15th May
NO WORK IS PERMITTED TODAY. IT IS A HOLIDAY!
I have declared it to be Weed’s birthday. He is still puzzled by the notion, so I suppose I will have to explain it to him. In any case, it is a pleasant excuse to skip chores and have a picnic.
Weed is seventeen now, more or less.
After the incident with the dandelion I know better than to weave daisy chains and drape them around his neck in honour of the day (or the week, or the month – birthday calculations are no more than a guess, in Weed’s case).
I ask him if I may give him a small gift. I do not wish to embarrass him or be intrusive, but I know he is not likely to have received many birthday presents in his life. I would like to remedy that a little, if I could.
“You may, if you like,” is his shrugged reply. “If it would make you happy.”
“It would, but it is more important that it make you happy. That is the whole point of a present. Is there something in particular you would enjoy?”
He smiles and says only, “Good soil, sun and rain. What more does one need in the spring?”
Not willing to take dirt, sun and rain for an answer, I secretly begin to knit him a scarf, in shades of green and brown, interwoven with flecks of daffodil yellow. Since it will not be finished for a few days yet, I also choose a book I think Weed might find interesting, from among some of Father’s recent purchases in London.
I bake a tray of small seedcakes with a honey glaze. I wrap them in linen napkins and place them in a basket to take with us on our afternoon ramble, along with a bottle of cider, the book I plan to give as a gift, and some paper and charcoal pencils for sketching in case the mood strikes us.
Father is gone for the day on some explorations of his own. I am glad of his absence, to be truthful – he watches Weed too carefully now, ever since our trip to the walled garden and Weed’s subsequent brief illness. He hovers too close, asks too many questions. Certainly that is no way to spend a birthday!
Weed waits, somewhat bemused, as I prepare the basket. Finally we head off. Together we walk a long way, until we find a pleasant grassy knoll where we can sit and unpack our lunch. The air is sweet and buzzes with the hum of insect wings.
“Don’t you envy the bees – the way they can crawl right inside the flower?” I say, swatting some of the eager intruders away from the sticky glaze on the cakes. “It must be so soft and sweet-smelling in there among the petals. I wonder if it tickles?”
“I have reason to think it does,” Weed replies contentedly, gazing up at the sky. “The bees have a very close knowledge of the blossom.”
“More so than even the greatest botanists.” I pour two small glasses of cider and hand one to Weed, who murmurs his customary words of grace. “I used to think I would like to be a botanist someday, but Father forbids me to study. Luckily he always leaves stacks of books by his chair in the parlour. I often sneak one or two when he is not looking.”
“That is dishonest,” Weed says, not sounding particularly disturbed.
I take a nibble of seedcake, still warm from the hearth. “I have no choice. Father says, ‘Anyone who thinks botany is a fit profession for a lady does not know much about plants.’ ”
Weed rolls on his side and smiles. “It sounds as if he believes there is something sinful about horticulture.”
“Oh, but there is!” I remove the book from the bottom of the basket and open it. “This volume describes the classification system of the Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus, whom Father mentioned when we walked together in the apothecary garden. If it pleases you, you may have it as a birthday present.”
“Thank you,” Weed says. “I may not understand it, but thank you.”
I cannot help but laugh. “I hope you will understand it! Linnaeus says the plants get married and make new plant families, and then those families intermarry and create the species, and then the species intermarry and produce the varieties. You can see why Father would object.”
“I suppose,” says Weed. “But at least they were all legally wed.” He rolls over then and asks me quite bluntly, “Will you marry someday, Jessamine?”
“Of course,” I blurt, suddenly flustered. “Or – I don’t know. I suppose I will, but one must first – that is to say, a suitable person would have to propose to me, and I would have to accept, and my father would also have to approve.” Does he not even remember how we kissed? I think, bewildered. Surely it is not my place to remind him!
“What is suitable?” he asks, all innocence.
“Weed, your questions are so bold today!” I make myself sound cross to conceal how confused I feel. “A suitable person would be someone whom I cared for, who cared for me, and was kind and understanding and able to make a good home with me.”
“Was I wrong to kiss you if I am not suitable then?”
His words have the impact of a blow. “You were certainly wrong to kiss me,” I exclaim, “if you meant nothing by it!”
