The Lady's Slipper

by Deborah Swift

  For India and Karen

  Contents

  Lady’s Slipper

  Westmorland 1660

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue 1695

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Lady’s Slipper

  Government and Virtues

  A most gallant herb of Venus, now sadly declined. A decoction is effectual to temper and sedate the blood, and allay hot fits of agues, canker rash and all scrophulous and scorbutic habits of the body. The root drank in wine, is its chief strength, to be applied either inwardly or outwardly, for all the griefs aforesaid. There is a syrup made hereof excellent for soothing restlessness of the limbs, hence oft times goes by the name of Nerve Root.

  Vices

  Be wary of this herb, for surfeit of it calls forth visions, fancies and melancholy. Take it not with strong liquor. If giddiness, sickness of the stomache, dullness of the senses ensue, or drowsiness withal ending in deep sleep, straightway desist. In women and children, safer it being tied to the pit of the stomache, by a piece of white ribband round the neck.

  Gargrave’s Herbal 1646

  Westmorland 1660

  Chapter 1

  Alice tiptoed into the hallway. Perhaps it was a blessing she was still in mourning, for there would be less risk of being seen. Wheeler would be watching out, and his eyes were sharp as pikes–he would spot any movement, any slight shift in the features of the landscape.

  She reached up to the peg for her black bonnet and put it on, pulling the lace veiling down so it hid her face. Regretfully, she looked down at her narrow feet, shod now in pale yellow sateen. This was her favourite pair of shoes, in a style considered far too fancy these days. They were one of the few pretty things she had saved from the fire and she was loath to get them wet and muddy. But her leather bootees made too much noise; even on tiptoe the irons would clang against the flagstones in the hall. These shoes were silent, and outside would leave hardly a trace if she was careful to tread where it was dry. There must be no mishaps. This was the only night with no moon, and the orchid would fade fast, so it had to be tonight.

  The basket stood ready by the back door. She had prepared it earlier with a lining of soaked green moss and dampened sackcloth. A bunch of fresh herbs was waiting in the pantry for her return: parsley, salvia, rosemary; they would be her excuse if Thomas were to wake and ask her where she had been. She glanced over towards the fireplace where he snored lightly, his mouth drooping open and his arm dangling over the edge of the chair. As usual, his boots were almost in the embers.

  At the door she leaned her shoulder against the jamb, to ease the latch out of its socket; the door swung open silently and she stepped out into the night air. She heard the latch clack gently into place behind her.

  The night was a soot-black tunnel. She listened, senses quivering. Her heart beat loudly as if caught in her throat; her breath came in sharp little puffs. She gathered herself. Soon she would have it, and though Wheeler might suspect her, he would never be able to prove it.

  She felt her way down the path with an outstretched hand on the fence, for Wheeler must not see any glimmer of her presence, and a lantern would surely draw his eye like bait to a fish. Her foot stubbed against a wooden milk churn and she momentarily lost her balance. She lurched for the gate with her hand and shuddered as she felt the wet body of a slug on its night-time foray for food.

  Her eyes strained to accustom themselves to this new, lightless world. Thank the Lord she had rehearsed the route. In the daylight she had practised with eyes closed, opening them again as she passed close to Wheeler’s house, for in the dark of the moon she knew it would be hard to find her way. Becoming more sure-footed, she followed the smell of wood-smoke from the village chimneys until she saw the lights of Wheeler’s house and the barely perceptible outline of the kissing-gate to Helk’s Wood.

  The house lay directly next to the gate, with a window that over-looked the path. From here Wheeler could keep watch on anyone coming or going. Lights flickered in the downstairs room. She stopped short.

  He was awake–and probably at his vantage point at the window.

  A lozenge of yellow light slanted across her path. She reconsidered her route; she dare not risk passing the window. Instead, she felt along the hedge for a gap.

  A bramble wound its thorny teeth round her ankle and she winced as she tore free. She stumbled forward and found herself in a cut cornfield. She walked faster, despite the scratchy stubble, which snagged on the silk of her shoes and caught at her under-skirt. The dew was already heavy, her dress damp–the sodden hem swung over her ankles.

  Above her the stars were fixed points of light, too faint to reach the shadows under the stooks, too faint to touch the flurry of a hare as it leapt into the hedge’s black underbelly. She felt for the wall to the wood. Here, she could hide and keep away from Wheeler’s gimlet eyes. The wall had substance, solidity–so she kept her hand there. As she listened, the ancient presence of the woodland loomed beyond; the trees were watching, and the grasses, even the stones in the wall. They were conversing with each other in an unknown silent language. She shivered and withdrew her hand.

  Beyond the wall the trees were shapes distorted by the dark. Each one grew into the next; one dim shape concealing another, brooding. A crawling sensation curled at the top of her spine. From nowhere a chill breeze swept through the branches making the mounds of creamy meadowsweet float like ghostly clouds against the hedge. In the night air their smell was sickly and cloying.

