The Lady's Slipper (11 page)

Ella took the shoes out from under her mattress to look at them. She often did this; she liked to feel the cool smooth silk against her cheek, to run her fingertips over the slightly raised nap of the embroidery. The blowsy roses and the curled sprays of leaves lay flat against the yellow sateen, and Ella traced their texture, amazed that anyone could sew such lifelike flowers. They glowed against the rough calico of her bedsheet and the greyish wool blanket. She couldn’t bring them out often, for she shared the bed with her sister, Sadie, and if she saw them she might tell her pa, and he’d use it as an excuse to leather her. He might make her give them back, or worse, sell them, and she would never see them again. She pondered over the dark red stains too, what they could mean.

It was cold in the room. The draughts were less since she had stuffed the cracks in the wall with paper and rags, but the chill seemed to seep up from the ground. There had never been a fire in this room and her breath sank in a white cloud in front of her. The bed smelt of soot from the smoke that crept through the dividing wall when the fire was lit in the hearth next door, and the same smoke had stained the ceiling beams black.

It tainted her, the soot; turned her skin and clothes grey, rubbed smuts onto everything, tell-tale black marks. It filled her with a rage she could not understand, a rage that made her pinch and slap her little sister in the night till she cried out. But when she looked at the shoes it reminded her that somewhere inside her the fine lady was still waiting, that she had been born into this house by some sort of error and her rightful place was somewhere else, somewhere a girl would wear yellow embroidered slippers. She looked at them and imagined what it would be like to slide her toes into the cream silk lining, in front of a crackling fire. To feel a heavy petticoat swing slowly round her ankles and know that she smelt sweet and clean from bathing in water boiled on the fire. There would be servants to do her bidding, but she would treat them with respect and call them by name, and say ‘if you please’ and ‘thank you kindly’ when they bowed and scraped before her.

She could have been wed by now, but she didn’t want to marry a labourer who would expect her to drudge for him just as she drudged now, but with not a penny to show for it. And the local lads knew it. No, she was going to make the most of herself. She wasn’t going to squander her looks on some clod of a man with no prospects and no money. Her plump figure and her even white teeth could buy more than that.

Master Thomas and Mistress Alice–now, there was a thing. Lately she had seen him looking at her when she bent over to clean the grate. She had pushed her rounded backside even further into the air when she noticed his eyes lingering on her. Since her sister died the mistress had been pale and thin, wearing her dark clothes and weeping when she thought no one could see. She disappeared for hours each day into the summerhouse, and came back red-eyed with paint-spattered hands. Her face was distant, as if she were never quite there in the room but somewhere a long way away.

Ella glanced down at the curving line of her breasts, and placed her hands to feel the narrow span of her waist. She stood up and admired herself; tied her apron a little tighter to emphasize her shape, took out a small pot from her pocket and reddened her lips. No wonder Master Thomas was looking at her. He deserved more of an armful than that miserable wife of his, of that she was certain–a real woman was what he needed, one full of heat and life. You could not say it was a bewitching, could you, if the idea was already in his head? A little encouragement, that was all it was. Yes, she would give him a little encouragement.

Alice and Thomas were still at breakfast when Ella came in to tell them Sir Geoffrey Fisk was at the door.

‘Excuse me, Thomas,’ Alice said. ‘He has come to collect the watercolours for Earl Shipley.’ She stood up and left her half-eaten bread and ham on her plate.

‘Are you taking him out to the summerhouse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll finish my breakfast, and come and pay my respects to him before I leave.’

Alice went out into the hall and took her shawl from the peg. Ella was waiting by the open door and bobbed her head half-heartedly as she passed.

‘Good morrow, Alice. It is a beautiful morning,’ said Geoffrey, indicating that she should walk in front of him down the path.

‘Yes, the light is very good.’ She turned the bronze key in the lock.

‘And this unusual orchid–it is still in flower?’

‘When your servant brought me the message you were coming today, I brought it out from its hiding place, so you could view it. I must keep it hidden because—’

But he was already ahead of her, at the table. ‘Is this it?’

Alice nodded. Geoffrey blew out through his teeth.

