“Yours is a sad story, Mrs. Estep—” Miss Taylor started, until Gemma cut her off.
“Gemma. My name is Gemma. I don’t claim Estep. Not after what that family has done to me. Paul died and no one told me. He was killed by an angry husband, in a duel over the man’s wife. I arrived in London expecting to see him, but he had already been buried.”
“Good Lord,” Mrs. Warbler whispered.
“Oh, there was no good lord involved. Lord Latimer is a hideous man. He claimed my husband’s estate and refused to offer me a widow’s portion. That money was my inheritance and the courts would not let me have it.”
“Because you are female,” Mrs. Warbler said. She looked to Miss Taylor. “Do you see now, Clarissa, why the matrons have pushed to see you settled with an honest man? A woman, even married, has little rights in society. I’m fortunate that although my husband rarely came home, he took care of me in the will.”
“The matrons?” Gemma asked.
“We ensure things are done right in this village.” Mrs. Warbler spoke with confidence. “And we know everything. We do,” she repeated as if Gemma needed to be convinced. “We know Mr. Thurlowe has grand designs on hosting a lecture series in Maidenshop. He claims his lectures will be more important than anything put on by the Royal Society in London.”
“That is a grand dream,” Gemma admitted. “But why would anyone come here for a lecture?”
“We are close to Cambridge,” Miss Taylor offered.
“Yes,” Mrs. Warbler agreed. “There is also, apparently, a number of disgruntled academics who feel the Royal Society is not interested in new voices. Mr. Thurlowe wants to give them a forum for their views.”
Miss Taylor nodded agreement. “He is dedicated to the idea.”
Mrs. Warbler looked to Gemma. “And that is his story. We want to hear yours. What are your plans for The Garland?”
For a second Gemma balked at being called out. Trust was difficult for her . . . and then she realized that was not the right way to repay these women’s kindness.
Miss Taylor stood next to Mrs. Warbler, interested in her answer. Jane was by the hearth, holding a hand up to the iron kettle to see if the water was heating.
Gemma cleared her voice, and said, “I’m going to turn The Garland into a tea garden, a genteel place where ladies are as welcome as gentlemen. I visited one in London and I was quite taken with the idea. There were whole families there for an afternoon outing. They had space for the children to run and a bowling green. The Garland has room aplenty for all of that and my flower beds and herb gardens. The music of the stream is so happy out there, I believe they will grow beautifully.”
“The Three Thieves,” Miss Taylor whispered.
“What?” Gemma asked.
“The name of the stream is the Three Thieves.”
“I imagine there is a tale there,” Gemma said, quite charmed with the name.
“If there is, I’ve never heard anyone say,” Miss Taylor answered.
“Well, then, we will have to make one up,” Gemma decided, the adventure in the name helping her vision grow clearer. “You see, I’m a healer and I am from a long line of them. My gran taught me how to brew tisanes and make salves. She gave me recipes that go back hundreds of years. I also create teas. There are many healing properties in a good tea. The ones I will serve will not only refresh, but also soothe and ward against bad airs and dangerous spirits.”
Mrs. Warbler cocked her head. “What of pains in the joints?” She touched her swollen knuckles as she spoke.
“Ah, that one is easy. I’ve been making a liniment for sore joints since I was a child. My father was sorely afflicted with pain and swore it was the only thing that could ease his aches. In fact, I have a small tin of it. I would be honored if you were to try it.”
“I would be happy to do so.”
Gemma stood. The world whirled for a second, a result of the sherry and her tired state, and yet, her excitement over sharing her plans with these women gave her the energy to fetch her valise from the main room. She carried it into the kitchen and set it on the table. She pulled out her embroidered bag that held her healing concoctions. “My supplies are running low,” she apologized as she took the lid off the tin for joint pain.
“If you can relieve the pain in my hands, I will consider you an angel,” Mrs. Warbler answered.
The balm was an expensive one. It was a combination of ginger, clove, and black pepper oils that had come from India. Carefully, with the women watching, Gemma used her fingertip to circle Mrs. Warbler’s knuckle joints.
The older woman remained skeptical, until the oils performed their magic. “I feel it working. My skin is warm.”
Gemma nodded. “Keep rubbing it in with little circles the way I put it on.” Mrs. Warbler followed suit.
“Is it making a difference?” Miss Taylor asked.
“A miracle of a difference,” Mrs. Warbler claimed. “Why, it is as if my hands are reforming themselves.”
“If only that were true,” Gemma replied modestly. “I cannot claim to cure. However, what is happening is that you have a touch of relief and you know how important that is.”
“I do. I live with this pain every day. Wait until you meet the Duchess of Winderton,” Mrs. Warbler said. “She is one of the matrons and she is always complaining of gout and pain in her knees. All Mr. Thurlowe will do is advise her to stay away from rich foods. She is a duchess! She needs rich food. Do you have anything to help her?”
“Juniper might help.” Although Gemma did agree with Mr. Thurlowe.
“Like what they use to make gin?” Mrs. Warbler frowned.
“I brew it into a tonic that is nothing close to gin. My gran had gout and she swore by this recipe.” Or, when Gemma thought about it, her gran could have been sipping gin. She had been a feisty woman.
“I am in awe of how you have managed to see your way to London and then Maidenshop,” Miss Taylor said. “Why, it is as if you have traveled all of England. I don’t know that I would have the courage, Mrs. Estep.”
“Please, call me Gemma,” she reminded them. “And, we all have the courage, when we are angry enough.” Gemma looked around at the shambles of the kitchen. A yawn rose in her chest, one that she could not stifle. “I’m sorry. It has been a long journey and now—this.”
Mrs. Warbler sat back, rubbing her hand joints in small circles. “Don’t you trouble yourself over The Garland or Mr. Thurlowe. One challenge at a time, my girl. You are going to be an excellent addition to Maidenshop. We want you here. Don’t we, Miss Taylor?”
“Of course.”
“A tea garden is exactly what Maidenshop needs, and it may be a death blow to that ridiculous Logical Men’s Society.”
Ridiculous? Yes, Gemma liked that sentiment. “Mr. Thurlowe will not agree with you.”
“Mr. Thurlowe does not run Maidenshop. The matrons do.” Mrs. Warbler stood as if coming to a decision. “We are going to help you, Mrs. Estep—”
“Gemma, please.”
“Very well. We are going to help you, Gemma. The Garland has become a scourge to our fair village, and therefore, we accept your tea garden. In fact, we demand it. Don’t we, Miss Taylor?”