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Authors: Maryrose Wood, The Duchess Of Northumberland
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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 only then that I notice the belladonna is still sitting out in the parlor. Carefully I secure the lid and return the jar to Father’s study.
Before I put the jar back on the shelf, I hold mycandle 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.
8
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.
W EED 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 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 whenI 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 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
“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 only then that I notice the belladonna is still sitting out in the parlor. Carefully I secure the lid and return the jar to Father’s study.
Before I put the jar back on the shelf, I hold mycandle 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.
8
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.
W EED 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 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 whenI 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 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
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