Page 4 of Bane Bloom

He nodded tightly. “The Society owns a cottage on a small lake in Cumberland.”

An Extraordinary Outcome

Papa and I lived no more than half a mile from the Physic Garden, and as I made my way down Cheyne Walk alongside the Thames, I was aware it was a fine spring day—the market near our house busy and bustling, air filled with bright voices and laughter, and many pleasure boats upon the water.

But I barely noticed any of it, stunned by the result of my meeting with Mr. Harding. So stunned, in fact, that I bumped, physically and literally, into Gabriel Rossetti, a young poet and painter who was a friend of my father’s.

“Mr. Rossetti!” I blurted out, stepping back. “Please forgive me. I’m afraid I was lost in thought.”

“Miss Gray,” he said, picking up my portfolio from the cobblestones and handing it to me with a smile in his soulful, round eyes. “Think nothing of it. I’m afraid I was rather glazed, myself. Bill Hunt has been painting my portrait all morning, and if you’ve never sat for a painting—well, suffice it to say I’ve a newfound respect for my own models.”

Rossetti and Hunt had together founded the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a fellowship of like-minded artists. They harked back to a style of painting that was rich in detail and vibrant, sensual color. Rossetti had invited my father to commune with them, but Papa had protested that he was too old.

I returned Rossetti’s smile and was about to take my leave when he raised an eyebrow and said, “I consider our meeting fortuitous—despite its violent inception—as I’ve been meaning to look out for you and invite you to join Hunt and me and the others. Perhaps your father may have conveyed to you my hopes that you would?”

Papa would have never. While I liked Rossetti, and my father was fond of him, Papa suspected the Brotherhood to be a nest of rakes and had warned me away from them.

“The name would appear to preclude me, sir,” I said wryly.

The painter laughed. “Not at all, Miss Gray. There are women among us. I’ve glimpsed an illustration of yours now and again when visiting your father, and you are quite good.”

This raised a blush. Not only charming, Rossetti was gifted and had already caused a stir in the art world. But scandal had indeed dogged him and his band of freethinkers.

“While I am flattered”—he opened his mouth to protest, and I quickly continued—“I have just now accepted a commission from the Society of Apothecaries and shall be leaving London soon.”

His eyes widened. “You don’t say! Well, this is excellent news. What sort of commission?”

“There’s an old glasshouse on a lake in Cumberland that contains an important apothecary garden. They need someone to illustrate and catalog it.”

Rossetti gave a low whistle. “How romantic, Miss Gray! That’s quite a journey, but a prestigious commission. How is the pay, if I may ask?”

Again my cheeks warmed. “In all honesty, it’s more audition than commission. I want them to let me apprentice to the Society once I’ve completed my task.”

“Ah, you are scientifically minded, then?”

I thought about this. I’d been making botanical sketches since I was a girl, which had led me to studying books and field guides on plants. I’d taken a genuine interest in their medicinal uses. But a scientific one? Growing up without a mother, I had been lonely. I’d developed a kind of kinship with the flora I sketched, which I supposed was how I had come to anthropomorphize them with fairies. In a way, they’d become companions to me.

But I wasn’t sure Rossetti’s polite question required such a fulsome answer.

“That might be overstating it,” I said. “But I have an aptitude and an interest, and the idea of steady employment has its own appeal. I consider it a great opportunity.”

Rossetti nodded. “I comprehend you, Miss Gray. And I wish you the very best with it.” He tipped his hat. “Please give my best to your father, too. I’ll look in on him more while you’re away, if you like.”

I was touched by this. I hadn’t allowed myself to think at all yet about leaving Papa. “If it’s no trouble, Mr. Rossetti, I would be in your debt.”

With another nod he continued on his way, calling over his shoulder, “You must promise to tell me all about it when you get back!”

I waved and walked on, bolstered by the exchange. By Rossetti’s kindness, but also the fact he had treated me as an equal in all aspects of the conversation, from the invitation to join his fellowship to his seemingly genuine interest in my commission. If he considered my ambition improper or even threatening, as many men might, I’d seen no hint of it in his countenance.

But alas, my confidence flagged again as I reached home, the neat brick town house Papa and I shared with one maid of all work, one sharp-tongued cockatoo, the odd rat, and numerous easels and paint-splattered tarps. The narrow house had four levels including the attic where Nancy slept. The floor below the attic served as Papa’s bedroom and studio, and I was on the floor below that. The small sitting room, the dining room, and the kitchen were on the ground floor. The house’s front windows overlooked Cheyne Walk and the river.

As I stepped off the walk and opened the front door, my heart tapped out a worried rhythm. I knew better than to expect Rossetti’s enthusiasm from Papa.

My nerves, it turned out, had been justified.

“Cumberland, Cricket?” cried Papa, dismay plain on his face. “That is the very wilds of England!”

“Don’t be daft!” Hattie the cockatoo squawked at me from her perch. Her commentary was rarely so contextually relevant, as she knew only a handful of phrases. She might as easily have offered, “Blasted rat!”