‘It is not as handsome as I imagined.’ He frowned as he took out a magnifying lens on a red silk cord from his waistcoat pocket.

Alice sprang to the flower’s defence. ‘It is fading a little, but I think it quite beautiful. Look at the shape and colour of those twisted petals.’

‘Hmm.’ Geoffrey peered though the magnifying glass. ‘This pouch-like petal is certainly an oddity. But it’s nothing like as fine as the one I purchased from a Portuguese trader in the Americas–such a beautiful scarlet and orange spotted specimen. Great big showy petals. Patterson is on his way with it. Wait till you see it–the bloom is ravishing. We all went quite mad vying with each other to purchase it.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, it cost me a good deal. But it will be worth it, for I will take it to Hampton Court–I know that if the Portuguese bloom were to be in gardens here, it would cause quite a stir. Head gardeners would flock to buy. Nothing so fantastical is available in England.’

Alice walked over and looked at the lady’s slipper. She could not imagine anything more beautiful.

‘Have you examined your little plant in detail?’

‘Yes, I have measured it and made a study in paint. Of course I have had to keep its whereabouts a secret. You see, the landowner was quite unable to see reason. He refused to let me purchase the plant at any price, so in the end I had to take it without his knowledge.’

Geoffrey dropped the lens from his eye and stood up. ‘How rash.’ He looked surprised, but his voice held a touch of admiration.

Alice blushed. ‘Yes. There was no alternative. The orchid would have perished in Wheeler’s hands. It would have suffered the same fate as the others–taken by a cunning woman or witch, and the roots mashed and squandered to serve a vain woman’s complexion.’

Geoffrey seemed confused by Alice’s conversation. ‘Are you telling me that this was on Wheeler’s land? Richard Wheeler? Of Helk Cottage?’

‘Yes.’

She was surprised to see Geoffrey almost laugh, but then he suppressed it.

‘Well, well.’

‘He was here yesterday, but he has not seen the plant, and he has no idea I have it.’ She mentally crossed her fingers at this half-truth.

‘Well done.’ His eyes glinted with amusement. ‘You quite surprise me with your daring.’

‘It is only what any plant-lover would have done. I am glad to have it here in a safe place. Flora would have loved to see it, you see, it was her favourite…’

She paused, as Geoffrey was not listening. His servant, Patterson, had appeared at the door with a large wooden carrying-crate.

Geoffrey put the crate on the table and dismissed Patterson. He lifted a hessian sack from the crate and peeled it back to reveal an exotic orchid, flame-red against the waxy green leaves. Despite herself, Alice’s eyes widened. She had never seen anything like it. Five red petals like billowing taffeta, splashed with orange, round a scarlet hood. Inside the hood, a long red tongue hung lasciviously. A stiff greenish-yellow protrusion stood proud above the hairy lip of the flower.

She moved closer, fascinated. Side by side, the flowers could not have been more different. The small creamy-yellow lady’s slipper orchid with its delicate claret-coloured markings was overshadowed by the glaring Portuguese flower.

She glimpsed Geoffrey eyeing her reaction. He said nothing; he let the plant work its magic. She was absorbed for only a moment before turning away in embarrassment for she would have liked to cover the flower with a cloth–it seemed altogether too naked. The flower was showy, thought Alice; it seemed as if it flaunted itself too much–it was popish somehow. She could no more picture it in her garden than she could picture herself turning Catholic. She wiped her moist brow with her sleeve. The summerhouse was warm today.

She picked up the magnifying lens and brought it up to the centre of the red flower and was immediately transported into another world. The artist in her followed each part, the curving yellow column with its hairs bristling at the pink-tinged base, the halo of petals flaring like a sunset. Unusually there was no dust, but clusters of orange grit formed into flat discs or pellets. She placed the lens back on the table, as if it were too hot to handle. The red orchid was an impostor, Alice thought–an impostor in outrageous fancy dress. She did not want to use any of the precious yellow powder from her pretty little orchid to make more monstrosities like this.

‘Showy, is it not?’ said Geoffrey.

‘Bold enough. What would you have me do with it?’

‘I want gardeners all over England to have borders full of these. I have promised the first few to Hampton Court. But they need a hot climate to flourish. You said you have the skills to breed this one with your English orchid, make it more robust–and that is what I want you to do.’

