Lady Marguerite hated the way the ground sank and the water oozed up. A smell of wet mud filled her nostrils. It had taken her all morning to find the right ground conditions for the specimen she needed and she wasn’t going to give up now, even if it did mean getting wet feet.
She slogged on across the meadow, stepping on the highest tussocks. At least, for the first time in a week, it wasn’t raining. Indeed, it was a lovely spring day. Or it would be if she hadn’t had to go specimen hunting in the boggy ground of a water meadow.
There! Finally. The yellow flower she was seeking. Caltha palustris. Or marsh marigold, as she had known it as a child. She picked her way over to the tall plant, aware that the water level here was higher than ever. Now each step created deep puddles that threatened her jean half-boots.
Ugh. She hated this part of her work. Gathering plants in the wild. Petra would have adored it, but Petra was married and gone. The gentleman paying Marguerite to draw plants for his book was supposed to provide her with the specimens, but he’d said they were more prolific in Kent than where he lived and asked her to find one for herself.
She had thought it would be easy. She had seen them everywhere last spring. Unfortunately, she needed one in flower and very few were in bloom yet.
She tugged on the stalk. After a slight resistance, it pulled free of the muddy earth. She inspected it from root to tip. There were more plants, closer to the stream. Should she try for one with more flowers? This one had only two blossoms and one bud.
‘Ouch!’ A high-pitched scream rang out across the field.
Marguerite glanced wildly around. More screams. A child, she thought. At the edge of the field. She picked up her skirts and headed in the direction of the sound.
‘Ooh! Ooh! It hurts. Ouch. Ouch.’
Was someone striking a little girl?
She flung her sample aside and ran, ignoring the water soaking through her boots. Then she saw two little girls, the bigger of them dancing around flapping her hands and making the sounds Marguerite had heard. There was no sign of any menacing presence. Marguerite rushed up to the one who was clearly in pain.
‘What is it?’
‘Ouch. Ouch.’ Tears were running down the child’s face. ‘I was picking flowers and something bit me.’
The younger child came over to stand beside her...sister? They looked alike. Brown hair. Big brown eyes and dressed exactly the same. Where on earth had they come from?
Marguerite grabbed one of the flapping hands and inspected it. Raised bumps with scarlet edges. She knew exactly what had happened. She cast her gaze around until she found what she wanted. Dock leaves. She scrunched up a couple to free their juices, then began rubbing them all over the little girl’s hands.
After a few moments, the little girl’s cries subsided to a whimper and she gazed up at Marguerite, her face sad. ‘Why did the flower bite me?’ She pointed to a little blue cornflower.
Marguerite winced. ‘It didn’t. It is hiding in a bed of stinging nettles. Those tall green plants. That is what hurt you.’
‘Stinging nettles?’ She kicked out at the plant.
Marguerite pulled her back. ‘Careful. They can easily sting through your stockings.’ Hadn’t every child in England learned that the hard way?
The younger child crouched down and peered at the nearest nettle. ‘Nasty flower,’ she said.
Marguerite inspected the older child’s hand. It was still swollen and sore looking. She rubbed some more. ‘You put your hand right into the middle of them.’
The child gazed at her sadly, tears staining her little face. ‘Why do they sting?’
‘To stop you from picking them. Or rather, to stop grazing animals from eating them. It is the way the plant protects itself.’
The little girl pulled her hand from Marguerite’s and inspected the damage. ‘It still hurts. And I wasn’t going to pick it. I was picking the blue one.’
‘It will hurt for a while, I am afraid. And itch.’ She picked more dock leaves. ‘Keep rubbing the sore places with this until it goes away.’
She glanced around. They were a good mile from Ightham village and even further from her home in Westram. ‘Where do you live?’
The smaller child pointed away from Ightham. ‘Over there. In a big house.’ She spread her arms to aid in her description.
Marguerite knew of only one big house in this particular area, though she had never visited it. Good lord. Marguerite had assumed they were children of villagers, or tenants, but now that she had time to look more closely, she could see that their dresses and pinafores were of far too good a quality to be worn by children of common folk. ‘You mean Bedwell Hall. You are Lord Compton’s daughters?’
The older girl left off sucking the back of her hand and nodded.
Marguerite recalled her abandoned specimen with a sigh. She’d have to pick one another day, because these children should not be wandering around in the fields alone. What on earth could Lord Compton be thinking?
‘Come along, ladies. It is time you went home.’
The younger one giggled. ‘Ladies.’
‘You are ladies, are you not?’ Marguerite said.
The older one left off her rubbing. ‘I am Lady Elizabeth and she is Lady Jane. Everyone calls me Lizzie.’
‘I’m Janey,’ the younger one added.
Marguerite took their hands. How tiny they were. And grubby. It made her think of her childhood. When she had been young and innocent. She could scarcely remember it. Mama had died when she was very young and then it seemed as if she had become mother to her siblings, especially to her sister, Petra.
And now Petra had remarried, leaving Marguerite entirely alone. She liked it that way. She really did. Not having to care for anyone else, being able to do exactly as she pleased, when she pleased, was heaven. And if she needed company, she could always call on Petra and her new husband, Ethan, or go for a visit to Carrie and Avery at their home in the north of England.
Right now, Petra and her husband were off visiting Ethan’s elderly relative in Bath. Ethan had thought Petra was looking a little peaky and had thought a change of air would do her good. Bless the man. He really was good to her younger sister.
They climbed a stile and crossed a narrow laneway bounded by a high wall.
‘The gate is that way,’ Lizzie said.
They really were quite a distance