Page 3 of Bane Bloom

He drew a deep breath, blinked slowly, and gave a slight nod. I knew I was losing him, so I forged on, hoping for a chance to make my case before he dismissed me.

I pulled one sheet free and handed it across the desk. Rosmarinus officinalis. Using pencil and watercolor, I’d created a likeness of the plant, along with a closer view of a single sprig. And to that I’d added my own flourish—a fairy with a cap made from one of the dainty purple flowers. Beneath the illustration I’d written, “Rosemary: for remembrance, clear thought, and lamb roasts.”

As Harding took the paper, he cast a cursory glance over it, and my heart sank. But his weary sag lifted. “You have some skill, I see. Though I’m not sure—”

“A children’s book,” I interrupted, fearing his next words. His eyes fixed on me, and before he could speak, I went on, “Forgive my interruption, sir. But my book would be different from Mrs. Blackwell’s, in that I would incorporate a fairy illustration with each specimen so the book will appeal to a younger audience. I would keep the descriptions light and entertaining while still educational. I thought to title it The Fairy Herbal. Naturalist subjects are very popular these days, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Though this last might have bordered on impertinence, I was determined to make him see me as an opportunity rather than an annoyance. I even ventured to add, “Fairies, too, ever since Her Majesty professed to have seen them. As far as I can tell, mine would be the first book to combine the topics.”

His eyes returned to the drawing, a frown curling the corners of his lips. The ticking of the clock on his desk seemed to grow louder, and I held my breath.

“So you’ve come to request access to the Physic Garden to aid you in your work.”

“I have, sir.”

“And the proceeds from your book, were it to be published?”

“Would all be donated to the Society.”

He lifted his gaze. “I don’t think I comprehend you. You don’t hope to earn money from the book?”

“It would be my contribution to the continuing operation of the garden.” Which had very recently—and narrowly—averted closure due to drying-up patronage.

A single silver eyebrow slowly rose. “In exchange for . . . ?”

Now we’ve come to it. I took a deep breath. “I wish to be admitted as an apprentice to the Society of Apothecaries.”

His eyes rounded. “An apprentice, you say.”

“With the hope of one day serving the Society in a formal capacity. My illustration work would continue to benefit the apothecaries, whether it be for purposes of instruction or public entertainment, and in exchange I would draw a salary.” Thereby obtaining a regular means of support for my arthritic father as well as myself, who at the old-maidenly age of thirty couldn’t hold out much hope for marriage to come and save me, even had I some poor victim in my sights. But Mr. Harding need not see my desperation.

“Ah.” He set the illustration on the desk, though his gaze—and his frown—continued to rest on it.

Certain he was building up to dismissing me at last, I let out my breath, slumping slightly.

“This is quite a request, Miss Gray.”

“I realize that, sir,” I replied solemnly but firmly. “Yet I truly believe this arrangement would be mutually beneficial.”

The Society had never admitted a woman, but it had been my hope in formulating this proposal that they might consider me if I expressed no desire to work as an actual apothecary. And surely the learned gentlemen would see that apothecary training would enhance the scientific value of my work.

Studying Harding’s face, I prepared myself to change tack and settle for his permission to access the garden in exchange for sharing a portion of The Fairy Herbal’s proceeds. To my knowledge, Mrs. Blackwell had not been expected to compensate them for her access, but unlike her, I had no personal connections here. Worse, I was a member of Chelsea’s artist community—the daughter of a painter—which left me socially on rather shaky ground.

Before I could assemble my words, he said, “I can hardly ask the Society to consider such a proposal on the merits of one illustration.”

Brightening, I lifted my portfolio. “I have many, sir.”

He closed his eyes and gave a quick shake of his head. “That’s not what I meant.” Sitting up in the chair, he pushed my drawing back toward me. “Fieldwork is what we need to see, Miss Gray.”

Frowning, I replied, “What sort of fieldwork?”

He rubbed his lips together, thinking, and my heart thumped. Was he considering giving me a chance?

“Are you averse to travel, Miss Gray?”

I tried to imagine where this was leading. In truth, I had no idea whether I was averse to travel, because I had never traveled. At least no farther than Battersea Fields, on the other side of the Thames, where I had made many sketches on outings with Papa. (Also where the Duke of Wellington and Earl of Winchilsea had agreed to meet and shoot at each other over an argument on my ninth birthday.)

“No, sir,” I said.