Mycroft.
My brother had the ability to sort out things just by studying them for a moment. The skill had served him well in chess. After only two or three moves, he would tell the other player what their moves would be and the inevitable outcome of them being checkmated. Most people refused to play with him after a single game.
I found him in the library, gazing out the window on the far wall, tea cup and saucer in hand.
From the doorway, I asked, “May I come in?”
With a slow turn, he faced me. “What do you want?”
“I…I need your help.”
He drew back his chin. “Go on.”
“I…I found this—” I pulled out the ledger. “I don’t understand it. I thought you might—”
He held out his hand and drew me forward with his fingers. “Let’s see it.”
I placed the leather-bound book in his hand and watched him study the pages. A frown wrinkled his brow, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. After a moment, he handed it back to me.
“Where did you get this?”
“From the greenhouse. You know that little stand Mother has by the back door?” When he didn’t respond, I asked, “Can you read it?”
“It’s a simple code.” Following a moment when he stared at me as if seeing through me, he strode to the bookshelves, pulled out one volume, and passed it open to me. “They describe it in here.”
Sure enough, markings similar to the one in the ledger were described there. “Why would she need to write in code?”
“Because she’s prescribing medicinal herbs.”
“Is it”—I glanced behind me before asking in a low voice—“legal?”
“It all depends, I guess, what they are given for.”
After considering that bit of information, I asked, “Do you find Mrs. Winston listed there?”
After a quick check of the code description, he took back Mother’s ledger and ran his finger down one column of the last page of entries and stopped about two-thirds down. “Here’s a Rachel Winston. Isn’t she one of the Devony’s maids? Says here, ‘Queen Anne seeds. One ounce, crushed.’”
“Queen Anne seeds,” I said, letting the name roll around on my tongue. In my mind, I could see the plant growing in various pots along one bench in the conservatory. Mother would harvest the seeds from the tiny white flowers.
“What is the plant for?”
“Daucus carota,” I said, reciting my mother’s instructions, “Also called the wild carrot because the root is edible and similar to the carrot. It can be used for digestive problems and to stimulate urine.”
“That’s it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“And caution must be taken not to confuse it with hemlock.”
“Does any of that make sense for Mrs. Winston?”
I thought for a moment. “She needed the seeds. Crushed. And said something about babies…. They somehow inhibit having babies. But why would—?”
“Because children can be a burden, you fool. Think about the Stratons, for pity’s sake.”
The Stratons were tenants on the estate next to ours. Everyone could recite the woes of the recently widowed John Straton. His wife had died after the birth of her fifth child, and the village congregation had taken up a collection for the family to cover her burial.
As I contemplated this bit of information, Mycroft’s frown deepened, and he put his hands on his hips. “Do you know where children come from?”
We had farm animals, so I’d heard Father and others discussing— “You mean mating? Like animals?”
“We are animals, you know. Some a lot closer to them than others, I suppose.” He turned to the bookshelves again and removed another book. “Here, study this and leave me alone.”
Without examining the book, I gathered it, the one on codes, and the ledger and carried them to my room. The bed had already been straightened, but I clambered upon the covers and propped myself against the pillows after kicking off my shoes to avoid Mrs. Simpson’s scolding about mussing the coverlet.
The tome Mycroft had given me was a sort of medical text written in French. I flipped through the pages and immediately recognized my mother’s notes in the margins of some of the pages. Notes covering different ailments and treatments—all in some way related to the plants growing in the conservatory.
When I turned to the section entitled Anatomie, I slowed my study. While I had seen drawings of the various organs in my previous biology studies, I had not seen these types of graphics before. Here were detailed illustrations of both the male and female bodies. I ran my finger over the page-sized reproduction of a mature woman’s breast, stomach, and the dark triangle where her legs met. A strange warming raced through me and settled in my groin.
I turned the page to a detailed drawing of a penis, standing stiff away from the body. Various arrows indicated the technical terms for the parts. On the adjoining page was that dark triangle exposed. Just a few quick strokes indicated the thighs, but what lay between them appeared in great detail with the names of all the parts duly noted. I touched the oval in the middle marked le vagin, and another rush pulsed through me, setting my groin throbbing.
My entire body grew hot.
A moment later, I snapped the book shut, unable to continue. My heart drummed against my chest, and I checked the door, certain someone was going to enter and see me with this book. I must have broken some moral code or rule of etiquette by even viewing these pages, despite the scientific nature of the book.
After several deep breaths, my heart rate slowed and my agitation lessened. Then, the hall clock chimed one, and my throat tightened. I had only a few minutes before I would be called for dinner. I leapt off my bed, and quickly searched the room for a place to hide the book. I had just slipped it and the other volumes between my old lesson books when Mrs. Simpson rapped on the door.
“Dinner is ready,” she said through the wood.
“Be right there.”
After splashing some water on my face, I rushed downstairs to the dining room.
When I entered, Mycroft lifted one side of his mouth and asked in French, “What took you so long?”
Once again, heat flooded my face. He knew what I would find in the book, and my reaction. What’s more, I was certain that it’d been his intention all along. Now, he was taking a great deal of amusement out of the whole act.
“I was checking that book of codes,” I said, hoping to divert the subject. “Most interesting.”
“I’m sure,” he said and chuckled at his plate while he cut his meat.
My knuckles whitened as I gripped my own knife and fork. I felt as if the whole world could sense my secret.
How would I ever face my mother?
Ducking my head, I poked at my food, too afraid to meet my brother’s or father’s gaze.
I’d only managed to choke down a few bites of meat when the thumping of heavy boots announced Uncle Ernest’s arrival. Anticipation of my mother’s reaction to my discovery regarding the blood pushed out all other thoughts.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
Father raised his gaze from his plate and studied him. “Where have you been?”