She shook her head. ‘To you young people these must seem like silly pots. Impractical. But remember: during the war they had nothing. And Margot’s family were farmers. With the pots, they could make confiture, chutney—make a summer last right through the winter for very little money. A little taste of home.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not enough, perhaps, after losing a home. But it’s something.’ She lifted the spectacles that she wore on a string around her neck and examined the letters, shuffling them, taking time to read and then going back and forth between them.
Finally, she looked up at Pip. ‘These were in a pot, you say?’
‘Well, there was a small scroll tucked in a pot with the lid sealed shut. I had to use a knife to open it.’
‘This is very interesting,’ Gabrielle murmured as if to herself. She turned her attention back to the bookshelves. ‘We had a curator who came and organised everything; now it is impossible to find anything.’ She shook her head. ‘Aha! Here it is—with the gardening and botanicals section. A little confusing, perhaps.’
‘Mmm,’ said Pip, sipping on her vermouth. It was divine. Bitter, sweet, floral herbs exploded in her mouth and warmed her throat. She buzzed from top to toe. Fancy her old pots coming all the way from this château! Did that mean the pots were as old as the letters?
‘So, this is the banquet manuscript I mentioned. By the abbot.’ Gabrielle pulled the manuscript from the shelf, and ran her fingers across the hardened calfskin. She held the cover up to show Pip—pointing out the delicate engraving of feathery fronds.
Pip took a deep breath—she recognised that lace-like pattern.
‘C’est Artemisia, oui?’ Gabrielle placed the manuscript gently on the table and opened the pages. The front one was missing. Torn out, judging by the ragged edges.
She tutted to herself. ‘Yes, yes. I remember. This is frustrating. A missing front page. It must have been some kind of title, or dedication. Or a gift. Some things stay in the past. Confined to these walls.’ She glanced around the library.
‘The conservateurs, they sent it to a laboratory and scanned the indents on the parchment on the next page. There’s a loose copy tucked in the back.’
Pip flipped to the back and pulled out a loose sheaf of A4
paper in a plastic envelope. She unfolded it then read the script:
Pour Artemisia,
Mère d’herbes.
Avec tout mon amour sur nos fiançailles.
Vos Andreas
‘Mother of Herbs,’ she whispered to herself. That strange phrase again. What did it mean? She dropped into a plump armchair covered in faded yellow silk. A plume of dust fanned out. She sneezed.
‘Santé, ma chére. Are you all right?’
Pip nodded, biting her bottom lip. Was she? Who was this mysterious Artemisia whose letters ended up in a weatherboard cottage in Tasmania? Were these pages in Pip’s lap meant for her?
‘Gabrielle, could this Artemisia be an ancestor? Is she a Boschaud?’
‘Non,’ Gabrielle shook her head. ‘I have the family tree. I will show you tomorrow. And I don’t recall any Artemisia mentioned in the château’s archives. It’s a most unusual name. But I can ask the archivist to have a look, if you like?’
‘Thanks. It’s probably nothing—’ Pip continued looking at the pages of inky botanical line drawings of rosemary and thyme in the margins of the recipes.
Gabrielle came to stand beside Pip and turned the page. Fête de la Saint-Jean. She tapped the page. ‘Ah, this means the feast of St John. It would have been very auspicious to get married in the midsummer garden. They think, perhaps, this was a wedding gift, that this Andreas asked the abbot to prepare it for his bride. We don’t know why the abbot had it among his possessions. Perhaps this young man Andreas could not afford to pay.’
Pip gasped as she leaned over and saw the faintest sketch of a herb set in the middle of the page: a twig fashioned with leaves and as fragile as a feather. Artemisia.
‘Ah, this …’ Gabrielle nodded. ‘This part is very interesting.’ She sipped her champagne before reaching down and tapping the sketch of Artemisia. ‘This picture, this engraving, matches the front cover.’
‘Artemisia. Mother of Herbs,’ said Pip. Heart in her mouth, she turned to the next page and scanned the list. What if some of these parchments were by the same Artemisia? Who was she?
