by Jane Steen
“Precisely. The time has come.”
I adjusted the ties on my apron, a familiar one of Mama’s. It gave me an oddly comfortable feeling to be wearing it, as if I were falling back into an old habit. Cold and dusty and disordered as the room was, I felt at home in it. The herb garden outside its long windows had been kept in trim by Hyrst’s gardeners. The ginkgo tree Mama had planted, sheltered from the cold by the herb garden’s walls, was a cheerful bright yellow with glowing pale orange fruit. I almost felt I could smell the room’s long-lost sharp odors of herbs, fruits, and vinegar. I could see Mama as she was, her tall, willowy form bent over her task, her thick blond hair escaping from the net into which she bundled it to keep it out of her way.
I sighed and looked around for the journals. There were many of them, scattered all over the room. Some were on shelves, some in cupboards, and some just lay abandoned on the floor.
I opened them at random as I gathered them up and placed them on the large table. They were part journal, part records of Mama’s increasingly confident experiments in herbalism. Some pages were simple lists, others densely written over. Sometimes Mama had annotated them by writing sideways in the margins or even writing over the top of her earlier notes with a different colored ink. There were many drawings of plants and flowers, some simple sketches and others small masterpieces of fine detail.
“That’s it,” I pronounced after pouncing on the last journal, which was hidden under a pile of rags in one corner of the room. “Guttridge, can you find someone to pack these up and have them taken to Whitcombe House? There are far too many for us to carry.”
“I’ll have them well dusted first, m’lady.” Guttridge’s tone was phlegmatic, but her pleasantly plain face was pinched into the expression Nanny always got when we played in the mud as small children. “If you’ll forgive me reminding you, we should return to Whitcombe. Mrs. Eason wants to go over next week’s menus this afternoon, and luncheon will be ready soon. I’ll just go fetch a clothes brush.”
I was not so confident of my skills, rusty as they were, that I felt I could proceed without at least consulting someone. After considerable thought, I decided Fortier was the obvious candidate. I could use the opportunity to tell him I’d talked to the Hatheralls and ruled out his theory of a mystery assailant.
I sent a note to him at his sister’s house, and he duly attended me the next day. He found me surrounded by Mama’s notebooks, which were now wiped free of dust.
“I see a light in your eyes that wasn’t there before,” were his first words after the formalities of greeting were over. “Did you summon me here because you’ve made progress with your investigations?”
There was a light in his eyes too, and for a moment it flustered me. He looked hopeful, less arrogant, less assured. But I had to dash his hopes then and there.
“I talked with the Hatheralls and found nothing that would confirm your suspicions. Sir Edward has also assured me he’s quite certain the jury’s verdict was correct. I see no reason not to trust his judgment.”
“Ah.” To my surprise, Fortier shrugged, the most Gallic gesture I’d yet seen him make. A rueful smile spread across his face. “I don’t blame you for not believing me. Nobody else does. I told you when we first met, I struggled with the whole notion of revealing my doubts to you. Alas, it’s in my nature to expose what’s in my heart and mind. I dislike dissembling. I have at least remained true to myself in this, and perhaps some good will come of it in the end. The delightful good of making your acquaintance is already an unexpected gift.” He bent to pat Scotty, who had come to inspect the new arrival. “And yours too, Monsieur.”
Now his smile was decidedly charming, and I wasn’t sure what to think. Should I allow myself to be bedazzled by this mysterious French physician? Or did he have some ulterior motive behind his flowery words? Being English, I hid behind conventionalities.
“That’s very kind of you. In fact, I asked you here for some medical advice.” I indicated my mother’s notebooks. “Susan Hatherall, as you know, is enceinte, and—well, I know somebody else who is in the same situation without the inconvenient lack of a wedding ring. Susan doesn’t look entirely well, and my—my friend has confessed to suffering dreadfully from nausea.”
“It’s not uncommon for a woman to feel unwell in the first three months or so. Would you like me to prescribe something? It’s a little unorthodox to do so without seeing the patient, but I could suggest a very mild remedy if discretion is required. And in Susan’s case, discretion is very much required.”
