The Herbalist (45 page)

BOOK: The Herbalist

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After the first couple of weeks, no one came
looking. Sarah had been terrified that they would. For a time she had suffered
nightmares about the herbalist and her ordeal in his house. But of course nobody came.
She was just a stranger who had worked in the town for a summer and then
disappeared.

Matt, it turned out, had saved her, but not
through lies and persuasion. A silver tongue will only get you so far. No, he just
showed simple human kindness and provided her with a side-altar marriage and a roof to
grow strong under. What started out in name only soon became love, and the man who
preferred to be alone became a fine father and husband.

She had never imagined how much comfort and
loving a baby could bring. She adored Ben – who wouldn’t? She loved that his hair
was the colour of toffee, that his skin was flawless, and that his stout
little nose was like a knob of butter. She watched as his chubby
hands grew more capable, his body more sturdy. He was two now and loved to babble, to
curl up on her lap. She’d never known a child so affectionate, never known she had
all those hugs in her. The other day he was on her lap after supper. They were sitting
on the wooden stool by the fire. He pressed his face on to her cheek, and with his own
innocent impression of a kiss made a big smacking noise. ‘Love you, Mam,’ he
said, ‘love you.’

Once upon a time, a few years ago, in a town not far from here, a stranger flung
open the half-door of the late Veronique Chase’s shop, set an easy chair out
on the pavement and smiled. She was a young woman, elegant, straight backed. She
removed all the yellowed newspapers and mouldy sweets from the low window and
arranged hats in their place. Hats of all shapes and sizes, each on its own wire
stand. Berets, straw, bonnets, cloches, and one she called a chapeau. She
transformed the shop front, had it lovely. It made a great impression.

Inside, the shelves brimmed with ribbons, buttons and patterns. And all kinds of
fabric – not just plain, striped and checked, but florals of all sorts. Reds, mauves
and yellows, if you don’t mind. The cloth came all the way from America.

She was well-got all right, this dressmaker girl – you’d know by her gait. She
wasn’t from these parts. The orphan daughter of a gentleman. Half French she
was, you could see it in the way she waved her hands when she spoke. Fine boned,
pretty, with her hair all done up in an elaborate chignon.

What had made her move to their small town? She’d wanted, it was said, a
change of air.

The women adored her. Counted themselves
lucky to have such style in their little backwater. She had a word for everyone,
could mend or make anything, no job was too small or too big. You should see the
dresses she created from almost nothing. Millie, they called her
.
Miss
Millie can do anything. She’s nothing less than a magician.

Author’s Note

Although
The Herbalist
is inspired
by real events, it is a work of fiction. The story that unfolds, and every character
apart from the herbalist, are products of the author’s imagination and any
resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE BEGINNING

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