Gabrielle placed the letters beside her manuscript so Pip could see the similarity between the two sketches on each copy—almost a little watermark in the corner on the individual recipes. Too excited to breathe, Pip leaned over and turned another page.
It looked like some kind of index, or contents page:
Vin Moelleux, des Salades et des Fruits
Potagers et Brouets
Des Viandes Rôties
Entremets
Desserte
Issue de Table
Boute-Hors
No, she realised: it was a menu.
Quickly she turned the next page and the next. Comparing documents. Her pulse was racing, eardrums thumping, as she carefully turned the pages until she came to the one she was looking for: Pour faire ung lot de bon hypocras.
She clapped her hands and laughed. Gabrielle looked bewildered. Pip would need to check with Nadia’s contact Marie at the Herbier National, but in her heart she knew.
‘It’s a perfect match. Your manuscript and my recipes are by the same hand.’
‘There is one more letter here at the bottom, signed Artemisia.’
‘Maybe the abbot didn’t write the book,’ suggested Pip.
‘Do you think this Andreas did? For his lover Artemisia?’
‘Maybe. But what if it was Artemisia who wrote it? Or both Andreas and Artemisia, the lovers?’
Gabrielle pursed her lips then broke into a knowing smile. ‘Perhaps.’ She gestured around the room. ‘Who can say for sure what really went on in these rooms?’ She tilted her champagne glass at Pip and nodded.
Chapter 33
Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487
The hypocras would be poured soon. It was unheard of to have hypocras at midsummer, but Abbot Roald had insisted she make it so there was no point arguing, though it had been difficult enough. Andreas had been helpful, preparing the spice powder and sourcing the wine from trading partners in the north. It had been almost impossible to stop it turning bitter and sour, though, as there was nowhere to keep it cool in this long week of midsummer.
Artemisia had found it difficult to get the exact hypocras blend correct. The recipe dictated by the abbot had failed on her first batch and she’d been punished with a fierce blow between her shoulderblades when he’d come to taste it. Andreas had been in the larder at the time, collecting empty pots and delivering full ones. He came to Artemisia’s rescue, distracting and flattering the abbot by saying the chaplain’s mead and liquor from the still was as fine a blend as the épicier had tasted. Perhaps he would consider supplying this too for the Issue de Table on such an auspicious day? The day of St Jean.
The following day, Andreas had walked the linden allée with Artemisia to find Abbot Roald in the garden. The abbot had glared like thunder when she arrived unbidden with Andreas. Blustered about the heat and the blend of his drink. Abbot Roald objected to offering his experiment for public scrutiny. The spirit was too bitter. He could not dull the Artemisia. It was far too unbalanced as the herb could not be quelled. Tasted like poison. To be expected, he smirked, and spat on Artemisia’s boots.
She flinched and Andreas shot her a warning look: Be still. As the menfolk discussed the business of the liquor for the banquet, Artemisia watched dozens of tiny brown wrens—tails held high—skip and twitter as they played hide-and-seek under the leaves of the flowering hedgerow. Her legs ached and her back pinched every time she bent to lift a crock this summer. Droplets of dew glistened with the morning sun and she longed to sit for a bit on the grassy mound overlooking the orchard cemetery where her beloved Abbot Bellamy was buried.
She h
ad much to share with Abbot Bellamy, bless his soul. She had no time for confession—and she was plenty sure Heaven was not saving a spot for her leathery hide. But from time to time she liked to sit in peace on the raised tuft of grass in the corner, tucked under the low canopy of pears and apples. She could see the abbot’s grave from her perch, so when the winter’s soil thawed and frosts had passed she filled the old clay spice pots with fine damp earth blended with hog dung and gently placed seeds of the gillyflowers deep into the mixture. Come summer, the pink flowers ripened and bloomed like tufts of pink clouds and she’d needed an armful of wattle stakes to make sure they stood proud for her abbot. Just before the gillyflowers were spent, she’d collect the petals and dry them out by the fire to make a sweet wine. She was pleased to see the old red rose she’d secretly rescued from Abbot Roald’s burn pile had started to send out shoots and wrap around the base of Abbot Bellamy’s gravestone like a warm embrace. Love. Perfection. She sighed and her body felt heavy with grief. Artemisia had sheared the abbot’s beloved rose close to the roots to save it, and feared the bare roots may not have survived the relentless blankets of frost and snow this past winter. But for once Luck had favoured Artemisia and she smiled, grateful for the tender green shoots basking against the stone, splayed to catch the sun. It gave her hope. She liked to imagine sometimes that this garden was hers and she was free to do as she wished. One day she would make her own little garden beyond these walls. Soon.
