She felt a warning pulse at her temples. Since headaches had been a regular visitor, she resolved to ignore it and focus on her outing. Throughout the square, she saw signs of bustling commerce. Cheerfully painted signs and tidy storefront displays declared that the village was open for business. She peered through the sparkling windows of several establishments that she’d previously visited with Xenia and Gigi.
In Mr. Khan’s bookshop, patrons occupied brightly upholstered chairs, nibbling on sweets as they perused a paper or the latest novel. The drapery appeared packed, with matrons circling around its owner, Mr. Duffield, an affable blond Adonis who was a particular friend of Gigi’s. As Evie didn’t share her sister-in-law’s interest in fashion, she continued past the draper’s as well as the dressmaker’s atelier and a newly opened millinery.
Unfortunately, her megrim was getting worse, and she hadn’t come across an apothecary which might have a remedy. Getting back to Bottoms House on foot was going to be a problem. She navigated a section of the path that was cluttered with stacked crates and barrels of produce. When a fellow suddenly stepped from behind a towering heap of lettuce, she collided with him.
“Oh, dear,” she gasped. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
Flustered, she looked down to meet the man’s gaze. He was a shade over four feet tall, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a crisp white and green apron that matched the colors of the painted sign above the shop, which announced that this was “Pickleworth Produce—Purveyor of Berkshire’s Freshest and Finest.”
“I didn’t see you,” she said apologetically.
He raised his brows. “Haven’t heard that before, have I?”
Before she could think of a response, he held out a green sprig.
“Try this,” he said.
Since it didn’t sound like a suggestion, she took the leafy stalk and sampled it.
“The watercress is delicious, sir,” she said sincerely. “Crisp and fresh, with a peppery bite.”
“It was harvested just this morning.” He gave her a look of approval. “Liam Pickleworth, at your service, my lady. Go on inside, and my Loretta will wrap some up for you.”
Since it seemed rude to decline, Evie entered the shop. The softer light eased the pounding in her head, as did the scent of fruits and vegetables. The walls were painted a calming shade of green. Wooden shelves displayed baskets of the season’s harvest, which included stalwart carrots, tender cabbage, and forced rhubarb. A long table offered a plethora of prepared treats, from pickled vegetables to jams and honey. Bouquets of herbs sat in vases of water, and Evie paused to smell the peppermint, inhaling the fresh and cooling scent.
“Good morning, dove. I’m Loretta Pickleworth.”
She turned at the approach of a petite, rosy-cheeked blonde. The greengrocer’s wife also wore a striped apron, but hers had a fanciful green frill along the pockets and hem.
“Oh, hello. I’m Evelyn Harrington.”
“I know who you are, my lady.” Mrs. Pickleworth smiled. “How may I help you?”
“Um, Mr. Pickleworth said I was to ask for watercress.”
“What my Liam says and what the patron wants isn’t always the same, is it?” The proprietress’s emerald eyes twinkled. “I’m pleased to fetch the watercress, which is greener than a schoolboy on his first day. But perhaps you were looking for something else?”
Evie was unable to resist the lady’s smile.
“Actually.” She peered around the shop. “You wouldn’t have any willow bark on hand, would you? I have a bit of a megrim and didn’t see an apothecary in the square.”
“The nearest apothecary is in Chudleigh Crest, my lady.”
Evie’s temples throbbed in protest.
“Luckily, I have something better than willow bark,” Mrs. Pickleworth said. “We’ll have your megrim fixed in no time. Come along now.”
As her head was fuzzy with pain, Evie didn’t put up a struggle. She simply followed when Mrs. Pickleworth led her out the back door. She blinked at her new surroundings. The pretty, sun-drenched courtyard had been transformed into a physic garden and was filled with troughs of plants. Despite her headache, Evie identified most of the herbs immediately.
“Chamomile and meadowsweet,” she murmured. “And, over there, is that motherwort?”
“Indeed, my lady. Are you interested in herbs?”
A memory flashed of opening her mama’s carved wood case, a spicy, floral scent tickling her nostrils. She saw herself picking up one of the tiny tincture bottles. The drops fell like tears into the glass, vanishing in the amber liquid…
“No.” Evie slammed the door on the past. “Not specifically. But I have a general interest in botany.”
If the tremor in her voice betrayed her, Mrs. Pickleworth didn’t seem to notice. The lady led her into a small shed; inside, the space seemed to expand as if by magic. Somehow, there was ample room for wood cabinets, a drying rack, a small hearth and sink, as well as a seating area. At her hostess’s bidding, Evie sat at the cozy table, examining the packets of herbs scattered across its surface. Spotting a familiar book, she ran her fingers lovingly over the worn cover.