‘It is by no means certain that I can produce a tougher variety. The lady’s slipper is a delicate plant. My father’s work with plants was experimental. He was not a plantsman by profession, merely a gentleman enthusiast. There were failures as well as successes.’

‘You vex me. I will suffer no refusal. I do not understand why you are so reluctant.’

‘I am surprised the plant is in such good condition, given the sea voyage,’ she said, trying to turn the conversation away from her own recalcitrance.

‘Oh, this one is the best of the specimens. We traded hundreds of plants, maybe thousands, but not many survived. Lack of fresh water, you see. Most plants cannot tolerate the seawater. I had the containers in the hold checked regularly, and my men threw them overboard if they looked to be rotting or diseased.’

Alice was shocked by this admission of waste, but it was not her place to query Geoffrey’s business. He carried on, ‘There are only two or three more of this type. Johnson, the gardener, has care of the others at the manor in case this one should fail. We are going to try growing them in the sheltered part of the garden under glass.’

She saw that Geoffrey had turned his back to her to study the lady’s slipper in the light of the summerhouse window. Suppressing the urge to take the plant away from his avaricious eyes, Alice moved to the stack of paintings to fetch the watercolours of the ferns for Earl Shipley’s dining room. The light was good today, the colours shone out, and the effect of the three paintings together was very pleasing. They had been framed simply by the joiner in polished oak frames. She had enjoyed the commission, and she knew they looked well. Now she laid them out on the table for Geoffrey’s pleasure.

‘Here are the paintings for Earl Shipley.’

Geoffrey bent over the lens, engrossed in his examination of the lady’s slipper, and did not even look up. Instead he said, ‘So you have no idea why this particular plant is so rare, or why there are so few?’

‘I cannot be sure, Geoffrey, but I think perhaps because it is reputed to be medicinal; it was dug out over generations for its roots, and now there are few remaining. I never thought to see one, except in a book. You know that it is supposed to be a cure for nervous disorders?’

Geoffrey stood up. Alice continued, ‘Yes, the spots on the inside of the flower draw out spots in the afflicted person. It is good for hives on the skin. In
Gargrave’s Herbal
the description says it is also beneficial in any sort of restlessness or mania, fevers or other symptoms of overheating.’

‘How extraordinary. A cure-all, by the sounds of it. How is it prepared?’

‘The book says that the roots should be mashed and strained, that the juices can be drunk as a potion and the pulp spread over the skin. The flowers themselves can be boiled and made into an infusion. It can even be used to treat poor souls who are insensible or mad with the fever–the potion may be administered through a goose quill via the mouth.’

He went back over to the pot. ‘Let me see these roots, then, Mistress Ibbetson.’

‘It is not wise to disturb the roots again, Geoffrey. I have already moved it from the place it grew, though naturally I tried not to touch the lower part of the plant but dug it out carefully leaving the earth around it intact. After all, it could be the only one. We must take the utmost care not to do anything to weaken the root system. Now is its most vulnerable time–for it is setting seed and will need all its strength.’

‘I am sure that we will not harm it, Mistress Ibbetson. I would like to examine the roots.’ He took hold of the pot and gripped the plant by the stem.

‘Be careful of the flower, Geoffrey!’ Alice lurched forward to grasp his arm. Geoffrey spun round and gave her an irate look. Then he moved to the other side of the table and emptied out the little pot of earth, vigorously shaking the roots free of dirt. Alice breathed in sharply.

Geoffrey seemed unaware of the fragility of the stems, and of the dirt on the table. He started to feel the thick, waxy roots, pulling them this way and that, prodding them with his red scaly fingers. Then he scraped at them with his fingernail, until a white scar appeared. He sniffed at the substance, wrinkling up his nose, before rolling it between finger and thumb and touching it cautiously with his tongue. Alice was outraged. She followed him round the table and hovered at his elbow.

‘Let us put it back now, Geoffrey.’

‘All in good time.’ Geoffrey ignored her, making a small movement with his hand as if to brush her away. With a quick snap he broke away a portion of the root, wrapped it in his kerchief and put it in his pocket.