She took a deep breath and allowed the mingling birdsong to fill her head, blocking the low tones of the abbot and Andreas debating quantities of spices and prices. She wondered if they would notice if she wandered down the linden allée to the yew and box maze perched at the end and amuse herself by disappearing deep into the labyrinth. Artemisia loved to wander there every chance she had to leave the kitchen. Which was rare enough. She breathed in sharp woody aromas when she stepped on the clumps of thyme planted along the flagstone pathway. Made sure she brushed against the tall purple flowers of the hyssop popping out from under the hedgerow and gently swaying in the breeze. At the centre of the maze was a fountain where she loved to sit and listen to the soft trickle of water, and remove her boots and cool her feet on a hot day. If she wasn’t frightened of the flogging she would surely get if she was caught, she would remove her tunic and float in the shallow green pool, allowing the water to soothe her rough skin. She felt her face turning as crimson as the abbot’s rose, imagining Andreas ladling water over her hair and shoulders. She wiggled her toes inside her boots and tried to concentrate on the conversation.
It would be her hide that was whipped if they messed it up.
Andreas said he knew of some botanicals in the woods—juniper, marjoram, fennel seed, aniseed—and could source some others like coriander and a special batch of star anise that would sweeten the drink and give it depth. He would assist the abbot to make the perfect blend. It would be an honour. Artemisia nearly choked as she fought to conceal her contempt.
She leaned down to the third pot of cinnamon sticks, pausing to run her hands down the side. The clay pots used for delivery by the de Vitriaco family were different to the other merchants. They were squat, like a mother’s belly ripe with child, with a sweeping curve that tapered towards the lid. Artemisia pulled her tunic away from her chest and started fluttering it to cool her skin. She could feel heat rising and her heart quickening as she recalled Andreas slowly tracing the line of the pot with his finger, up and down like a gentle caress. That was on the day she’d met him in the larder, when he took over his father’s deliveries to Château de Boschaud nigh on a dozen moons ago.
Andreas had looked her straight in the eye and winked. The hide of the merchant! She’d never had her head turned by any man in the fields or the carts. What was the point? Her place was here, sweating among the pots and crocks.
As beads of sweat collected at the nape of her neck, Artemisia’s hand moved among the cinnamon until she found the recipe from Andreas she was looking for.
To make a lot of good hypocras, take an once of cinamonde, known as long tube cinnamon, a knob of ginger, and an equal amount of galangal, pounded well together, and then take a livre of good sugar; pound all this together and moisten it with the best Beaune wine you can get, and let it steep for an hour or two. Then strain it through a cloth bag so it will be very clear.
Even though she could little change the result, it comforted her to know she had made it just right. Last moon, she had selected the largest two pots and asked Jacobus to help her hoist them onto the hooks over the flame. Both were big enough for Jacobus to bathe in. She may consider asking him to do just that when the feast was over, and throw in some verjuice for good measure to heal the bites and rid him of the fleas and lice that swarmed through his blond curls.
She knew it was madness to move her letters and recipes from pot to crock, but the abbot would beat her if he discovered them. Or worse. This way she could be sure they were kept secret. She took the recipe for the hypocras, bundled it with the recipe for rosewater and the spice mix along with some old letters from Andreas, tied them up with the piece of twine and the twig of Artemisia Andreas had wrapped her gift in, before placing them in one of the small deep copper pots. It was a useless size. Too small for stews and confitures, yet too big to warm a serve or two of porée. The lid for this pot had never been a true fit, so she used the end of the meat hammer to jam it into place.
