by Annis Bell
ALSO BY ANNIS BELL
The Girl at Rosewood Hall
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Annis Bell
Translation copyright © 2016 Edwin Miles
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Die schwarze Orchidee by Amazon Publishing in Germany in 2016. Translated from German by Edwin Miles. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2016.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781503952751
ISBN-10: 1503952754
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Contents
Start Reading
Thirl Moor, Cheviot Hills, Northumberland, November 1860
Barranquilla, Colombia, September 25, 1860
1. Mulberry Park, Cornwall, November 1860
2. Seymour Street, London, November 1860
3.
4. Winton Park, Northumberland, November 1860
Sierra Nevada, Colombia, October 3, 1860
5. Winton Park, Northumberland, November 1860
6.
7. Seymour Street, London, November 1860
8. Winton Park, Northumberland, November 1860
9.
10. London, November 1860
Colombia, October 6, 1860
11. Crookham, Cheviot Hills, November 1860
12. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
13. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
14.
15. Thirl Moor, Cheviot Hills, Northumberland, December 1860
16. London, December 1860
Colombia, mid-October 1860
17. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
18. London, December 1860
19. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
20.
21. London, December 1860
Colombia, October 1860
22. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
23. Seymour Street, London, December 1860
24. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
25. London, December 1860
26.
27. London, December 1860
28. Winton Park, Northumberland, December 1860
29.
30.
31. Mulberry Park, Cornwall, New Year’s Day 1861
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Translator
Child’s Song
What is gold worth, say,
Worth for work or play,
Worth to keep or pay,
Hide or throw away,
Hope about or fear?
What is love worth, pray?
Worth a tear?
Golden on the mould
Lie the dead leaves roll’d
Of the wet woods old,
Yellow leaves and cold,
Woods without a dove;
Gold is worth but gold;
Love’s worth love.
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909)
Thirl Moor, Cheviot Hills, Northumberland, November 1860
The moor burbled and seethed like a living thing. Like an animal that might rise at any moment and swallow me whole, thought Rachel, and she raised the lantern higher to ensure she did not lose the path in front of her. She knew it was sheer stupidity to go traipsing around there at night, but some things made it worth the risk.
Rachel smiled. Not things, no; for this particular man, she would have risked everything, and she was overjoyed that he had finally realized just how devoted to him she was. He was so handsome and could no doubt have almost any woman he wanted wrapped around his little finger. But Rachel was well aware of her body’s feminine curves and the way her raven hair shone. Her slightly almond-shaped eyes and the full lips of her doll’s mouth added to her mysterious allure. She had not yet given herself to a man, but with this man things would be different. With this man, she would have a future. They could go away together, leave that terrible, gloomy house far behind, build a life of their own.
Winton Park, Rachel sniffed. Before Winton Park, she’d had a post in a house in Devon but had lost it because one of the lord’s sons had become altogether too insistent. After that, she had taken the job here. She had not been happy about moving back to the cold, inhospitable north. But her roots were in Crookham, just thirty miles north of Winton Park, and the thought of seeing her family again had been a good enough reason to make the long journey back. Her wages were reasonable, too, and she counted herself lucky to have found a new post again so quickly.
A bitter wind cut between the hills and pierced through the wool of her cape, which was now wet to the touch. Damp and cold . . . that was how she remembered the moor, and so it was on that November night. The place was no better in summer, for then one had to put up with countless mosquitoes, little beasts that brought nothing but the fever to which three of her siblings and her aunt had fallen victim.
Her new mistress also seemed to find the northern climate unbearable. The poor woman was as pale as a shroud and looked to be terribly frail. Rachel felt sorry for Lady Charlotte, because despite her friendly nature, the woman did not have an easy time of it with her husband; Sir Frederick was moody and brusque and quick to lash out. Let him rot in his hothouse, thought Rachel, then let out a small squeal of delight when she finally saw the light ahead.
The hut in the moor was used by the gamekeeper and his men, but it was also the ideal place for a secret tryst. Apart from the residents of Winton Park, no one knew about it, except, perhaps, for the gypsies who sometimes camped in the area. Gypsies seemed to know their way around, wherever they were. Rachel liked the itinerant folk; her mother had always told her that she had inherited the gypsy blood of her grandmother. Her father never liked to hear that. He was a shepherd from a long line of English shepherds, and marrying a Romany woman had caused him enough problems, though eventually his family had accepted their match.
So Rachel’s wild blood and her love of wandering were her grandmother’s legacy. As she approached the hidden hut and saw a dark figure standing before it, she smiled. But the person’s silhouette quickly disappeared. She felt like calling out, but the man apparently feared that someone might discover them. Yet apart from them there was no one out on the moor, no one but two people who wanted to share a bed that night.
