defensive, struggling to push his words away.

  “No adults are sick, nor has the village lost any older children. Just these babes. It’s made some people suspicious, looking for a reason. I can’t describe the feeling exactly, but when you’ve spent a lifetime balancing on the margins of civil society, you develop a sense for the undercurrents. Nobody wants to be the first to say murder, but it’s there.”

  “Surely it’s been a run of bad luck. Tell me if anybody looks at you sideways, all right?”

  “I just told you, they already have. And what are you offering to do, Ben Hood?” he asked, flinging out one long arm to take in the parklike grounds around us. “Stand before a mob? Raise your gardening shears on my behalf? I have a mother and a sister to look after. It’s no joke to me.”

  I had not sensed the dangerous undercurrent that Everett had, but I believed him. His fear was enough for me. “It’s not a joke to me either, Everett. We’ll stand together if needed. You know me.”

  The weight of Maida House behind me seemed to press against my back. There were parts of me that Everett did not know at all. I wished I could do something to smooth the worry from his brow.

  “Sure, right,” he said on a long exhale. “I know you’d stand with me in a fight. But I’d prefer to think the waters around here would never rise to such a boil. If only there was a way to understand what was happening—if indeed anything is happening. Nobody says anything outright. But I could never go knocking on doors, asking rude questions. My family would be run out of town.”

  He was right. I would be better able to protect the Toths from vicious rumors if I had facts with which to counter them. And if there was something connecting the deaths of those infants, maybe I could even put a stop to it and save a few young lives. Perhaps a lurking illness could be traced. My mother might even be willing to help.

  “Mine wouldn’t,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t what?”

  “My family would not be run out of town. I’ll ask around and see if there’s anything odd to be uncovered. Any pattern, or if anyone else has been sick.”

  He frowned. “You’re proposing to ask a lot of strangers about the recent deaths of their children? You’re no magistrate. You hate speaking to people.”

  “But I like having you around to do all the worst jobs in the cemetery,” I said in an attempt to lighten his expression. “If a seething mob comes for you, it would be very inconvenient for me.”

  Everett wasn’t laughing. “You’ll be lucky to have doors slammed in your face. I suspect you’ll get a fist to the nose first, and you’ll probably deserve it.”

  “I can be polite.”

  “It’s not about politeness, Ben. It’s about grief. You’ve been there yourself. When my father passed, I was angry every day for three months. And my mother was in no shape to answer prodding inquiries.”

  “I won’t—I’ll tread lightly. Everett, you needn’t worry about me.” I set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “You just worry about that maple tree in the third alley and whether Lucy’s flirting at school. I’ll check into these deaths and make sure nobody is leaping to any wrong conclusions. I promise you.”

  He gave me a short nod, his dark eyes unreadable, then turned. I watched him trudge away, thinking again that Everett’s sense of responsibility often put mine to shame. We worked shrouded in silence for the remainder of the day.

&nbs
p; By the time I locked the gates at dusk, Juno had not made an appearance. Perhaps she was delayed from her errand, or she’d changed her mind. Regardless, my mood was a great deal more somber than it had been in her conservatory. I didn’t feel like sparring with her or rousing myself to meet her challenging nature, so I retired to my cottage with only a tinge of regret.

  * * *

  Late that evening, I lay in bed listening to the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof. The noise was soothing, but my restless mind turned over and over from Juno to the four deceased children and Everett’s worries. And would the rain cause Farmer Miller’s field to flood again? I flopped onto my stomach and dropped an arm to sweep my knuckles over the cool, dusty floorboards. Shoved far beneath my bedframe, somewhere I hadn’t looked or cleaned recently, were Joseph’s old logbooks from the farm. Such as they were. He had never kept very accurate records, and things trailed off entirely in the weeks leading up to his death. Surely, I could do better than that. I could do no worse. In the morning I would check the Maida Green records for the details on the four infants.

  Then a dim light bobbed past my window, out on the path, and I shot up like a dog called to heel. Someone was inside the cemetery—someone alive besides me. I jammed my feet into my boots without socks and snatched up my long flannel night wrapper—but the rain beat against the roof in a sudden gust. The heavy fabric would become instantly sodden and tangling. I thrust it aside, then unlatched my door and raced outside bare-chested and wild, my shoes loose and my drawers low on my hips.

  The light was almost out of sight around a curve in the path, and I hurried along through puddles. Cold rain pelted my skin. The flame, as I drew nearer, flickered from an oil lantern encased in glass.

  The person who carried it was tall, draped in a waxed-canvas cloak with rabbit-fur trim. Dark waves of hair straggled out from under a sturdy hat. Juno.

  My hands clenched, fingers slick and cold. She’d lied to me. She had said she didn’t break into Maida Green, and yet the gates were locked. I have an errand that brings me to your burial ground tonight, she’d said.