by Erin Satie
“We are hiring a cook,” she told him in a whisper.
He slanted a glance at her.
“And a boy to help with the greenhouses,” she added. “And—”
“And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” intoned the auctioneer. The Odontoglossum crispum was brought out, still in its case, the blooms fully open now.
They were beautiful. Five petals formed a perfect star shape, snowy white marked with spots of red—like drops of fresh blood—and a vivid yellow center. The petals, lip, and throat of the flower boasted delicate ruffles, as though the edges had been crimped for decorative effect. The flowers grew from a spike that trailed horizontally off the pot, clustered like pearls on a necklace.
“A flower never seen north of the equator, collected from the misty rainforests of South America at risk to life and limb, our most talented experts and gardeners have tried and failed to make this glorious Odontoglossum crispum Cooksoniae thrive, but only Baron Orson Loel has achieved this remarkable feat. This one-of-a-kind orchid can be yours. Starting at one hundred guineas…”
One hundred guineas! Bonny’s heart lurched in her chest. She seized Loel’s hand and squeezed hard.
“One hundred guineas.” The auctioneer pointed with his gavel at a woman with a feather in her hat. “Do I hear one hundred and five?”
Bonny’s knees went weak. She had expected the Odontoglossum crispum to fetch a handsome sum; Loel had always told her it would. She had expected the hush in the room, the craned necks, the watchful glances shooting like darts from one buyer to the next.
But to hear the auctioneer raise the price not in increments of shillings or even by a guinea at a time, but five guineas? It gave her a whole new notion of what they were dealing with.
Five bidders entered the competition, and the price climbed quickly. Bonny’s own head spun at the numbers; it astonished her that the principals could keep up, when the prospect of losing so much money ought rightly to have made them sick.
“Three hundred fifty, but I already see a hand raising in the corner,” said the auctioneer. “Three fifty-five, but the competition is fierce, three sixty…”
“I am going to suffocate if this continues for much longer,” Bonny whispered.
Loel squeezed her hand. “Stay.”
Bonny gritted her teeth. She was in real danger of fainting. She would have fled the room if she were any less confident that Loel would catch her if she fell. But he wouldn’t let any harm befall her, so she gathered her courage and controlled her breathing. Slowly in, slowly out, filling her lungs each time.
“Four hundred seventy, who will take the prize? Four hundred seventy-five…”
Bonny’s knees weakened. Loel propped her against his side. The two remaining bidders were the lady with the feather in her cap and a gentleman, balding and portly, with a large ruby in his cravat and a neatly waxed mustache.
From what Bonny had observed thus far, the bidding didn’t generally last long after it narrowed down to two—the prospective buyers took the measure of one another, assessed the situation, and one or the other would withdraw.
This lady and gentleman did not follow the pattern. They glared at one another, hardly glancing at the auctioneer as he announced the bids. The price climbed to five hundred, then six. Even the bidders seemed a bit wild by then, both red-faced, the whites of their eyes showing, as though they’d been thrown onto the back of a galloping horse and didn’t know how to dismount.
“Six hundred forty, do I hear six hundred forty-one?” asked the auctioneer, slowing down to coax every last shilling from the bidders.
The gentleman twitched his raised finger.
“Six hundred forty-two?”
The feather in the lady’s cap wagged.
“Six hundred forty… three?”
A tense stillness followed, broken when the auctioneer said, “Sold to the lady with a feather in her cap for six hundred and forty-three guineas. Moving on to lot one hundred and eighty, one of the largest orchids in existence, feast your eyes on the yellow petals and chestnut spotting…”
The iron bands around Bonny’s chest relaxed. She could breathe again but felt dizzier than ever.
“Let’s go,” murmured Loel. “It’s crowded in here, and that was the last of ours.”
He ushered her out of the room, and she tottered along. Busy clerks bustled back and forth in the corridor, bidders clustered in corners chatting easily, windows let in the last of sunset.
“Six hundred and forty-three guineas,” she said finally.
Loel looked down at her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Six hundred and forty-three guineas,” she repeated. Her mind, like a finicky baby slapping away unwanted food, kept rejecting the information. She simply couldn’t believe it.
“I’ve never heard of anything like it,” said Loel.
Bonny bit her tongue. Six hundred and forty-three!
“Half as much, maybe,” he said. “I thought it was just possible—if we were extremely lucky—that it might fetch half as much.”
“What if the buyer backs out?”
“She can’t.”
“That poor woman.”
There had been something compelling, almost magical in the auctioneer’s voice, the steady lighting, the mutual agreement among everyone present to be excited about spending outrageous sums on orchids, to look with jealous awe upon those who “won.”
But it all seemed different now, when the spell of the auction room had been broken.
“That was Martha Highland,” said Loel. “She’s a well-known collector—a wealthy widow.”
“And the man?” Bonny wondered. “They seemed to know one another.”
“The Earl of Angridge. Another collector.”
“So they do this regularly? Come to auctions, spend incredible amounts of money on orchids…?”
“Several times a year.”
Bonny shook her head in astonishment.
