23rd April
NO WORD FROM FATHER. WEED IS NOT SPEAKING TO me either. What has happened to my family, my new and only friend? I am bereft.
Weed has been outside in the garden all night, and now it is morning. For the most part I have left him alone, though every now and then I look out of my window to see if he is all right.
I may be mistaken, but it seems that he pays special attention to the plants from which he tore leaves yesterday to give to Father: the rue, tansy, poppy, chamomile and lavender. He sits quietly by each one in turn. His lips scarcely move, but his expression is that of a person in deep conversation.
Seeing him out there fills me with dread. I am filled with questions that I am too afraid to ask.
If he is mad, I think, at least it is a harmless kind of madness, to sit and talk to plants, as if they could hear one’s words, and comprehend one’s meaning, isn’t it?
The sun is low in the sky. Weed has not returned to the house, nor is he in the garden. I suppose he may have taken a walk by himself. The thought brings tears to my eyes, and I am instantly ashamed – foolish, spoiled Jessamine! Surely I can keep myself occupied for an afternoon without weeping like a baby.
In any case, I have had all day to think about what happened yesterday. I do not know how Weed knows the things he knows, or why he was so disturbed when I picked the dandelion, or what he was doing in the garden last night. And I can well imagine how infuriating it is to Father that Weed refuses to reveal the source of his knowledge.
But one thing is clear: Father and Weed must become friends, for I cannot bear another incident of being torn between them like this. They are both too dear to me.
And too alike, I think, with their mysterious moods and closely guarded secrets.
They both are also very good at leaving me alone, it seems.
It is after dark when Father returns. His mood is calm, even serene. But it has always been thus with Father; his moods pass like little storms: a brief, violent bluster followed by tranquil skies.
“Did you save the man’s foot?” Quickly I heat up some dinner in a skillet. I know Father must be hungry after his journey.
He nods. “They think I am a miracle worker, though you and I know who truly deserves the credit. Where is Weed, Jessamine? I wish to speak to him. No doubt he is afraid to face me now, but he need not be. Can you persuade him to come and see me?”
“I will try.”
I was too proud and fearful to search for Weed earlier, but now that Father wants to reconcile I am prepared to wander all over the county in search of him. There is no need: before I reach the footpath I find him lying on the ground, hidden among the plants of the dye garden. His hand rests lightly upon the bloodroot, almost as if he had been petting it.
Where have you been? Why have you not confided in me? How could you leave me alone all day with no companion but my own fears and unanswered questions? My thoughts are as tangled and thorny as a hedge of brambles, and I force them down, deep inside, so that I may speak calmly.
“Come inside, Weed,” I say. “Father has returned; he wishes to speak to you.”
Weed scowls and turns away.
“He saved the man’s foot because of your advice. Don’t you wish to know what happened?”
“This is how it was at the madhouse,” Weed mutters. “I tried to help people who were sick. Then everyone became furious.” He looks up at me, anger and confusion in his eyes. “I do not understand. Is it wrong to help?”
“No! Helping others is God’s work. It is what we are put on earth to do.” I hold out a hand, which he ignores. “Father is not angry with you, Weed. Do not misunderstand his strong feelings. It is only because he so passionately wishes to cure people who are in need, and he does not always know how.”
Weed glances warily at the cottage. “Is that what he wishes to speak to me about?”
“I think so. Will you come?”
“Do you wish me to, Jessamine?”
He gazes upon me then, and his emerald eyes seem to take me in from top to bottom. I feel so bared, my hands flutter to my dress to make sure it is still on. It is, but I am suddenly, exquisitely aware of how the currents of warm air move against my skin.
Weed rises to his feet. “Nature,” he says softly, “makes so many beautiful things.” He leans close to me, as if he would catch my scent. “But I did not know – until you – that nature could make a girl so beautiful.”
His voice holds me in its tender spell. His eyes graze over my body without shyness – he takes me in as a landscape, a lush terrain of swells and valleys.
He leans forward then. My heart thumps so strongly in my chest I am sure he must hear it. His face comes close, closer to mine – so close, a stray lock of his wild hair caresses my cheek.
I should move away. I do not. Instead, I close my eyes. My lips part and a sense of yearning fills me, a longing for something I cannot name. It is a force larger than myself that moves through me, ancient as the earth. There is no choice but to surrender.
He kisses me. His lips are petal soft against mine, his body strong and lithe as a poplar. He smells of rich, fertile earth.
After an eternity he releases me. Without waiting for my reaction, he turns and strides back to the cottage.
