22nd April
SO MUCH TO DO, THERE IS SCARCELY TIME TO WRITE anything down. The garden grows as never before, and I must work my hardest to keep up. I am glad Weed is here to help.
April is a miracle, every year – between morning and evening I notice the garden change, as buds burst open, petals unfurl, and last year’s woody brown stalks grow tall with new green shoots. But in all of Northumberland, nothing grows as tall and handsome as Weed.
In scarcely more than a month, he has gained four inches. Now he stands taller than I do, and looks to be getting taller still. When he wears Father’s trousers he no longer has to roll them up at the bottom. His limbs are slim and strong, like the branches of a willow.
His black hair is still wild, for that is the way it naturally grows. His dark eyebrows curve in two brooding crescents above his shockingly green eyes.
His mouth is changeable – sometimes wide and grinning, sometimes soft and full.
His teeth are white as snowdrops. His complexion, once so pale, is now tinged golden from the sun.
If I thought for a heartbeat that, even deep within the private corners of his own mind, Weed dissected and scrutinised me in just this way, piece by piece – eye, lip, nose, cheek – I would be mortified beyond all hope of recovery. But I mean no disrespect by it. It is because I am so used to observing and recording everything I see: the weather, the plants, the changes in the garden. Depicting that which interests me has become second nature, and nothing is as interesting to me as the time I spend with Weed. Thus I cannot help but try (and fail miserably, I fear!) to describe him in detail – as if he were some unusual plant Father might have brought home in his satchel.
I write about him by candlelight, while I am upstairs in my bedchamber and he lies sleeping in the storeroom below. The more I struggle to describe this unique being, the more it feels as if he were right here, next to me – is it foolish to be lonely for him when I know I will see him in the morning?
Sometimes it feels as if morning will never come.
Weed and I take long walks together nearly every day, once all our chores are done. He seems to know everything about how to make the garden thrive, though sometimes I find his advice curious. This morning he suggested that the rue plants would grow better if they were moved as far as possible from the lavender. When I asked why, he just laughed and said, “I do not know; perhaps they have had an argument.” But I have learned to trust his advice, and the work is quick and enjoyable because of him.
When we walk he leads us far from the cottage. We wander until he announces, for no particular reason that I can see, that it is time to stop. Then he lies on his back on the ground and listens – to the birds, I suppose, or to the sound of the wind whistling through the leaves. Whole afternoons pass in this way.
Today is no different. We lie here, near to each other but not touching, and somehow my heart manages to feel full to bursting and light as air, all at the same time.
“You must think I am mad,” he says, rolling on his side to look at me.
“Why would I think that?”
He does not answer right away, but the notion of madness causes my mind to recollect the strange accusations made by that awful Mr Pratt on the day Weed first came to live with us. “I did not believe a word of Pratt’s story, Weed,” I say to reassure him. “I hope you have no fear on that account. I do not know what happened at the madhouse, but even a blind person could see that Tobias Pratt is not an honourable man.”
Weed smiles. “All I mean was, mad to spend so much time just lying on the ground, listening.”
“Oh!” I blush with embarrassment at the way I misunderstood his meaning. “I like resting here too. It feels peaceful.”
“And the music,” he murmurs, settling back to face the sky. “The grass – the wind – makes such a beautiful song.”
“I will sing to you,” I say impulsively. If there were anyone present other than Weed I would never make such an offer, for I hardly know any songs. But there is an old ballad that Mama used to sing to me, and I can remember most of the tune, I think.
“Please do,” Weed encourages, closing his eyes.
Propping myself up on an elbow, I take a breath and begin. It is a sad, strange song about a shepherd boy who lies sleeping in a meadow and is kissed by a passing girl to wake him, so his flock does not wander off. But she cannot rouse him, for the shepherd boy is not sleeping at all – he is dead.
I let the last note fade away. The moment is unexpectedly tender; the feeling both excites and frightens me. Without lifting himself from the ground, Weed turns his head until his gaze meets mine. His eyes are luminous, the same vivid green as the grass we now lie in.
I reach towards him, not because I choose to, but because my limbs seem to have developed a will of their own. I long to touch his cheek, but I dare not. Instead, I pluck a yellow-headed dandelion from the tall grass next to his shoulder and offer it to him with mock gravity.
“Tell me, shepherd boy: how did you like my song?”
At the sight of the flower he jumps up, as if in a fury. He clenches his fists in front of his face and turns away.