Rachel began to breathe faster, and she slowed her steps. Sweeping her hair away from the damp skin of her face, she bit her lips to make them red and enticing. She heard an owl screech, and something fluttered past her ear: bats were out on the hunt. She loved the creatures of the dark. They were exceptionally sensitive, she knew, with abilities that other animals lacked. And that night she also wanted to be a creature of the dark, wanted to forget that she was no more than a simple housemaid. She reached into her skirt pocket as if to reassure herself that the letter that had lured her into the darkness was real. The paper felt firm under her fingers, a promise of good things to come.
Slowly, she moved on. She drew her shoulders back, imagining she was a gypsy princess on the way to meet her lover. Winton Park was so terribly oppressive! Sir Frede
rick’s presence created a tense atmosphere, for no one wanted to be taken to task by him. And as kind as Lady Charlotte was, she could not be counted on in a crisis because she always bowed to her husband’s will. The kitchen was ruled by Mrs. Elwood, a gruff and sharp-tongued woman, who had no interest in anything but the meals she prepared and who flew into a fury if anyone so much as took an apple without permission. Good God, there were enough apples in the house! Such people had no idea what it was like to be hungry, what the gnawing pain in your stomach felt like when you’d had nothing but water and groats for days.
The other servants in the place were decent enough, but the housekeeper in charge of the female staff, Mrs. Gubbins, was an ill-tempered piece of work. And the governesses always seemed to be a problem, because they spent most of their time with the ladies and gentlemen of the house and therefore felt themselves to be above everyone else. Melissa Molan was no exception. Though she did not eat with Sir Frederick and Lady Charlotte, neither did she lower herself to eat in the kitchen with the rest of the domestic staff.
When the clouds momentarily parted, the moon bathed the moorscape in a silvery shimmer, and the branches of the birch trees reached into the night sky like arms sprouting a thousand fingers. A gust of wind whipped a willow branch into Rachel’s face. Startled, Rachel lost her footing and stepped off the path. In her attempt to keep her balance, the lantern fell from her fingers. Her foot immediately sank into the mire, and to make matters worse, her skirt caught in the creeping roots of a mountain pine. The heavy material began to greedily suck its fill of water. All Rachel’s anticipation and confidence gave way to naked fear: every child learned not to mock the spirits of the moor. Should they catch an inattentive wanderer in their clammy fangs, there was little hope of escape.
“Help me!” Rachel cried, just as she was able to catch hold of a strong willow branch and pull her foot out of the morass. But her skirt was still caught in the pine root, and as she struggled she heard the fabric tear.
“The deuce! My lovely new dress!” Rachel grumbled, looking around. He must have seen her, must have heard her! Where the devil was he?
“All this hide-and-seek is wearing very thin,” she muttered. She pulled herself free with a jerk but could not prevent a large piece of cloth from being left behind in the roots.
She bent down to pick up the dropped lantern, which had gone out when it fell. “I shall not move from this spot! My light is out, and the last thing I want in this world is to suffer another fall into this rotten swamp!” she called out, her voice angry but also tinged with fear.
When a dark figure finally separated from the shadows of the hut, she initially felt relieved. But something wasn’t right. Why didn’t he simply come out to meet her? What game was this?
“Please, help me . . . ,” she whispered, frightened, and she stood unmoving on the tiny bit of safe earth left to her in the darkness.
The moon disappeared again behind a barricade of clouds, and everything suddenly turned pitch-black. “Holy Mother of God, protect me!” Rachel murmured, reaching instinctively for the silver medallion she wore around her neck.
The soft earth swallowed the sound of rushing feet, but she felt the vibration through the ground. Before she felt the impact, she noticed a particular odor. The smell was not unfamiliar to her, but she had no time to consider it further because her attacker hit her with such force that she pitched backward and landed hard, sending a sharp pain shooting up her spine. Why would—
Before her senses faded completely, she realized that someone was rolling her deeper into the mire. She did not struggle this time as the soft, gurgling ooze wrapped itself almost consolingly around her limbs.
Barranquilla, Colombia, September 25, 1860
Dear Sir Frederick,
Two weeks have now passed since our departure from Barranquilla. I hope that my telegram reached you. I had hoped to get far more from Mexico and hope just as fervently that the four boxes containing your plants arrive in a reasonable condition. I sent them in care of my longtime associate, Howard Murray, as far as Caracas. The pickings were meager, I’m afraid, which was at least partly due to the fact that the Yucatán has taken its toll on my health. I lay an entire week in the “Orient Lounge”—at least, that’s what the flea-trap called itself. I can find no better words to describe the hut where I kept myself alive by consuming as much quinine as my body would tolerate. The people here are composed chiefly of thieves, con men, and cutthroats, and I mean that quite literally! I was forced to pay dearly for the quinine and used my last pennies to make it to Barranquilla. It cost me a great deal of strength to restore my health and my appearance to a fair state.