“Forget about her,” advised Loel. “Think about hiring a cook. Where shall we look?”
Bonny plucked the answer out of the air, as though it were a butterfly that had been floating about her, hoping to catch her eye. “From a Magdalene Asylum.”
“A Magdalene Asylum?” Loel frowned. “But why?”
“It’s a place for women like me, isn’t it? The ones who weren’t lucky enough to fall for men like you.”
“Flatterer,” he said. “All right.”
Chapter 20
The Magdalene Asylum was large and grim, a brick building several stories high that took up most of a city block. The nuns who greeted them wore blue, with large straw hats, and treated both Bonny and Loel with tremendous suspicion.
But eventually, through much effort, they were convinced to release two women: a cook named Frances Taylor, broad-faced with soulful eyes and a five-year-old son in tow, along with a gently bred and heavily pregnant former governess, Penny Evans.
They made quite a procession, taking up a whole cabin in the passenger train on the way back to Woodclose, then overflowing Mrs. Twisby’s carriage, with empty Wardian cases packed into a wagon trailing behind.
Bonny helped the two women settle in before dressing in her plainest clothes, donning a bonnet with a wide brim, and making the trip, alone, to New Quay. She hadn’t been back since her disastrous final book delivery. A part of her quailed at the prospect of returning alone; she hoped that if she kept her face hidden and steered clear of the Black Lion, that she’d avoid another confrontation.
Crescent Court was her destination. Instead of visiting the cottage she’d entered only once before, she remained on the street. She fed a few carrots to the shaggy pony, then sat on a fence with a book she’d brought back from London.
Eventually little Charles Dunaway skittered out from one of the rear entrances to the property.
“Miss?” He watched her nervously from big brown eyes. “You’re looking for me, aren’t you?”
“I am,�
�� Bonny admitted. “I have a proposal for you. I want you to know that you’re free to turn it down. I won’t mind.”
“What… proposal?” He pronounced this last word carefully, breaking up the three syllables into distinct chunks.
“I live with my husband not far from town,” she explained. “He owns a business, raising orchids to be sold in the city. He could use some help. It would be a job, and we’d pay you—you’d learn about gardening and plants, and if that interests you, you’d leave with skills that other families or institutions might value.”
“I don’t know… gardening? Aren’t house servants paid more? I make ten guineas a year here.”
“Then we’d pay you twenty,” said Bonny. “But what’s more, we have a governess in our employ. She’d tutor you in the midday, which are the slow hours in our nursery. You’d learn reading and writing and some other things as well.”
“How much would that cost?”
“Nothing at all. Our cook has a child, so we hired the governess to look after him. But you should know that most people in New Quay don’t think well of me or my husband. His name is Lord Loel. It’s quite possible that you’ll have a difficult time here, if you come to work for us.”
“I don’t know…”
“That’s all right. You shouldn’t answer right now.” She quickly gave him the directions to Woodclose. “Now you know where to find us, if you decide you’re interested.”
He arrived two days later—both arms wrapped around a lumpy pillowcase stuffed with odds and ends, the patchwork puppy Bonny had gifted him peeking out the top. The footman who’d answered to Bonny’s knock so long ago walked at his side, a carpetbag in one hand.
Bonny suppressed the urge to greet him with a hug. Instead, she dropped to one knee in the yard, to meet him at his own level, and spoke soberly. “Good morning, Mr. Dunaway. Have you decided to accept our offer of employment?”
The boy blushed crimson. “Yes’m.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. I prepared a room for you upstairs, just in case. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes’m.”
She looked up at the footman. “And how can I help you, Mr.…?”
“Michaels.” He hefted the carpetbag. “I offered to help young Mr. Dunaway carry his things. I’ll take them up, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Come right along.”
Since the servants’ quarters were nearly empty and likely to remain so for a while, Bonny had told Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Evans to use the space as they pleased—which meant that each of the occupants had a room to him or herself. Charles Dunaway was thrilled, opening each empty drawer in the dresser and exclaiming over the view from the small window, but Mr. Michaels eyed the unused rooms with suspicion. When he thought Bonny wasn’t paying attention, he murmured low, “Remember, Mrs. Harris said she’d have you back at any time. You don’t have to stay if you don’t like it.”
While Bonny admired the man’s protective instincts, she had no intention of losing Charles now that he’d come. So she introduced the boy to Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Evans, and to five-year-old Hugh Taylor, who greeted the newcomer with such an excess of gratitude and admiration that Mr. Michaels sighed to himself, smiled ruefully, and finally bid farewell to little Charles.
She left Loel to talk the boy through his new duties while she returned, again, to New Quay. She had a painful task ahead of her, and she hoped that pride she’d felt while introducing Charles Dunaway to his new home would bolster her through it.
For all that, she dragged her feet as she reached her destination, streets so familiar that she recognized every planter, every lantern, every crack in the pavement. Her shoulders tightened, her stomach cramped. Either the passersby whispered behind her back or she imagined it; every blank windowpane seemed a hostile eye.
