Kehinde turned toward the door. “I will never forget, Elswyth. But I have chosen not to let it consume me. Time heals all wounds, I suppose, even those we wish to keep fresh. But it always leaves a scar. Goodnight, Miss Elderwood.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Myrtle is prized as an ornamental plant for its sweet fragrance. In ancient Rome, women bathed in crowns of myrtle as a wedding ritual, and it is one of the four sacred species in Judaism. In floriography, myrtle meanslove.
The season ended. Autumn came. Those days were the worst. Her stomach had healed, but the rift between Elswyth and Percival had not. By week’s end, she was to leave London forever. The train tickets were bought and her wedding with Ficus planned for the following Sunday. Her father’s letters sat unread on the writing desk with the rest of them. Mrs. Rose tried more than once to excite her with the prospect of wedding planning, but Elswyth merely nodded along. She did not care much for gowns or flowers at the moment.
Instead, Elswyth set about the business of packing up her life in London. Her gowns disappeared into trunks, her books into boxes. Her plant specimens could not come with her, and she fretted over disposing of them. But some days, she could not bring herself to do a thing. She lay in bed, not reading, not even sleeping. Merely staring at the crumbling ceiling, thinking about theprince. About Persephone. About how horribly she had failed. About the life that waited for her when she returned.
It was in one of these moments that Mrs. Rose knocked on the door. Elswyth called that she might enter, and Mrs. Rose looked fearfully around the room. Molding plates of food sat by the doorway, boxes of soiled clothes stood half-packed in piles, and potted plants had spilled their dirt onto the floor. Elswyth lay in bed, sweating amid crumpled sheets.
“Erm—Elswyth, dear,” Mrs. Rose said, “you have a visitor.”
Elswyth said nothing. She stared at the ceiling.
Mrs. Rose stepped toward her. It pained Elswyth to see the worried look on her face, her unfiltered pity. It made her furious and saddened at the same time, but the feelings didn’t seem to rise to the surface of her.
Mrs. Rose placed the tray she’d been carrying by the bedside. It held a saucer with tea and biscuits. Two identical plates already sat on the end table, the tea untouched, the biscuits stale. Mrs. Rose frowned, placed the hot cup down, and took the old plates away.
“Normally, I would ask if you are willing to take a guest,” Mrs. Rose said, “but I’m afraid I’m going to make that decision for you today.”
A voice called from the doorway, “Is she decent?”
Mrs. Rose sighed. “As she can be.”
Dr. Gall appeared. He looked around the room, eyes squinting beneath his spectacles. “Oh my…” he said.
Elswyth tried to straighten up in bed. Her stomach ached, but the prospect of conversation with Dr. Gall seemed pleasant, actually. He’d ceased coming as frequently since her wounds had healed.
“Dr. Gall,” she said, “I hadn’t expected you.”
“Well, I knew you were leaving. And I wanted to check on you. How is your stomach?”
“Much better. Thanks to you,” she said.
Gall smiled. Mrs. Rose left the bedside, moving toward the door. “Can I get you anything, Oleander? Tea?”
“No, no thank you, Mrs. Rose. I’ll only be here for a quick visit.”
Mrs. Rose smiled, but her demeanor was joyless. “I shall be downstairs. If you need anything, Elswyth, just ring.” With that, she left, and Elswyth was alone with Dr. Gall. He had a few small packages with him, which he seemed to remember. He offered them to her.
“A few things of yours left over at the Royal Gardens.”
Elswyth picked through them. Books and journals, mostly. There was one package, however, wrapped in brown paper and strung with twine.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Gall seemed bashful. “Oh, a thank-you. For being my assistant. Please, open it.”
Elswyth surprised herself with a weak smile. She unstrung the twine and tore into the package. A canvas book greeted her, set with intricate gold filigree in the shape of toadstools.
Elswyth read aloud.“Introduction to the Plants and Fungi of the British Wildwood. Second Edition.”
Gall twisted his hands nervously. “Because—because you are going back home. I figure, there aren’t many comprehensive texts on the botany of the Wildwood. This one is rubbish. You could—Well, I suppose I’ve just admitted to purchasing you a rubbish book. What I mean is, if you’re going to be spending time there… you could write your own. A not-rubbish one.” Gall cleared his throat. “Bollocks. That didn’t come out well, did it?”
“Are you all right, Dr. Gall? You seem nervous.”
Gall fidgeted again. He gestured to the stool next to her bed. “Yes, I suppose I am. May I sit, Elswyth?”