  But there was another smell, fainter, more familiar. Alice sucked in her breath. It was a smell she knew, something sweet and musty, like peat. Instantly she dropped down behind the wall. Tobacco. There was someone smoking close by.

  Her back pressed against the stones, she pulled the veil of the bonnet down over her face and undid the ribbons, straining her ears for the least sound. A cough, and then the sound of boots approaching. She heard the ring of them on the stones, and the slight squelch as they landed in the muddy wheel tracks. With consternation Alice saw a light getting closer. From her hiding place she saw the leaves of the trees in the canopy flare into colour and then disappear into the dark. She shrank further into the shadow of the wall. She knew only one man who smoked that tobacco. Wheeler.

  He must be guarding the wood.

  The footsteps got nearer, until she heard what must be the buttons of his long coat scratching against his boots.

  Silence.

  She put a hand over her nose lest the steam of her breath should betray her. She heard a dull hiss as a taper caught light. The corn near her feet was illuminated as he drew on his pipe. She crouched low, head bent forward, hands now clutching the fabric of her go
wn about her. The smoke drifted over the wall and fogged above her head, like the creeping mist near the river.

  What would he think if he knew she was only inches away, spying on him from behind the wall? The situation struck her suddenly as absurd. She suppressed an unaccountable urge to laugh. Mirth began to bubble up inside and she had to quash it by stuffing her sleeve over her mouth and nose.

  Wheeler must not see her here. He was such a serious man–so serious he made her feel like a fool. If she were to give herself away, he would know straightway what she was about, and would have none of it. He would be incredulous to think she could consider doing such a thing.

  Presently the footsteps moved away up the path. She listened to them fade away and let out a long exhalation. All desire to laugh had disappeared. When she was certain he had gone, she stood up stiffly, aware that the hour was passing and she must hurry if she were not to make trouble at home. Finding a place where the wall had tumbled down, she hitched up her skirts and climbed over, landing softly on the path below. She walked until she felt the ground become springy under her feet–a mossy clearing.

  A breeze blew up again, a soft muttering of leaves, a swing of shadows, the branches moving silver-limbed against the sky. Her eyes had opened out to the dark. She stopped a few feet away and looked.

  The pale globe of the flower shone out like Venus in the night sky. She tiptoed closer. Indeed, silence came easily. It was a natural response to something so exquisite.

  She knelt down in front of the plant so she could look inside the fragile petal bowl and see the tiny stigmata of maroon and pink, appearing blue-black in the darkness. Reaching out a finger, she caressed the edge of a fleshy leaf.

  ‘Cypripedium.’ She whispered the Latin name softly, caressingly, as if calling for it to come home, feeling the taste of the words on her tongue.

  Squatting down she started to dig around it, her movements precise and delicate, careful not to disturb the roots. She worked quickly with the trowel to prise away the heavy soil, not noticing that the dirt was forced up into her fingernails. In one deft movement she plucked the whole plant and lowered it gently into the basket of damp moss.

  A movement made her startle. An owl flew overhead, pale faced, wings beating quiet as breathing. Again she shivered and looked over her shoulder. There was nobody there, yet she could not shake off the feeling that someone was watching, unseen in the cold shadows.

  She stood up and regarded the empty hole, wondering whether to fill it in or disguise it in some way. But then she had an idea. She reached into her handkerchief pouch and pulled out a few coins. She tossed them into the hole, hearing them chink at the bottom. There, she thought, I have paid you for it. She repressed a small chuckle as she imagined Wheeler’s face when he returned in the morning. He was always so keen on the idea of everything having its price.

  She picked up the basket and, confident now, followed the same route she had come. She turned to look back. Behind her, another dark human figure melted into the shadow of the undergrowth.

  When she passed Wheeler’s house she trod softly, for although his lights were still lit, it was even more vital to be invisible now. But the only sound was the chek, chek of the corncrakes in the meadow and the distant lowing of a cow.

  She went straight to the summerhouse and gently took out the orchid to stand it upright in a small pot of earth. It looked small and insignificant, almost insipid, next to the pink curling papers of the flowering geraniums. She felt a pang of remorse. The orchid looked somehow less, out of its woodland setting.

  It was for the best, she convinced herself. She knew she had the skills to divide it, whatever Wheeler might think; soon there would be lady’s slippers growing in abundance. She watered it, just a few drops. Not because it was dry, but because she wanted to tend it–to make amends for uprooting it and bringing it to a strange place. After hiding it out of sight under the table, she locked the door with the little bronze key and crept into the house.

