The Victory Garden: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “We can say you’re a war widow. Half the women in England are, these days. You ran off to marry an airman and he was killed. No one will question that.”

  “Then I’d like to come and visit you, but I’m going to stay on here,” Emily said.

  “Why would you want to do that? You have a comfortable home waiting for you.”

  She looked around the garden to the cottage and out to the lane beyond. “Because I’m needed here. I’m useful.”

  “Not making more of your damned herbal potions, I hope.”

  “Not exactly. At least not heart tonics for the time being.” She smiled, and he returned her smile. She bent to pick up the child and carried her inside. As they came back into the cottage, she glanced through the front window. “Oh goodness,” she said. “What on earth is this?”

  A group of people was coming up the lane towards the cottage. At its head was Alice, closely followed by Mr Patterson and Mrs Soper. Emily opened the door.

  “Where is he?” Alice demanded. “Where is this policeman? We’ve got a bone to pick with him.” She pushed past Emily into the cottage and stepped up to Emily’s father.

  “We’ve come about Emily here,” Alice said. “We’re not going to let you arrest her. Anyone who could believe she was capable of harming anyone needs his ruddy head examined, if you ask me. Anyway, we’ve got signatures here from everyone in the village thanking Emily for all she’s done for them. She saved them all, you know. Not a single person died of the flu because of the medicine she made for them. They all recovered, and you can’t say that for most places, can you?”

  “Indeed you can’t,” Emily’s father said, looking at Alice as if she were a dangerous dog that might bite at any second. “But I have to inform you that I am not with the police. I am Emily’s father.”

  “You are? Blimey,” Alice said. “I’ve just got back from delivering a letter to you. Someone saw that motor car come into the village, so we thought you were the police come to take her away, and we weren’t going to let you.”

  Mr Patterson stepped forwards to join Alice. “We consider Mrs Kerr a great asset to our community,” he added. “And we are all prepared to testify on her behalf in court, if it comes to that.”

  Emily’s father turned to her. “Well, you’ve certainly enough character references, young lady.”

  “It seems so,” Emily replied, smiling.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The police did not return, and she heard no more about the mixture she had sent for testing. But at the end of the week, Justin Charlton appeared at her front door.

  “My grandmother has rallied against all odds,” he said. “I always knew she was a tough old bird. She is making good progress and keeps asking for you. I have borrowed a friend’s motor car, if you have time to come with me now.”

  “I’d love to,” Emily said. “I’m so happy to hear this news. Just let me fetch Daisy to look after the baby.”

  She hurried up the path to the house. The first person she saw was Mrs Trelawney, who looked at her with surprise. “You’re still here?” she asked.

  “Yes, why not?” Emily replied calmly.

  “But I thought that potion you gave the old lady . . .”

  “Was quite harmless. And she’s rallying. She’ll be home in no time at all. So make sure the house is shipshape for her.”

  Emily concealed her sense of triumph as she left. During the drive into Exeter, she told Justin about what had just transpired with the police.

  “Lucky the old lady pulled through then,” he said. “That old witch, Trelawney, will have to go. I never liked her. Always sneaky, you know.” He grinned. “I’ve an idea. We’ll send her to live in the cottage and you move to the big house.”

  Emily grinned. “Actually, I like my cottage. It feels like home now.”

  “But you won’t want to stay there forever?”

  “Probably not, but at this moment, it’s my safe haven. And your grandmother likes having me around. She’s lonely, Justin. Will you consider moving back home some day? It is your house now, you know. Lord of the manor and all that.”

  He chuckled. “It’s hard to picture myself as lord of the manor. Viscount Charlton. Ridiculous. The war made nonsense of all that stuff we used to take seriously. Lords and blacksmiths died side by side in those trenches. But if my grandmother really needs me . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  As they approached the hospital, Emily hesitated. “Justin, does your grandmother know about that incident with the police? I wouldn’t like to worry her unnecessarily, nor to hint that Mrs Trelawney tried to accuse me of murder.”

  “You’re too kind. She did try to accuse you of murder. And I’m sure she was dancing around happily, thinking of you swinging on the gallows. She’s a horrid old bat. She was the one who took great delight in informing my grandmother of my misdeeds—which took place quite often, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I agree she’s not very nice,” Emily said. “And I think she did want to get rid of me because she was jealous. But she’s been loyal to your grandmother, and I don’t want to be the cause of concern to her now.”

  “Very well. I won’t say anything to Grandmama at this moment. As for Trelawney . . . we’ll see.”

  Lady Charlton was sitting up in bed, a cup of tea in her hand. She looked very pale and fragile, but her eyes lit up when she saw Emily come into the room. “I’m so glad to see you, my dear,” she said, holding out a white hand on which the blue veins stood out.

  “I wanted to come sooner, but I’ve been rather busy,” Emily said. She bent to give the old woman a kiss on the cheek. “With the baby,” she added.

  “I have to say this dear boy has been most attentive.” She looked up to smile at Justin, who hovered in the doorway. “He read me some of his poetry. It’s quite good.”