When I regain power over my limbs, I make my way back to the cottage in fits and starts, like a leaf tossed about by the wind. I hesitate at the door – am I even recognisable? The news must be written all over me, illustrated on my flesh. The moment Father lays eyes on me he will know I am transformed, and demand to know how, and why – oh, my lips burn, all the skin on my body burns! A tisane of lavender and hyssop would calm me, but I do not wish to be calmed!
I wish only for Weed, to see Weed again, to touch him, and I will, the moment I pass through the door of the cottage—
Weed stands in the parlour, shoulders hunched, staring down at the table, upon which Father’s handkerchief lies. Father sits in his chair at the head of the table. Neither of them looks at me or says hello.
Father flips open the white linen, revealing the belladonna berries.
“As it turned out, I did not need the belladonna this time, Weed. Thanks to your poultice, the man’s wounds started to heal cleanly, with no gangrene or fever.”
Father covers the berries again and slips the handkerchief into his pocket.
“You have knowledge that can help people, Weed. That much is obvious. I wish to know where you acquired this knowledge, so that I may follow in your footsteps. But if you will not or cannot tell me, then at least teach me some of what you know.”
Weed’s eyes stay fixed on the table. “I have nothing to teach,” he says in a low voice.
“Your humility is admirable, but of no use to anyone.” Father rises from his chair and sits on the edge of the table, nearer to Weed. “It is time to be frank with each other. I value your knowledge, Weed. I admire it. I admit, I envy it. Think of it: belladonna, hemlock, black henbane – the lost formula for a twilight sleep! A sleep so profound a man would not feel his own limb being cut off.”
He looks at Weed as if expecting some reaction, but there is none. Father seems to interpret this as interest, or at least a willingness to hear more, for he goes on.
“Behind the walls of my apothecary garden are other rare and even more dangerous plants. Many I acquired without fully understanding their uses – perhaps I found a name mentioned in some obscure, ancient medical text, or came upon an old cure related by a beggar who claimed to have heard it from an ancient witch woman he met once. Based upon such vague hints and clues, and often following nothing more than my own blind instincts, I have bought and traded plants from all over the world. The most powerful ones live behind that locked gate.”
Weed’s face is impassive; his attention seems to have turned inward. Undaunted, Father continues.
“I have gone to great pains to try to learn the uses and properties of these plants. I have spent countless hours in pursuit of this knowledge. You could save me a great deal of time and effort, if you would only speak—” Father stops himself. He stands, and spreads his hands before Weed in a gesture of supplication. “Weed. I wish to take you into the apothecary garden. I want you to look at the plants that grow there and tell me what you know of them.”
Weed recoils as if struck. “No!” he exclaims. “That garden is dangerous. Dangerous for me – dangerous for everyone.”
Father scowls, puzzled. So far he has not even acknowledged my presence, but I step forward now to explain. “Father, even walking near the apothecary garden made Weed feel very ill. Perhaps he is afraid that some harm may come to him if he enters it.”
To my amazement, Father places his hands gently on Weed’s shoulders. He speaks warmly, as a father would speak to a beloved son. “It may be a difficult thing I ask of you, but I implore you to at least try. Remember, it is not for me I ask. Think of the people who might be cured.”
I have never seen Father speak so humbly, so earnestly, to anyone.
Weed turns his gaze to me. Our eyes meet, and though the table is between us, it is suddenly as if our kiss never ended. Even now I am standing in his arms, our lips pressed together, breathing his clean, sun-warmed scent.
“Jessamine.” His voice warms me, deep inside. “What would you have me do?”
Father looks at me too, waiting for my answer. I know full well what he would have me say. Oh, I am torn! Heaven knows how much and for how long I have yearned to go inside that forbidden garden – but does Weed know something I do not?
Think of the people who might be cured…
That is what Father said, but in my heart I hear: it is too late to save Mama…but think of the others…
“Father will not allow any harm to come to you,” I say firmly. “You must trust him fully, just as you trust me. And I will come into the garden too,” I add, looking hard at Father, “and stay by your side every minute, Weed.”
Father nods his assent.
“As you wish.” Weed sounds reluctant, but resigned, as if a long-dreaded fate he knows he cannot escape has finally come to pass. “Tomorrow it is then.”
With no warning, Father turns and hugs me, tightly, as if I were a child. I cannot remember the last time he has done that. I know it has been years.
“Into the garden we go, Jessamine,” he murmurs into my hair. “It is time.”