The Forbidden Orchid

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  “Buchanan?” Sir William called. “Are you about?”

  A man stepped out in the cottage’s dim light from behind the shelves, wiping his hands on a towel. He was most likely expecting to see only Sir William, and his eyes widened when he saw the four of us standing there. He spun about and stepped back behind the shelves.

  I looked at Sir William, uncertain as to why he had taken us to this man’s cottage and not to my father’s.

  Indeed, Violetta thought the same. “Where is our father, Sir William? Is this not his cottage?”

  “Mr. Buchanan?” Sir William said, and I looked around to see from where in such a tiny room my father might appear. “It’s all right, my good man. It’s only your daughters come to see you.”

  “I . . . I’m not able to see you today, my dears. I’m indisposed, you see. I don’t wish to make you ill.” It was my father’s voice that had spoken. Perhaps the other man was his assistant.

  Sir William gestured for us to wait and disappeared behind the shelves. There was a quick murmur of voices, and then Sir William stepped back out, his face sorrowful. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Buchanan, Miss Violetta,” he said. “He’s adamant. Perhaps give him a little time and come back again. There’s a tea shop not far from here. I suggest you go there and then come back in an hour or two, and we’ll see where we are.”

  “Really, this is ridiculous.” Deacon Wainwright huffed. “We’ve come all this way, Sir William. Surely the girls can speak with their father for five minutes. It’s of the utmost importance.” Deacon Wainwright raised his voice. “Mr. Buchanan. This is the deacon of Edencroft Parish speaking. I’ve escorted your daughters here to talk to you. We’re not leaving until you show yourself.”

  “Papa!” Violetta said. Her voice cracked, and then she burst into sobs so loud that I could see by her face that she was surprised. I knew she would be embarrassed, for my little sister hated for anyone to see her as weak. She put her hands to her mouth as though to push back the escaped sobs. I was moving to go to her side, when the man stepped out from behind the shelves again and into a shaft of sunlight that fell from a small, uncurtained window. I was able to get a better look at him, and I was shocked to my core.

  That shabby waif of a man was my father.

  He was thin. My father had always been slender, but now he possessed the frail figure of an invalid. His skin was pale, and his eyes, normally so full of life, looked dull and depressed. The bridge of his nose had a lump in it, as though it had been broken. My father had always worn a colorful waistcoat, usually some sort of tartan, as befitted his Scottish background. But now he wore a shapeless workman’s smock that was too big for him—the sleeves hung well over his hands, almost touching his fingertips.

  What distressed me the most was his beard. That was gone. He was as clean-shaven as a soldier, with only a small moustache. I’d never seen Papa’s face without a beard before. He looked like a different adaptation of himself.

  A sadder, broken adaptation.

  At the sight of him, Violetta cried harder. She crossed the room and did something I’d never seen my sister do. She put her arms around him and hugged him close. Papa did nothing for a moment, but then his hand rose up and he patted her once on her back. “There, my dear,” he said. “There now. No need to weep.”

  “I must take my leave, Miss Buchanan, Miss Violetta,” Sir William said, tactfully making no mention of Violetta’s emotional outburst. “But if you need me, I’ll be in the Palm House for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Sir William left, and the room fell quiet as a tomb. I didn’t know how to begin, or what to say. Papa stepped back away from my sister and looked at me warily, his shoulders tense.

  I stepped up to him to kiss his cheek, but he flinched and moved away, grasping his hands behind his back, as though he were restraining himself. I tried not to feel hurt by his snub, tried so hard not to cry. Papa’s desperate appearance and his cold manner confounded me. While it was true that we had only ever seen him once a year, he was always affectionate toward us. But now he looked as though he’d be happier if we went away.

  “We’ve missed you, Papa,” I said.

  He turned his face from mine, as though the sight of me was too much of a burden.

  “Will you not take my hand?” Violetta said. “Will you not allow us to kiss your cheek? Why will you not look at us?”