“Well,” I began and then realized I was starting to feel very foolish and presumptuous. What was it Guttridge had said about depriving medical men of their fees? I cleared my throat. “The thing is, my mother was an herbalist.”
“I know. She’s still much praised by the poor people of Littleberry.”
“And for a while, I assisted her.”
“That was laudable of you.”
“It was a long time ago. I stopped—I stopped before my marriage. But now it has occurred to me that Mama’s journals might contain an efficacious remedy for these women. It might be possible for me to prepare a simple tisane or tincture.” I hesitated. “I may need a little guidance at first.”
Fortier passed a hand in front of his mouth, and I suspected he was hiding a smile. “Well, Lady Helena, the first order of business would be to ascertain what may be wrong with the women in question. You can’t simply begin physicking people to see what happens, especially those who are with child. Some natural remedies are dangerous.”
“I do realize that.” I sounded as cross as I felt. “I’m sufficiently aware of my inadequacies.”
Fortier was bending over the table on which I had piled Mama’s journals. The only open volume was the book of watercolors Belming had found. He turned the pages toward him with a flick of one long, finely shaped finger.
“This, for example, is a natural abortifacient—by which I mean it could bring about a miscarriage.” He pointed to the page on which Mama had drawn the various parts of a tansy plant.
“I happen to understand the word ‘abortifacient,’” I said rather sulkily. “I had absolutely no intention of experimenting on anybody. At this stage, I wish mainly to gain a little knowledge without doing any harm.”
He grinned. “So now we ascertain the reason for the light in your eyes. It was not investigatory zeal, but the spark of a nascent vocation.”
“You know, I’m sufficiently accustomed to my family treating me like a child, but I’d rather not hear it from you.”
His eyes widened, and he placed a hand on his heart.
“I beg your forgiveness, Lady Helena. I did not intend any offense. I’m sincerely glad to see you taking an interest in the world around you after your sad loss. If you need my help or advice, you only have to ask.”
“Hmph. Well, to begin with, I remember my mother telling me that thistles are good for some types of nausea. Does this mean anything to you?”
He frowned. “If you mean milk thistle, that’s a very good example of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. Milk thistle is an excellent remedy for the nausea consequent upon over-imbibing. I would not, however, recommend giving it to a woman in a delicate condition.”
“Oh.” Well, I had been right to feel foolish and presumptuous. Why did I even think I could follow in Mama’s footsteps?
“Now I’ve made you feel foolish.” Fortier’s tone was gentle.
It annoyed me that he’d apparently read my thoughts. I drew myself up to my full height, a good four inches shorter than I’d like it to be.
“You’ve made me feel I was right to consult you.”
His eyes crinkled. “Well, at least you’re brave enough to admit you’re wrong. There are several innocuous remedies you could give to your friend. A preparation of ginger root or perhaps some raspberry leaf tea; peppermint or anise; even a little lemon juice . . . I will write you a list of ingredients with which you may experiment at will. A
nd if you find anything in your mother’s notebooks that you think could be useful, do ask me about it. My expertise, such as it is, is at your entire disposal.”
“Thank you. I will swallow my pride for the sake of not poisoning my friends and accept that in this instance I may need a man’s help.”
“Nothing to do with me being a man.” He glanced over the journals again. “The dowager countess, for example, was clearly an excellent herbalist. It’s more a matter of opportunity for study. I became interested in the medical arts at the age of fifteen and was afforded every opportunity to study by my father, who paid for some of the best tuition in Europe. He sent me to Paris when I was sixteen. While I was still a smooth-cheeked lad, I received a most interesting education in treating battle wounds, epidemics, and weaknesses of all kinds resulting from starvation. You’ve heard of the Siege of Paris, I take it?”
“Of course I have.” The conflict between the French and the Prussians had been a favorite topic of conversation in ’71, and Littleberry had taken in a few dozen refugees. It was the same year Mama had befriended Susan Hatherall, and I remembered it well.