“Jessamine! I am sorry. Please – don’t cry!”
But it is too late; my feelings spill out in a rain of tears. “What does that mean, that you are not suitable?” I gasp out between sobs. “Do you not care for me at all then?”
“Of course I care for you!” he exclaims. Even through my own tears I can see there is real pain in his eyes, and surprise as well. “And do you also care for me?”
“Yes,” I confess. “Yes, I do.”
But I cannot speak more, because he kisses me again, differently this time – this kiss is no tender question, but the luxurious, entitled kiss of one who now knows his feelings are returned. The sweet taste of seedcakes and cider mingles on our lips. My quickening heart fills my ears with a rushing sound, like the wind in the grass, like the sea.
After what seems a blissful aeon, he pulls away and gazes upon me. His look is so full of innocence, like a wild thing – utterly guileless and full of mystery at the same time.
“Weed,” I say, now smiling through my tears. “You are really not like anyone else I have ever met.”
“I know,” he says darkly. “I know.”
The next morning brings a fresh surprise: Father needs us to run an errand in Alnwick – not just in the town, but at the castle itself. I am excited, as I have only been inside the castle gates a few times in my life.
Weed is unimpressed by all that, but is content to escort me on the journey. I briefly wonder if Father had considered sending Weed alone, but perhaps Father does not fully trust Weed with his precious medicines just yet – for that is our errand, to deliver a packet of fever remedy to one of the duke’s servants.
It is a little more than an hour’s walk to Alnwick, a modest distance to experienced wanderers like Weed and myself. But there is a storm brewing low in the eastern sky, blowing in from the sea. We set off early at a brisk pace, in the hopes of returning home before it breaks. When we arrive at the crossroads, Weed stops.
“North, south, east, west,” he says quietly. “Four directions in which to run away. But now all I feel is how much I would like to stay at Hulne Abbey, with you.”
“I am glad,” I say. The depth of my joy is almost too much to express.
“It seems I have put down roots,” Weed adds as we turn down the southern road.
The closer we get to Alnwick, the more fellow travellers we encounter.
“It must be market day,” I observe, pulling my cloak around my head. “Too bad we cannot stay.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “Father always taught me to avoid mingling with the townspeople. When I was young, he worried that they might trick me into revealing some of his hard-earned knowledge. Now I suppose he worries that they might think me a witch.”
We cut quickly through the crowds, picking our way over cobblestone streets to Bailiffgate, through which the road to the castle passes.
“Father took me into the keep once or twice, many years ago, not long after Mama died and there was no one to watch me at Hulne Abbey,” I explain. “He comes to use the duke’s library.”
“Why is he permitted to do that?”
“It is in payment for his services. Years ago the duke offered him the old chapel to live in and a yearly income, if the people of Alnwick might have free use of his medical skills. Father replied that, since the chapel was only a ruin, he had no qualms about taking it off the duke’s hands, as long as he would be permitted to plant gardens all around, but he would rather have the run of the library than a salary. Oh, Weed, there it is – look.”
The road has led us to the bottom of a wildflower-strewn hill. Above and before us is the ancient, terrifying grandeur of Alnwick Castle.
“Yes,” Weed murmurs, his eyes still fixed on the ground. “It is beautiful – very beautiful indeed.”
According to Father’s instructions, the fever remedy is to be delivered to “Mrs S. Flume, Cook” . We gain entry by showing the guard the parcel and our letter of introduction from Father, which has the duke’s seal on it. Nodding, the guard directs us to the kitchen entrance, which is to the left and down a steep stone stairway.
Underground, it is like a colony of ants, with servants racing back and forth through a maze of tunnels that lead to every corner of the castle. The servants push wheeled carts through the tunnels at a breakneck pace; Weed and I must press ourselves flat against the wall to avoid being run over. The only light in the tunnels comes from above, through small circular windows made of thick glass set directly in the ground above our heads, like portholes in a capsized ship.
“Pardon me,” I shout above the clatter of wheels and dishes to a passing serving man. “We have a parcel for Mrs Flume. It is urgent.”
The man can barely hear us. “Who d’ye want?”
“Mrs S. Flume!”