She kept her gaze averted as she passed the Kelly residence. She stood trembling on the doorstep of the house that she’d called home for almost the whole of her life, wondering if Loel had felt a similar mix of shame and determination when he knocked all those years ago.
Wondering if her reception would be as painfully hostile as the one she’d offered him. She’d deserve it.
She rang the bell.
Her mother answered, a kerchief shielding her hair and an apron around her waist, a sure sign that she’d been interrupted in the midst of cleaning. For a moment, a smile lit her handsome face. Bonny choked back a sob and swayed close, desperate for a welcoming embrace she hadn’t dared expect…
Mrs. Reed took a quick step back. No explanation except for a quick shake of the head, a glitter of moisture at her eyes.
“I know. I shouldn’t have come.” Bonny spoke quickly, because it would have been too painful to hear her mother say the words. “I brought you something. I’ll give it to you and go, if that’s all right?”
Mrs. Reed hesitated. “What did you bring?”
Bonny offered her mother the folded bank draft she’d carried clenched between thumb and forefinger. “Two hundred pounds—so Margot can have a season in London. Let her do what I’d hoped to try.”
“We can’t have you over for dinner,” said her mother, fond and exasperated in a way that made Bonny’s heart ache. “What makes you think we can take your money?”
“You know her chances will be better somewhere else. That’s my fault; let me help fix it.” Instead of waiting for her mother to take the paper, Bonny bent and placed the bank draft on the ground between them. “It would be foolish not to.”
“Foolish,” repeated Mrs. Reed, dry as dust.
A breeze whisked by, making the paper flutter. Before the draft could blow away, Mrs. Reed stepped on it. She slid it across the threshold under the sole of her shoe.
“Thank you,” said Bonny. “And one last thing…”
Her mother’s eyebrows notched up. “I thought you were going to give me something and go.”
“Shut the door if you feel you must.”
“I ought to,” said Mrs. Reed—but she didn’t.
Bonny heaved a deep, fortifying breath. “Loel did visit us, after the fire. He sent a letter asking if you’d receive him, and I threw it away without showing you. Soon after, he came in person to offer his apologies. Instead of listening, I insulted him. He left New Quay soon after, partly because of the awful things I’d said, and I was so ashamed that I never told you. But you should know—and you should tell Papa. Loel is a good man, and I’m lucky to have him. I hope one day you’ll be able to see that.”
Mrs. Reed nodded once, thoughtfully.
“I love you, Mama,” said Bonny. “You and Papa and Margot. And I’ll stay away from now on. But if you ever need me…”
“I love you too,” said Mrs. Reed.
Bonny heard the deep emotion in her mother’s voice—and the finality, as well. She said farewell and tried not to flinch at the sound of the door shutting behind her as she walked away.
She reached Woodclose just in time to catch Loel in the yard, a fishing pole propped on one shoulder. “Charles is tending the stoves, so I’m headed to the lake. Care to join me?”
“To catch supper? Should I let Mrs. Taylor know?”
“No, for the orchids. Fish bones and scales can be ground into fertilizer. Do you think Mrs. Taylor would want the meat?”
Bonny burst out laughing. The orchids came first; niggling details of sustenance second. “I believe so, yes. You really like this work, don’t you?”
He paused, eyebrows furrowing. “When I left home, I went to Liverpool and started searching for work that would take me away from England as quickly as possible. I accepted the first job I was offered, as an assistant to an orchid collector.”
“And you took to it?”
“I did—though it’s hard to stomach the waste. For every thousand flowers we’d collect, perhaps ten would reach England alive. And disease isn’t a risk, it’s an inevitability.”
“So you’re happier staying in one place, with your nursery?”
“I�
��m happier now that you’re here,” he said gruffly. And then, “Are you coming or not?”
“Give me a minute to change, and tell Eleanor you might catch supper, and find something to read—”
“Speaking of reading, a letter arrived while you were out,” Loel said. “From London.”
“Bring it along.”
Once their preparations had been made, they tromped through the woods to a large lake with a small rowboat beached along the sandy shore. Loel held Bonny’s hand as she climbed inside, then he shoved the boat into the water and leaped nimbly after her. The boat rocked and then settled; it was only just large enough for the two of them.
Loel rowed them into the deep water and began fiddling with his fishing pole. Bonny twisted and turned on the narrow, hard bench, searching for a comfortable position. Eventually she gave up and opened her letter instead. It was from Olympia.
“Read it aloud,” suggested Loel.
“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” said Bonny.
Loel shrugged. “I won’t find out unless you read it.”
Dear Bonny,
I am about to make you very jealous. Are you ready? Cordelia, Tess, and I have just had tea with R. E. Timothy. As an homage to her excellent book, I have decided not to tell you anything about her. You will have to come to London, meet her, and judge for yourself.
(Revenge is sweet, is it not?)
I won’t withhold news of Cordelia, however. She was rather easy to track down, which is a problem we’re trying to solve at present. I hired a detective and suggested that he start his search at popular bookshops. He found her within a day.
She seems well, in good spirits, and has promised to write to you very soon. In the meanwhile, I hope that I’ve eased some of your fears in addition to stoking your jealousy.