“Enough,” he says, in a voice full of bitterness and pain. “Let us go home.”
Weed’s mysterious grief hangs on us like a fog. As we walk home I ask more than once if he is angry about the song, or the flower, or Tobias Pratt. He says he is fine. I beg him to tell me if I have done something wrong. Again he assures me I have not. But he cannot smile either, and will not look at me – oh, it is like a knife in my heart!
When we arrive at the cottage, Father is hurriedly packing his medical bag.
“A messenger just came, with an urgent summons. I must leave at once.” He sounds deeply displeased.
“Are you going to London again?” I blurt.
Father continues throwing items into his satchel. “No. The patient is right here in Hulne Park, at the lumber mill. There was an accident – a man’s foot is badly mangled. The idiots think I can save it by sprinkling a few rose petals on the poor fellow’s head.” He slams the bag shut. “For this I must interrupt my research? Even if I had the skill of Hippocrates, what then? Could the wisdom of the ages stop a careless oaf from dropping an axe on his foot?”
Weed sucks in a long, raspy breath and runs out of the cottage. Moments later he comes back. His face is ashen, and he holds a small bundle of stems and leaves. Wordlessly he offers them to Father.
Father stares at the plants, bewildered. “Rue? Tansy? Chamomile? These are common roadside plants. What is all this for?”
“Make a poultice. It will prevent infection so the wound can heal,” he says in a low voice. “For pain…use the poppy, mixed with valerian. No doubt the man is afraid; lavender and chamomile will soothe him.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And – if it has to come off—”
“If the foot has to come off, it is the surgeon’s problem, and whisky is the only medicine those butchers use,” Father growls. “Whisky, and strong leather straps.”
“No whisky – use some belladonna – not too much. Mix it with seeds of hemlock and black henbane. It will make him sleep.”
“Sleep!” Father cries. “Through an amputation? Impossible; it has been centuries since that formula was lost—”
“Two berries only! I know you have some. The man will sleep for a night and a day, and awaken when the worst is over.”
Father drops his bag and steps very close to Weed. They are nearly the same height, but Father has twice his bulk. My mouth goes dry; what will Father do?
“How do you know these things?” Father hisses through his teeth. “Tell me, ‘Doctor’ Weed – where did you steal your secret formulas from, eh?” His hands rise; for a moment I fear he will seize Weed and shake him.
Weed stares at him, his bottomless green eyes glittering with defiance. “Go to the sawmill,” he says. “No time to waste.” Then, letting the leaves fall through his fingers to the floor, he turns and walks out of the cottage. I run to Father’s side and take his arm. The vein in his forehead throbs and his lips are pressed into a furious white line.
“Father, do not be angry,” I plead. “He is only trying to help.” On hands and knees I gather up the torn leaves that have fallen at our feet and hold them out to Father.
Slowly Father regains control of himself. He takes the leaves from me, seizes his satchel, and starts for the door.
“Wait!” I run to Father’s study and stretch high on tiptoe to grab the glass jar of belladonna berries from the shelf. Cradling the jar like a baby, I race back to the parlour, breathless.
“Here, Father – the belladonna—”
His temper explodes. “Jessamine! Have you lost your mind?”
“Take some with you, Father. In case the man needs them. Weed said two – two berries only—”
I struggle to get the lid off the jar. In doing so, I lose my grip – it starts to slip from my hand—
“No!” Father catches the jar before it falls and shatters. I snatch the jar from Father, pour two berries into my handkerchief, and tie them in a secure bundle.
“Take these too, please, Father,” I beg. “Do as Weed says. I know you will not regret it.”
Cursing under his breath, Father takes the berries from me. He shoves them and the torn leaves roughly into his satchel and storms out of the cottage.
After Father goes, I find Weed in the herb garden, sitting very still among the plants. I bring him some water. He takes it with a look of gratitude, but says nothing, and I have no choice but to leave him be. An hour goes by, then another. At times I swear I can hear him speaking quietly – but with whom?
Late this evening I walk through the house, candle in hand, to extinguish all the lamps. It is only then that I notice the belladonna is still sitting out in the parlour. Carefully I secure the lid and return the jar to Father’s study.
Before I put the jar back on the shelf, I hold my candle next to it so that I may admire the black orbs within. The soft light flickers across their glossy skin, making the berries look strangely alive. They are dark, spherical, shining, deadly. Beautiful.
Like staring into the pupils of a murderess, I think.