Fortier smiled. “I was there, and it’s how I got my own grounding in herb lore. Beldames who understood the properties of plants were in great demand in a city where nothing could be obtained from outside. I learned a great many things from women in all walks of life, both medicinal and culinary. Have you ever eaten flower fritters?”
I shook my head, laughing. “I can’t say I have.”
“They’re better than you’d think. I have fond memories of a certain Madame Durand. She was seventy-five and appallingly vulgar, but she managed to coax more food and medicinal plants out of her little plot than I would have believed possible. What’s more, she hid it so well from view that nothing was ever requisitioned by the army. Her fritter recipe was used in some of the finest restaurants in Paris—alongside cat, rat, dog, and exotic animals from the Paris Zoo. On Sundays, she would give me a dish of the sweetest radishes I have ever tasted, with a fresh bread roll and a pat of butter. I was a growing lad still, and my mouth would begin to water when I saw her house. She taught me a great deal.”
“So you’ve been practicing medicine for—how many years?” I began to realize there was more to Monsieur Fortier than what I saw on the surface.
He smiled. “Eleven, if you count my baptism of fire in Paris as a beginning—and I do. The day I opened the flesh of a man’s neck to retrieve a bullet was the day I passed from student to doctor, in my estimation. He lived too.”
I shook my head ruefully. “I’m ashamed of my own ignorance.”
Fortier took my hand in his for a brief moment, squeezing it gently before letting go. “Don’t be. There are so many intelligent, beautiful, and resourceful women in this English countryside forced to waste their intelligence, beauty, and resourcefulness on entertaining their husband’s friends and running their households.”
And with how many of those intelligent, beautiful, and resourceful women was Fortier acquainted? I wondered. I was sure the heat that mounted to my cheeks was annoyance at my own susceptibility to the man’s charms.
“I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you as an investigator,” was all I could find to say.
“You have not disappointed me in any respect.”
He turned away with a brief, sidelong glance as he said this, as if he too were a little embarrassed. He turned the thick pages of Mama’s sketchbook, at first in a casual manner but then with more interest. For two minutes or so, the only sound in the room was the soft sigh of the paper.
“How odd.” Fortier spoke at last. “Every plant in this book is poisonous. Did the dowager countess have an especial interest in poisons?”
I peered around Fortier at the book, which was open in the middle. The glorious purple-blue of a monkshood flower was reproduced on a large scale on one side, the spotted pink of a foxglove blossom on the other, with assorted drawings of the whole plant and its various parts carefully arranged on the page. A neat list of each plant’s medicinal uses formed a column beside each flower drawing.
“She was certainly fascinated by what she called the ‘powerful plants,’” I said. “In the years before her illness began, she treated some serious conditions with great success.” I frowned. “I remember something else. When she started to become vague in her memory, she wrote to an herbalist she knew in London and had her more dangerous extracts sent to him. She said she was afraid of causing harm by mistake and that she trusted nobody else with such fearful substances.”
Fortier nodded, his eyes on the pages in front of him. “A sound and far-thinking decision.”
“She also taught us not to touch the plants in her herb garden unless absolutely necessary,” I added. “Before her illness, my mother had a tremendously well-ordered mind. I think Michael—Lord Broadmere—gets his mania for logic from her, but she never rode roughshod over people the way he does. She cared for everyone. I don’t think there was a single person for miles around she didn’t know something about. She had a tremendous sense of fairness and a need to know that things were done right. That, also, is reflected in Michael.”
Fortier closed the book and turned to me. “I think I would have liked her. I—”
But whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the advent of a footman with a message from Mrs. Eason. Scotty, who had been asleep by the fire while we talked, gave a short bark of welcome. He went to inspect the man’s silver-buckled shoes, the white plume of his tail wagging hopefully. Footmen, he knew, often carried food.