  “You’ve not replied to our letters,” I said, trying a different approach. “Or to your employer’s letters. He came to see me to enquire about you. Did you know that? He said he wrote to you.”

  “I received his letters,” father said, his voice sounding weary with despair, “but I’ve nothing to say to the man, so I returned them to him unopened.” This he addressed to one of the potted plants on the shelf.

  “Yes, I know, that’s why he came to our house. He was very angry.”

  “I’m sure he was. That is his nature when he does not get his way. In time he will find another plant hunter to do his deeds for him. I’m no longer under his employ, and I made that quite clear to him. He should not have pestered you.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Papa. He wants you to return to China to search for the little orchid; he says his last one perished recently, and he—”

  “I’ll not go back to China!” he said, his voice rising in anger. “I’ve vowed never to go back.” He held his hand out to the door. “I’m sorry, my dear girls, but as I said before I’m indisposed. Perhaps we can visit on another occasion.”

  Papa was dismissing us, as though we were door-to-door knife grinders looking for work and not his own flesh and blood. Violetta had gained control of her tears, and now her face was grim, her mouth pressed into a line. That was her expression when she was biting back words. I knew my little sister would never show disrespect to either of our parents, but I also knew that holding her tongue was agony to her, and at that moment, she quite resembled a pot of custard about to boil over. She was very like Papa in her temperament, although she’d scratch my eyes out for saying so.

  “Enough of this, Mr. Buchanan,” Deacon Wainwright said. “You must brace yourself for news you do not want to hear. Your employer demands that you fulfill your contract. You must return at once to China or else this Mr. Pringle will have you sent to debtor’s prison and your family to the workhouse!”

  Papa looked as though he had been punched. His face grew even paler, and he sank down in the overstuffed chair. “Workhouse? My family?” he whispered. “No, he . . . he would never do such a thing.”

  I glared at Deacon Wainwright. “Deacon Wainwright. If you please . . .”

  “Well, he has done it. The bailiffs have already assessed your family’s belongings. I was there and saw them with my own eyes.”

  “They went through our things and frightened the life out of everyone,” Violetta said, her words falling out in a jumble, a mixture of fear and reproach. “Mamma fell and struck her head, and the doctor had to be called. Calla was so afraid, and they trod on her book.”

  “Your mother?” Papa’s face paled. “Was she badly injured?”

  “No,” I said at the same time Violetta blurted out “ yes.” I glared at her.

  “Doctor Thumpston has the care of her, sir,” the deacon said. “We must deal with the business at hand.”

  “I will buy my contract out in time.” Papa nodded. “Yes, I am in Kew’s employ now, and I can arrange payments.”

  “You’ll have to work all the hours that God gives, sir, to repay him,” Deacon Wainwright replied. “He’s demanding a sum that no one, save the wealthiest man in the land, could possibly pay.”

  “How much?” Papa asked.

  Deacon Wainwright named the colossal figure, and my father flinched. “He arrived at that figure by working out the cost of each orchid and how many you stated you could retrieve,” the deacon added. “This is what the contract says. Y
ou signed the document; it’s legal and binding. No court would come down on your side.”

  My father looked quite sick. He held a hand to his mouth, and I could see his throat bobbing as he swallowed. I knelt at his side. “Papa, are you well?” Up close his eyes were sunken into hollows, but what was worse was the haunted look they held. My father was not well enough to go back to China. Anyone could see that. “Perhaps we can try to reason with Mr. Pringle. Perhaps you know someone else you can send in your stead?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “I’m sure it’s quite safe for you to return to China, sir, if that’s what’s frightening you,” Deacon Wainwright said, going on as though I hadn’t spoken. He sat down on a ladder-back chair next to him. “What befell you is in the past. Our country has brought those godless and wanton people to heel now. Now they know how to behave in a modern world. Now they know they cannot harm a British subject. We have God on our side, and I do think you are afraid of nothing. Come now, man. Pull yourself up.” Deacon Wainwright smiled, seemingly pleased with himself.