  “Quite good, Grandmama? It’s brilliant.” Justin grinned.

  “I’m so glad to see you’re recovering so well,” Emily said. “We were so worried.”

  “I just made up my mind I didn’t want to die yet,” Lady Charlton said. “Mind over matter, you know. I want to see the estate back to what it was before the war. Speaking of which, how are you progressing with your cottage industry?”

  “Cottage industry?” Justin asked.

  Emily smiled. “The ladies of the village have joined me in making salves and lotions using the herbs from the garden. We’ve had modest success, and the first reorders from local chemist shops.”

  “You need endorsements from people who matter,” Justin said.

  “All very well to say that,” Emily replied. “I’m stuck here with a young baby.”

  “Give me samples. I can show them to influential people when I next go to London. And at the very least you can say that Viscount Charlton uses your cream on his boils.”

  “Justin, you are a hopeless case,” Lady Charlton said, but she was laughing. They were interrupted by a stern sister, who ousted them from the room.

  “Do you feel like a cup of tea?” Justin asked Emily. “Not in the awful hospital cafeteria. There is a cafe across the street.”

  As they sat drinking tea, an idea came to Emily. “You know what I’d like to do while we are here?” she said. “Do you think the assizes court keeps archives of old cases?”

  “I’m sure they must.”

  “Then could I possibly pay a quick visit to my father’s chambers?”

  “Why the interest in old court cases?” Justin asked.

  “I wanted to find out about a woman who lived in my cottage many years ago. She was arrested for murder, and I wanted to find out if she was really hanged. Our lives moved on such similar paths . . .”

  “That’s right. A woman who lived in your cottage was hanged. It’s village lore,” he said.

  “Oh.” She sat silent for a while. So Susan hadn’t been so lucky. She’d had no father to defend her.

  “But it was an awfully long time ago,” Justin went on. “In those days, they hanged people
for the least reason, didn’t they? Like if someone looked at a cow, and then the cow died. And then there was the ducking stool, the hot pokers . . .”

  “Ducking stool? That was centuries ago.”

  “Well, so was this. The woman they hanged as a witch. She was back in the seventeenth century. Tabitha Something.”

  “Tabitha Ann Wise,” she said. She felt a huge flood of relief. The witch hadn’t been Susan after all.

  At the assizes, Emily was told Judge Bryce was in court, but she could leave him a message. She wrote briefly about Susan Olgilvy and asked if he could find details of the court case.

  They drove back to the cottage.

  “I expect you’ll be going to join your friends now that your grandmother is getting better,” Emily said. She was embarrassed that there was a note of wistfulness in her voice.

  “Yes, I can’t leave them alone too long to read their inferior drivel when the world could be enjoying my brilliant poetry,” he said, chuckling. Then the smile faded. He turned to look at her. “But I had a long talk with my grandmother the other evening. She wants to get the home farm back on its feet. I told her I’m no farmer, but she’s concerned it’s not producing income and the land is going to waste.”

  “So she wants you to come back and run the farm?” Again, she was surprised at the hope she felt.

  He nodded. “It used to have a prosperous dairy herd when my grandfather was alive.”

  “I probably wouldn’t advise dairy now,” Emily said. “You need too much manpower, and there just aren’t many men.”

  “Oh, I forgot—you’re the expert!” He laughed, but she realized he was not making fun. “What do you suggest?”

  “Sheep would be easy,” Emily said. “They look after themselves until lambing season and shearing. And it might be a good idea to plant a cash crop, too. Again, one that doesn’t need much manpower. What is the quality of the soil like?”

  “How on earth would I know?” He laughed again. “You’d better come and talk to the farm manager. He knows his stuff, but he’s getting old.”

  They reached the cottage. “You’ll take good care of Grandmama until I return?” he asked.

  “Of course I will.”

  “That’s good.” He paused. “And you will stick around? If I’m going to turn into a farmer, I’ll need help.”

  “I won’t be going anywhere, as long as you let me live in the cottage,” she said. “Apart from an occasional visit to my parents.”

  “As official owner of Bucksley House, I can promise you the cottage is yours for as long as you want it.”

  “That’s so good of you.” She felt tears coming to her eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Purely selfish on my part, I promise you.” He paused, looking as if he was going to say more, then added, “Who else will advise me on what cash crops I need to plant?” He reached out and touched her arm gently. “I’ll see you soon then.”

  Emily found herself smiling, too, as she went back into the cottage. As Susan had written in her diary—the heart can begin to heal.

  Two days later, a letter arrived from her father’s office. It contained a transcript of the trial of Susan Olgilvy, November 1858.

  The counsel for the defence showed that Mrs Maria Tinsley used a face powder that contained arsenic, and that she’d had a deformed heart that had caused her lingering illness and precipitated her death.

  A verdict of “not guilty” was delivered by the jury.

  “She lived!” Emily exclaimed, dancing around the kitchen and waving the letter in triumph. “Susan lived.”