  She need not have worried. The fire was barely aglow, and Thomas’s wheezing snores told her he was still sleeping. Only now did she allow herself a sigh of relief. She thought of her dear sister, Flora, and her delight if she could have seen it. She could not wait to tell Geoffrey, and looked forward to his expression when he saw it for the first time. He would understand her excitement, and she knew she could trust him to keep her secret.

  Her cuffs were brackish-brown and there was a quantity of dirt under her nails, so she washed in the scullery, out of Thomas’s earshot, by the light of a lantern. She soaped and drubbed the cuffs until the water ran clean; they would dry overnight. Looking down at her shoes she could see they were ruined–the fabric soaked through and scuffed with mud, but worse, the deep scratch on her ankle had bled and dribbled over the embroidery in a dark red stain.

  She carried the shoes to the kitchen and wrapped them in brown paper. It would be difficult to explain their condition to Thomas so they would need to be disposed of. She dare not pass him, in case he should wake. For the moment she pushed the shoes right to the bottom of the turnip sack. Her bare feet padded softly on the stairs as she made her way to bed. Thomas slept on–his snores loud above the ticking clock, while the embers grew cold.

  Chapter 2

  When she heard the cry she threw back the sheets and was out of bed before she knew it, despite the chill. Instinctively, she picked up a small earthenware cup, half filled it with water from the jug on the stand and crossed the creaking boards of the landing in her bare feet.

  The morning light slid over the whitewash in pale strands. She rubbed the grit of sleep from her eyes and pushed open the door into Flora’s room. Her knees buckled anew at the sight of the bare room and the empty pallet.

  It was the cockerel, and not crying after all, that had woken her. She slumped against the doorframe; the little cup dripping from her fingers. She took in the mattress, thin and grey without its covering of white linen and blankets, and tears swam into her eyes. Moths had already started to eat away the cushion on the chair where she had kept her nightly vigil. How many nights had she spent, sleepless beside Flora’s waxen face, watching and praying? She turned away, ignoring the dark stone of grief that weighed in her stomach, shut the door again on all the memories. She took a deep breath; she must pull herself together. Life goes on.

  Alert now, she cast her mind back to the night before, and the orchid. Had she really stolen it? The remembrance of it seemed strange, like a dream. Everything was unreal since Flora died–dark and watery, as if she were drifting aboard a rudderless ship.

  She made her toilet quickly, glad of the icy water in the bowl. She rubbed her face hard with the muslin cloth and a tingle of warmth crept back into her cheeks. She picked up the looking glass and saw a woman, white as alabaster, stare back at her through troubled pale blue eyes. Seeing herself, she blushed. She had stolen the orchid.

  For the first time since Flora’s death she felt a rush of excitement, an appetite for the day. Her breath clouded the surface of the mirror, so she hurried to layer heavy underskirts under her gown, smoothing down the dark taffeta folds and pressing the black lace-trimmed collar against her shoulders. Downstairs, she added a shawl and hastily tucked her unruly copper hair under a white coif. She stepped into her black bootees, not bothering to fasten them, and opened the door into the garden.

  The tongues of her boots flapped as she hastened to the summerhouse along the grass so as not to waken Thomas with the noise of her wooden soles on the path. Under the apple trees windfalls had already made green trails in the white of the dew. The dogwood stems–red stripes against the scullery wall–naturally caught her attention, and the whirl of a snail-shell caught in the leaves of the periwinkle. Her passing eye took each small detail and stored it as a future vignette to be captured in paint.

  The sun had just risen, but the air was damp as a wet stocking. These days she did not sleep well and her restless wanderings in the night often led her out to the stone summerh
ouse, her private place where she could breathe easily, a place she found comfort in the familiar, solace in her paints and pigments. Her portraits of Flora were there; she had hung them along the walls, like a living presence. The octagonal shape of the building meant that, whichever way she turned, Flora’s face smiled down on her.

  She lifted the lady’s slipper onto the table and stared at its strange, almost unearthly appearance. It was essential to catch the moment before the flower faded. She could not quite believe she had done it. She, Alice Ibbetson, was a thief. There were thieves in the stocks on the green–people who were rough and dirty, covered in slops. Like everyone else she ignored them, but felt a sting of guilt as she went about her business.

  Of course, this was a little different; she was not really a thief but a rescuer preserving nature’s wonders. She was perspiring slightly and wiped her fingers down her skirt. Nobody had seen a lady’s slipper flower for more than twenty years. If her skill was enough, in future times little girls like Flora would be able to pick them and put them in water with the buttercups.

  She must find a better hiding place, for word would soon be out that it was gone. People called her eccentric because of her passion for plants, but she was not the only person who would be interested in the orchid. The botanists would want it–the new breed of men, men like Geoffrey, who traded in foreign and unusual specimens. It always surprised her how news of a rarity could travel, as if somehow it was carried like a scent on the air. Plantsmen have a sixth sense; like homing pigeons they know by instinct when something calls them home, and this orchid would certainly draw them.