by Boyce, Niamh
Sarah worked with letters, names, wrote in copperplate. That much didn’t change. She often thought, I’ll write it down for him, I’ll write it down for Ben. But would she really want him to know such a sad, sad story? What good would it do for her brown-eyed boy? It would be her need, not his. Let him go on blindly and happily with his life. He’d go on better without knowing of certain incidents.
After the first couple of weeks, no one came looking. Sarah had been terrified that they would. For a time she had suffered nightmares about the herbalist and her ordeal in his house. But of course nobody came. She was just a stranger who had worked in the town for a summer and then disappeared.
Matt, it turned out, had saved her, but not through lies and persuasion. A silver tongue will only get you so far. No, he just showed simple human kindness and provided her with a side-altar marriage and a roof to grow strong under. What started out in name only soon became love, and the man who preferred to be alone became a fine father and husband.
She had never imagined how much comfort and loving a baby could bring. She adored Ben – who wouldn’t? She loved that his hair was the colour of toffee, that his skin was flawless, and that his stout little nose was like a knob of butter. She watched as his chubby hands grew more capable, his body more sturdy. He was two now and loved to babble, to curl up on her lap. She’d never known a child so affectionate, never known she had all those hugs in her. The other day he was on her lap after supper. They were sitting on the wooden stool by the fire. He pressed his face on to her cheek, and with his own innocent impression of a kiss made a big smacking noise. ‘Love you, Mam,’ he said, ‘love you.’
Once upon a time, a few years ago, in a town not far from here, a stranger flung open the half-door of the late Veronique Chase’s shop, set an easy chair out on the pavement and smiled. She was a young woman, elegant, straight backed. She removed all the yellowed newspapers and mouldy sweets from the low window and arranged hats in their place. Hats of all shapes and sizes, each on its own wire stand. Berets, straw, bonnets, cloches, and one she called a chapeau. She transformed the shop front, had it lovely. It made a great impression.
Inside, the shelves brimmed with ribbons, buttons and patterns. And all kinds of fabric – not just plain, striped and checked, but florals of all sorts. Reds, mauves and yellows, if you don’t mind. The cloth came all the way from America.
She was well-got all right, this dressmaker girl – you’d know by her gait. She wasn’t from these parts. The orphan daughter of a gentleman. Half French she was, you could see it in the way she waved her hands when she spoke. Fine boned, pretty, with her hair all done up in an elaborate chignon.
What had made her move to their small town? She’d wanted, it was said, a change of air.
The women adored her. Counted themselves lucky to have such style in their little backwater. She had a word for everyone, could mend or make anything, no job was too small or too big. You should see the dresses she created from almost nothing. Millie, they called her. Miss Millie can do anything. She’s nothing less than a magician.
Author’s Note
Although The Herbalist is inspired by real events, it is a work of fiction. The story that unfolds, and every character apart from the herbalist, are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published 2013
Copyright © Niamh Boyce, 2013
The moral right of the author has beenasserted
Cover: women © akgimages / ullstien bild; background National Library of Ireland
All rights reserved
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire
ISBN: 978-0-241-96457-6