  Lady Charlton was brought home in the motor car by Simpson at the beginning of June. Emily and Simpson had worked hard on the garden so that the roses along the drive were magnificent and the borders in full bloom. The old lady smiled as she looked around her home. “It’s good to be back,” she said. “And I’m looking forward to some decent food again. No more of that hospital slop. A good, hearty steak and kidney pie. Where is Mrs Trelawney?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you that she has left, Lady Charlton,” Emily said. “She went to be with her invalid sister.”

  She didn’t say that Justin had arrived out of the blue one day and dismissed Mrs Trelawney.

  “I decided to use my powers as Viscount Charlton for good,” he had said, laughing at Emily’s expression when he told her this. “You should have seen her face.”

  Emily had stared at him with delight. “So now we’ll have to hire a new cook. Will you help me choose one who won’t poison us? And we need servants.”

  “You could make Daisy head housemaid,” Emily had suggested. “She’s really good.”

  “And Grandmama likes her?”

  “She does.”

  “Then consider it done.”

  “You see, you can be the lord of the manor after all,” Emily had said.

  “We’ve no idea what we can do until we try.” His eyes had held hers. “I’ve been able to look forward to the future without dread for the first time. How about you?”

  “Yes,” she had agreed. “I think I can.”

  Emily looked forward to telling Lady Charlton about the changes Justin was planning. “Now that you are back,” Emily said as she settled Lady Charlton in her favourite chair, “we must arrange for Bobbie’s christening. I wanted to ask you to be her godmother. Alice is going to be the other godmother. Mr Patterson is going to be her godfather.”

  “I don’t normally like going near that church,” Lady Charlton said. “But in your case, I’ll make an exception. What names are you giving her?”

  “Well, Roberta, and then Alice, and I’d like to give her your name, too.”

  “It’s Susan,” the old woman said, and she gave Emily a knowing smile.

  Emily opened her mouth to say something, but the old woman added, “A very common name, especially in these parts.” And her face said, “Don’t ask me any more.”

  Is it possible? Emily wondered. And she remembered that the old woman had known about the trunk in the attic and hadn’t been surprised that Emily had taken over the herb garden. And she had been away from the village for many years, coming back suntanned and middle-aged. The villagers would not have associated the new lady of the manor with the former schoolmistress.

  It was all meant to be, she thought, and a feeling of contentment swept through her. She had been told that the house was cursed, but instead it had turned out to be her destiny. She let her thoughts go a little further. Susan had married the man who had then become Viscount Charlton.

  The christening was held on a bright, sunny Sunday in June. Roberta Alice Susan wore the christening robes of the Charlton family. The whole village was in their finery, and a feast had been set up on the green outside the church for after the ceremony. To her surprise, Emily’s parents arrived, her mother looking tense and suspicious, but her haughty look melted when she saw the baby.

  “She looks just like you at the same age,” she said. “You were always such a pretty child.”

  Justin had been away with his fellow poets, still on their tour of Britain, so Emily was surprised to see him striding towards the green as they sat talking long into the evening and swallows flitted through the pink twilight.

  “Well, here you all are,” he said. He gave Emily a little smile.

  “To what do we owe this honour?” Lady Charlton asked.

  “I’ve come to claim my rights!” he said dramatically, then laughed at her face. “No, silly. I didn’t want to miss the big celebration. Where is the young star of the proceedings?”

  “Sleeping in her perambulator,” Emily said. “Too much excitement for one day.”

  Justin approached the pram and stared down at Roberta Alice Susan, now sleeping blissfully amid the layers of her antique lace christening gown. He stared at her for a long while as Emily watched him. Then he looked up. “She’s beautiful. Absolutely perfect. Of course, I would have expected no less.” And his gaze moved to Emily, sending the colour rushing to her cheeks.r />
  “So you left your tour to come back for this?” she asked.

  He looked pleased with himself. “The tour is over—a great success. A publisher has approached us, so you’ll have another book to add to your library, Grandmama. And so I’ve come home. I thought we’d better get started on improving that farm of ours while it’s still summer.”

  “You’ve come home.” Lady Charlton’s voice cracked a little. “That is good news.” She paused. “That farm has been suffering from neglect for too long now.”

  Justin pulled up a chair next to Emily. “Also, I have good news for you. I gave your lotion to a friend of mine who is a chemist at Imperial College in London. He tested it, and he found it pretty good. It turns out his uncle has a factory, and he might be interested in manufacturing it commercially. What do you say?”

  Emily looked around the long tables at the women who had become her friends, her sisters. “I’d have to confer with my partners first,” she replied.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2016 John Quin-Harkin

  Rhys Bowen is the New York Times bestselling author of more than thirty mystery novels, including The Tuscan Child and her World War II novel In Farleigh Field, the winner of the Left Coast Crime Award for Best Historical Mystery Novel and the Agatha Award for Best Historical Novel. Bowen’s work has won sixteen honors to date, including multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. Her books have been translated into many languages, and she has fans around the world, including seventeen thousand Facebook followers. A transplanted Brit, Bowen divides her time between California and Arizona.