I surreptitiously consulted the clock. As I thought, twenty minutes had passed. That would be Guttridge’s doing. Fortier and I had been talking in Whitcombe’s large library with the doors wide open, but my lady’s maid regarded it as part of her job to ensure I was interrupted after twenty minutes of any conversation alone with a man under the age of sixty. I had been married and did not strictly need a chaperone, but gossiping tongues could still wag if I wasn’t careful.
Fortier understood the conventions as well as I did despite his complete lack of any tendency to stand on ceremony. He seemed perfectly comfortable at Whitcombe, unlike most professional men who tended to find the house’s baroque grandeur intimidating. He made his good-byes in a pleasant, easy manner and departed, leaving me to reflect that he had taken his disappointment over my investigations, or lack thereof, very well. I hoped we were done with any and all accusations of foul play.
10
The sort that can’t be trusted
Fortier’s list proved useful. Mrs. Eason readily produced dried ginger root, a serviceable lemon, and some honey from Whitcombe’s large pantry. I set to work with a pleasing sense of purpose. My presence in the kitchen occasioned some gawping and awkwardness until Mrs. Foster, our cook, sent maids and boot boys scurrying with a few well-chosen words.
“I might have to set up my own herb room,” I told my nephew Thomas when he came to tea. “With a paraffin stove and a shiny copper kettle like Mama’s.” I wrinkled my brow. “Come to that, I could use Mama’s.”
“You could use any and all of the contents of the herb room,” Thomas suggested. “I’m sure Uncle Michael wouldn’t care.”
“Oh, he’d be glad to get rid of it all. Julia’s already given me carte blanche to clear out the room.”
“Then why not d-do it?” Thomas brooded over the sandwiches with a distinctly hungry air, selecting four to place on his small plate. “It’s good for you to have something to d-do.”
“I feel I have plenty to do, but I appreciate the thought.” I cut myself a slice of Victoria sponge.
“Do you f-feel all right?” Thomas asked. “The whole grief thing, I mean. I’m sorry if I’m putting it clumsily.”
“You’re striking exactly the right note. Well, I still feel grief, of course. I still turn around in my chair sometimes to ask Justin a question. I still find it odd to see only one table setting when I’m dining alone. I find myself crying sometimes because I�
�ve thought of Justin and he isn’t there.”
Thomas nodded. “Like a h-hole in the middle of your life.”
“Precisely. But it’s not the first hole that’s been torn in my heart. I learned long ago that death is part of life and that I can survive loss, however much it hurts.”
“A very philosophical s-stance, Auntie.” Thomas looked down at his empty plate.
“Darling boy, do take one of everything if you’re hungry. Have seconds and thirds and fourths. You don’t have to be polite for me. But don’t give anything more to Scotty.” I eyed my dog, who was lying at Thomas’s feet, trying to look unconcerned. “Unlike you, he’ll get fat.”
Thomas grinned and duly crammed a large slice of sponge, a teacake, and a small tower of sandwiches onto his plate. I nibbled sedately at my cake, watching him dispose of the food in short order.
“That’s better.” He put down the plate and picked up his teacup with a sigh of satisfaction. “Although I might have some more of those teacakes. So succoring a sick friend is taking you out of yourself?”
“It is.” I hadn’t told him about Julia’s condition, so I had to deflect his questions. “I must do something after all. You see this?”
I picked up the journal that had been lying on the table next to my chair and showed it to Thomas.
“It’s a notebook.”
“Very observant. It is in fact the very earliest notebook of Mama’s that I have in my possession. I removed them from Hyrst a few days ago, and Guttridge has sorted them in chronological order. This one dates from when your mother was a small child and my own birth was many years away. It’s odd, isn’t it, that we seem to have come into the world in groups, several years apart? Your mother must have been born a year or two after my parents married.”
“Sixteen or seventeen months after, I believe. Safely within the confines of wedlock.”
“I should think so, and don’t be vulgar. Well, after Gerry there’s a seven-year gap before the twins. Then four children in quick succession—the twins, of course, but also Blanche and Odelia. Then ten years before Michael and I were born.”