No-one would ever find them there—not unless they knew where to look. She shuffled the unused crock to the back of the shelf with the other fallow pots and prayed on her roses and gillyflowers she didn’t forget where she’d put them.
Chapter 34
Château de Boschaud, March 2015
Pip stood with Gabrielle in the middle of an ancient linden alley that stretched like a strip of sunshine right through the walled garden. The sky was low and dark and the spring wind frisky. Tiny bright lime leaves covered with dewdrops caught the dregs of morning light and transformed the garden into a jewel. The birdsong was unfamiliar—softer and more melodic than the relentless high-pitched screeches and squawks of the cockatoos and parrots at home. Everything inside these walls seemed so soft and gentle.
As promised, they had been for an early morning stroll. Gabrielle held the manuscript in her left hand, using her right hand to point, pluck a daffodil, or brush along a box hedge as she walked. The manuscript was opened at a double-page spread showing a line sketch of a model of the garden. An entremet. It was the done thing at the time to make pastry replicas of animals, but Gabrielle seemed to think an edible replica of a garden could have been a one-off for Château de Boschaud.
Pip chuckled to herself as she imagined the kind of entremet she could have made for Megs’s wedding. Sleek glasshouse (toffee), giant black flagstones (dark chocolate), iceberg roses (sugared petals). No plants. She couldn’t bear to contemplate one for herself. It felt like pressing a bruise.
Her smile faded and she placed her hands over her face to gather her thoughts for a moment as she recalled the texts Megs had sent in the past month, none of them longer than a few words.
I’m fine.
Just a bit tired.
Going into surgery.
Just out of surgery—will call later.
Or the one that worried her most:
No point Skyping. Chloé with Eva.
Or: Chloé with Will.
It was frustrating being shut out but she was going to keep on calling and Skyping until they had a proper catch-up. She needed to cut her sister some slack. Megs did go into a bubble at work. But was Pip any different? She had just spent the winter in lockdown identifying differences in sediment readings for various benthic invertebrates in a basement under the most beautiful garden in Paris. She’d only popped her head out for crepes, couscous and coffee.
She leaned against the closest linden tree and stroked the grey wrinkled bark with her fingertips. She closed her eyes.
‘You look tired,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Worn ou
t. You push yourself hard, Philippa.’ She was nodding to herself. ‘Your body and your mind. I can almost feel the winds of thoughts circling in your head. Always thinking.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘When we get back to the kitchen, I’m going to brew you a cup of violet tea—it soothes the nerves.’ She pointed to the book. ‘There’s a recipe in here for a violet broth. You have violets in Australia, non?’
Pip nodded with her eyes still closed, enjoying the soft spring sun warming her face.
‘So, I will email you the translations a few recipes at a time.’ Pip opened her eyes and traced the line of the alley back to the maze they had just navigated. She could still hear the trickle of the water and it soothed her. Using the drawing in the manuscript as a guide, Gabrielle had walked Pip through the different sections inside the wall: the kitchen garden with rows of cabbages, broccoli and lettuces; the immense physic garden she’d spotted from the tiny window above last night; and the berry walk with gooseberries, loganberries and four types of raspberries. No wonder they needed all those damn cooking pots. Maybe Pip should send them back to Gabrielle—they were only gathering dust in Megs’s shed at home.
Gabrielle stepped forward and linked her arm through Pip’s. ‘Come, let me show you my favourite part of the garden.’
They walked along the avenue of trees, passing a small ploughed field before turning left into an orchard. Pip recognised rows of apple and pear trees, a dozen to each row and at least ten rows. The trees had bright green buds and tiny leaves were starting to unfurl. Planted among the trunks of the trees, in straight rows, were lines of daffodils, jonquils and erlicheer in vivid creams, yellows and oranges. It was one of the prettiest orchards she’d ever seen.
The Midsummer Garden Page 23