  From the set of Papa’s jaw, I knew what usually followed such a comment, but I wasn’t sure if this new Papa would rise the same way. I needn’t have worried. My old Papa was still there. “Oh, yes,” he said, his tone friendly, but I could hear the rage lying just beneath the surface. “We have brought the Chinese to heel, as you say. Just like a master would his dog. But a master can only beat his dog for so long before it turns on him. And that is what happened. We subjugated China and treated her badly, very badly indeed over the years. I don’t hold China responsible for what befell me. As for God, well, I can tell you that God is on nobody’s side. And why would he be? How could he be when we persist on destroying one another—for what? For the ability to sell opium to those poor people, make them addicted and weakened so we can swan in and take our fill?”

  Deacon Wainwright waved his hand, as though dashing the words away. “That’s as may be, and we must agree to differ. But think about it, how much trouble can such a journey be?” Deacon Wainwright stood up. “Book yourself a passage on a steamer, collect the flowers for this man Pringle, and return home to your family. I’m sure it isn’t difficult. I’m certain the fresh air on the sea and in the Oriental mountains is just what you need to shake yourself out of this gloom.” Deacon Wainwright loomed over Papa, a beatific look on his face, as though my father were a little boy he was trying to coax into giving up his toys.

  “Deacon Wainwright . . .” I tried to interject, to prevent the blast of fury that I expected would be forthcoming from Papa. I knew that the deacon’s attitude would not endear him to my father, but it was too late. That anger of my father’s, which I knew so well, bubbled to the surface.

  Papa stood up. He was head and shoulders taller than the deacon, and even though he was nothing like his former self, Papa still had a touch of his old presence about him. He held himself in a manner that meant he would not be trifled with. “That’s all there is to it?” he said, a low warning to his voice. “Is that what you think, sir? Picking flowers in the countryside?”

  Only a fool would answer yes to those questions.

  “Well . . . yes,” Deacon Wainwright said, the smile fading from his face. He glanced around him, as though perusing the room for the nearest way out.

  “How difficult can that be?” My father’s bare cheeks pickled with rage. “How difficult can that be?” He took a step closer to Deacon Wainwright, who backed up, alarmed.

  “I . . . I . . .” Deacon Wainwright stuttered.

  “Let me disabuse you of that opinion,” Papa said. “Shall I tell you the horrors that await the plant hunter? Storms, sinking ships, headhunters, quicksand, wild animals that would eat a man as soon as look at him. And then there are the insects that burrow under one’s skin and cause such a terrible burning pain that death would be a blessing.” Father took another step closer to the deacon. “A mist that is never-ending and rots the skin on one’s feet. And then there is kidnapping and murder from tribesmen and rival orchid hunters. There is, in point of fact, one particular orchid hunter who has a hook for a hand and has made it his life’s mission to slit my throat with said hook at the very next opportunity.”

  Deacon Wainwright, backing away from my father in alarm, fetched up against the shelves, causing several pots to teeter. Papa shot out his arm, and Deacon Wainwright threw his hands up, cowering, turning his face away from the anticipated blow.

  But the punch never fell. Instead, Papa reached over the deacon’s shoulder and righted one of the teetering pots before it tumbled to the floor. As he did this, his sleeve fell back from his wrist. Violetta was looking away. But I saw it. I only glimpsed it for a moment, because Papa immediately dropped his arm, but a moment was enough. Because, from the base of his wrist to several inches back, the skin was marred by several terrible dents, as though someone or something had gouged out his flesh, leaving behind scars so horrific that my father chose to hide them with smock sleeves.

  Chose to hide them from his own family.

  The rest of the conversation between Deacon Wainwright and Papa was reduced to babbling, because I no longer heard them. My thoughts were only for Papa now and his well-being. Something horrible and desperate had been done to him. He had been subjected to a torture that I could only guess at, and my willful imagination conjured up all sorts of scenarios. Perhaps it was the same torment that the Times editor had told me about. Perhaps someone had bound Papa or beat him or left him for dead in some noisome Chinese prison. And for what? What had my father done to deserve such treatment?