“Susannah Flume, did you say? She’s not here, she’s…”
His explanation gets lost in the din. Through gestures I signal that I cannot understand, and he motions for us to follow him. He leads us down long tunnels, past the smoky, blazing-hot kitchen. Sweaty, bare-armed cooks and scullery maids chop, peel, stir, and keep themselves from passing out by drinking endless pints of small ale.
We keep going, through more winding tunnels and up a narrow stair that releases us back into the sunlight. We clamber down a grassy slope dotted with sheep until we reach the spot where an arched stone bridge spans the River Aln. Halfway across the bridge a great stone lion, the emblem of the duke’s family, stands guard.
“There’s the woman you seek,” the man says. “That child of hers couldn’t even get a proper burial – anyone dies these days, they say it’s the plague.” He gestures ahead. “That’s all the funeral the poor thing’ll have.”
On the bank of the river, a small group of people surround a weeping woman. At her feet is a large basket of wildflowers, picked from the abundance of the meadow. One by one, the mourners toss the flower stalks into the water. They float sadly on the current until they disappear around the curve of the river.
One of the party, a girl in rough linen apron, approaches us.
“Are you relatives?” she asks in a quivering voice.
“I am Jessamine Luxton,” I say quickly. “My father is Thomas Luxton, the apothecary. A fever remedy was sent for; we came to deliver it.”
“You are good to come, Miss Luxton, and you too, sir.” The girl curtsies to Weed. “You are very kind to come all this way. Tell your father – tell him we’re very grateful.” She can say no more, and someone leads her away.
Weed looks at me blankly, uncomprehending.
“We are too late,” I say, my eyes filling with tears.
The man who led us here nods. “Aye, miss. The child died this morning.”
“I am so sorry. Father only got word yesterday.”
“The fever came on too fast. Poor bairn.”
A fresh group of mourners arrives over the bridge, bearing more baskets of flowers.
Weed falls to his knees. “No!” he cries, reaching for the baskets. “No!”
The man lays a rough hand on Weed’s shoulder. “God gives ‘em and God takes ‘em away,” he says comfortingly. “Even a short time on this earth is a blessing, I reckon – but for those of us what get left behind, sometimes it feels too hard to bear, don’t I know it, son.”
“Such needless killing,” Weed murmurs, as he touches one of the blooms. “They have no power to help anyone now.” He covers his face with his hands.
Everyone thinks he is despondent over the dead child, but I see the way one hand lingers on the basket. My grief curdles into icy rage.
“What kind of freak are you?” I hiss in his ear. Then I turn and race back over the bridge. I cannot take the short cut beneath the castle this time, for I know I will never find my way through those tunnels alone. I must run the long way around, through the muddy pastures that surround the outer bailey until I find my way back to the road.
I am through Bailiffgate and halfway down Market Street again before Weed catches up with me. He chases after me, calling my name, begging me to stop and listen. But I plug my ears with anger and hurt. I am furious at him, and at myself for my confusion too. This is Weed you run from, the same Weed you care for so much – how could you be so drawn to one so heartless? Yes, despite everything, you still long for him to hold you, kiss you, even now you long for it –
He catches me and seizes my arm. His grip is hard. I cry out in pain.
“Forgive me – you must forgive me, Jessamine! Try to understand. I know I seem cold, or freakish – but I do not know how to feel what you feel – you will have to teach me—”
“I think you have no feelings at all!” I cry. “Not real ones anyway. The suffering of a daisy reduces you to tears. But a child – a dead child – dear God, Weed, you are monstrous!”
He flinches as if slapped.
“I am not monstrous,” he whispers hoarsely. “But I am different from you, Jessamine. Different from everyone. I see things – I hear things—”
“So do I! I see you knowing things you cannot possibly know. I hear you speaking when no one is near. I feel you keeping secrets from me, even as you hold me in your arms.” I try and fail to pull away from him. “I cannot bear it any more! Tell me what you are, Weed, or be gone from my life.”
He releases his grip and stands before me. A gust of wind catches his hair, and the first raindrops begin to fall from darkening skies. “All right,” he says after a moment. “I will tell you what you wish to know. Tomorrow at daybreak I will take you to the meadows. There you shall know everything.”
He glances up at the grey sky. “And then you will truly hate me for a monster,” he adds, as he walks ahead of me, into the storm.