Without Murray’s help, I would not be in any condition today to even write this letter and would instead be filling the bellies of caimans. On a mule and with my last remaining bearer at my side, I made it to the delta along a tributary of the Magdalena. The bearer was not a good guide—or perhaps he wanted to lure me to my death—for he pointed out a place where I might access the shallow-seeming water. But the current washed out the sand from underneath me, and I sank almost immediately. It just so happened that Murray was approaching the same spot with a boat and a load of plants from the south at that moment. When he saw me, he immediately tied up at the shore and sent his people out to rescue me. I must say that more money certainly makes for better workers, and I again implore you, as a matter of urgency, to send me a more substantial sum. You know that I am loyal to you and that I supply no other master. My entire fortitude and all my efforts serve a single goal: to find you the best and most beautiful orchids.
I am now in a position to tell you something that will certainly arouse your greatest interest. Unless I am very much mistaken—and you know that I like to be certain before I utter so much as a syllable about something—I am closing in on the legendary sacred orchid! Yes, the same Sobralia mystica that has so far been seen by just one white man, who was unable to send back so much as a single specimen. Until now, I can only report what I have heard and not yet anything I have experienced or encountered for myself, and you will understand why. In the region to which we will be departing tomorrow, there dwells a tribe of Chibcha Indians known as the Motilone. The Motilones are said to worship a holy orchid, unmatched in splendor, size, and beauty. No mention is made of this orchid being black; this Sobralia is rather said to be an extraordinarily delicate white or yellow, its petals in the form of a cross and sprinkled with red points as if spattered with a light spray of paint. I am certain that this orchid will cause a sensation, and if you are able to cultivate it, you will be able to ask extraordinary prices. We both know the excitement caused merely by Douglas’s story and his drawing; a shame that he succumbed to yellow fever in Peru. Douglas was the only one who knew the exact location of the Sobralia. My search now leads me into the Sierra de Perijá and the southern parts of the cordillera. My feelings toward this expedition are mixed, for it is one thing to fell trees in order to collect orchids, but quite another to steal the holy flower of an entire tribe. I have managed to put together a new bearer team, more or less trustworthy people, all of whom speak with awe of the Motilone Indians. There seems to be hardly anyone who has ever seen a member of this tribe face-to-face. Apparently, they are intelligent and form friendships with no one, including the half-blood settlers among the Sierra foothills. One of my bearers tells me that the Motilones are a peaceful people, as long as one does not intrude on them or trespass on their territory. But should one disturb their hunting grounds, then they turn to implacable revenge and drive out the interlopers with every treacherous means at their disposal. Again and again, one hears of savage disputes arising between the settlers and the Motilones.
As for myself, I have seen a lot of the world, and poisoned arrows can’t frighten me. Chiggers were more bothersome; they almost cost me the toes of my left foot. The little beasts burrow beneath your nails at night, gorge themselves, and swell into little balls as hard as pearls. If you don’t get them out
at once, they cause infection and suppurating abscesses. From another traveler, I learned that the trick is to rub the soles of one’s feet with petroleum, and now I no longer have any trouble with the chiggers. You once asked me what helps against the mosquitoes. The most effective treatment I have yet found is still mustard oil.
But I have lost my thread; I wanted to tell you more of what I know about the Motilone Indians and their sacred orchid, to inform you of what awaits us. It is a mystery to me as to how Douglas managed to see the orchid for himself, for the flower is kept hidden from the eyes of whites and half bloods. The Motilones are a religious lot, ruled by their priests. If one breaks the laws of the priests, the penalty is death. The priests have even succeeded, it seems, in keeping their own tribesmen away from the holy flower. What I have learned is rather confusing, but from what meager information I’ve managed to glean, I understand that the Sobralia mystica is surrounded by swarms of malevolent insects and that their bites or stings lead to blood poisoning. The priests alone know of an ointment that protects them from the insects, and that thus allows them to approach the sacred bloom unmolested. Whether that is truly the case I will—God willing!—find out for myself. We will decamp tomorrow morning and attempt to make contact with the Motilones. I am confident of success, because our informant struck me as trustworthy. It goes without saying that I will continue to keep my eyes open for the black orchid. But for now, the wonder-orchid of the Motilones seems more within reach, and I am therefore giving it priority.
An observation I made before my departure from Barranquilla is causing me some concern. While there, I saw Mungo Rudbeck in a public house. Rudbeck, as you know, works for Sir Robert. He saw me, too, I am sure of it, but pretended to ignore me. My association with Mungo is not the best, for I have an aversion to liars and cheats, and he is both. Every second word that falls from his mouth is a lie! He has cheated me out of my dues on several occasions. What’s more, he is known for his brutality, and just recently I heard that he had murdered a rival in Venezuela. There was no proof against him, but that means nothing—in the jungle, anyone who is not your friend is your enemy. I have conducted my research with the greatest of discretion, and only those I trust know the true nature of my expedition. Still, I seem unable to shake off the uneasy feeling that Mungo prompts in me. I was unable to find out anything about the reasons for his being in Barranquilla. I would find it extremely disagreeable, were Mungo to be pursuing similar goals to my own. His despicable methods and intrigues revolt me, as does the house he represents.