  “You’re mad, sir,” Deacon Wainwright whispered, fear sparking in his eyes. “Mad.”

  Papa bowed. “You’ve finally spoken sense, Deacon Wainwright. Because you are correct. I am indeed, as you say, mad.” Without looking at Violetta or me, he left the cottage, pulling the door behind him with a bang.

  We sat for several long minutes, waiting for Papa to return. When it was clear he wasn’t going to come back, Deacon Wainwright placed his curate’s hat on his head. “Well now,” was all he said. Then he took me by the elbow and marched me out of the house before I had a chance to say anything. Violetta hurried behind.

  Deacon Wainwright stomped down the Kew Road as though the devil were at his heels, tugging me along, his hand squeezing my elbow tightly. I pried his fingers off my elbow and moved away from him. He had no right to talk to my father in that way. Now he’d ruined everything. Instead of explaining things in a way Papa would understand, Deacon Wainwright had sallied forth with his remarks, as though he were addressing little children at a church picnic. It was clear to anyone with eyes that my father was not well.

  The welcoming sign of the aforementioned tea shop loomed ahead: THE MAIDS OF HONOUR.

  “There’s the tea shop Sir William mentioned before,” I said. “A cup of tea would do us all some good.” Would do you some good, if you choked on it, I thought. And for once I didn’t feel guilty about my unkind thoughts toward the deacon.

  Deacon Wainwright brightened slightly. “You’re right. A sensible idea, Miss Buchanan.”

  He held the door open for us, and as Violetta and I entered the tea shop I felt her take my hand. “What now?” she whispered, her voice marked with dismay. “What do we do now?”

  I squeezed her hand. “We’ll sort something out,” I said, but I had no idea what that might be.

  INSIDE THE SHOP IT WAS WARM AND SMELLED OF JAM AND BAKING pies, but the sweet smell did nothing to quell the panic inside of me. Did nothing to assuage the anger I felt toward Deacon Wainwright and the worry I felt for my father and the rest of my family.

  We sat in silence while the tea table was rolled out. I waited until Deacon Wainwright had drunk his first cup, and then I poured him another. The tea seemed to calm him a little bit. His breath wasn’t coming out in such short gasps anymore.

  “Your father is impossible, quite imp
ossible,” Deacon Wain-wright said.

  “He’s truly ill,” I said. “You don’t know what he looked like before, Deacon Wainwright. He’s a different man.”

  “He is,” Violetta owned. My poor sister looked exhausted. Her face held that same desperate expression she had when the bailiffs had come.

  “I believe he was only telling the truth,” I put in.

  “And what rot, banging on about cannibals and the like?” The deacon waved his hand, but I could see little beads of sweat pop out on his forehead, and his throat bob as he swallowed. He set his teacup down and pulled at his neckcloth.

  “Even still, with all those dangers, I think it would be worth the strife just to see an entire forest full of orchids,” I said, attempting to steer the conversation well away from my father. “All those colors. And the smell would be heavenly. I can see how a man would jump at the chance to experience such delights, and experience such adventures. It’s so romantic.” I was only speaking in general, trying to change the timbre of the conversation to something more pleasant, but my words enraged the deacon.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Deacon Wainwright snapped. “What do you know of it?”

  I gaped at him, openmouthed. Deacon Wainwright’s extension of an olive branch did not last long. “I beg your pardon?”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “What would you know of it?” He reached into his coat and pulled out his money pouch.

  Desperately trying to smooth things over, I said, “I’m simply saying—”

  Deacon Wainwright paused from counting the coins and looked up. “Well, don’t. Don’t say. Don’t speak of things you have no mind for.”

  He was the second man in the space of a few weeks who had told me not to speak of things, and I’d had just about enough of it.