Chapter Five
Harvested to extinction by the ancient Romans, silphium has since been recreated by floromancers from archeological samples. Its use in the prevention of unwanted pregnancy once made it worth its weight in silver.
Is this really necessary?” Elswyth said.
“My dear, you do not want gentlemen to think you spread your legs so often,” Mrs. Rose said.
“Why? Might they get jealous of the horse?”
Mrs. Rose scoffed. She stood with Elswyth before a magnificent palomino, morning light slanting around them.
It was a pleasant day in early March and the sun had started to peek through the clouds, hinting at the coming spring.
They had chosen a seldom-visited park for that morning’s ride.
Elswyth could not yet be seen riding at Hyde Park or Rotten Row—not until she could sit on a horse with dignity.
Mrs. Rose insisted on it, as she did with so many things.
“Sidesaddle is inefficient and looks ridiculous,” she said.
“And it is the custom. Surely you rode through the Wildwood on occasion, dear, and I should hope that your father did not allow you to ride astride.”
Elswyth fidgeted. “To be frank, Mrs. Rose, I did not ride at all.”
Mrs. Rose blinked. “You never learned?”
“I was taught, of course. Or at least my father’s groom attempted to teach me. But I was always more comfortable with pursuits of the mind. Sport is not my forte.”
“Well, it’s no matter. We only need to teach you to stroll through the park and look appealing. It’s not as though you’ll be galloping off somewhere. Come now. Enough dallying,” Mrs. Rose said.
Elswyth begrudgingly allowed the stable hand to help her into the saddle. She kept her legs together, knees closed, tucked to the left. She wavered atop the horse, clutching at the reins.
“Lovely,” Mrs. Rose said, lurching upward onto her horse, “if a bit wobbly. Now, eyes forward, and try not to embarrass me.”
The horse lurched, and Elswyth clutched the reins more tightly.
The creature began to trot forward through the park, and slowly she adjusted to the rhythm, keeping her back straight and her belly tight.
Her left hand rested on the horse’s neck amid the short, coarse hair and the longer mane.
Vitae pulsed there; it appeared in her mind’s eye as an orange glow beneath the skin, bright as candle flame, coursing through the veins of the beast. Her own vitae reached out, beginning to mingle…
She pulled her hand back, grabbing the rein instead.
The country air felt crisp on her skin, so different from the ever-present smog of London. The park lay on the outskirts of the city, where she wouldn’t embarrass herself if she fell. She could feel her skin absorbing the sunlight, restoring her vitae.
Mrs. Rose pulled her horse up to Elswyth’s, taking an exaggerated breath of fresh air. “Isn’t it lovely to get out and exercise? They say nature is good for the constitution, you know. And the brisk air is far superior to your uncle’s stuffy library.”
Elswyth didn’t respond to Mrs. Rose’s comment. She’d learned early on that she rarely needed to. Mrs. Rose would talk if there was a conversation happening or not.
“Yes, fresh air will certainly do us good. Now, we need to discuss your presentation to the queen. The next court session is fast approaching, and it will be a competitive year. Rumor has it that Prince Oliver intends to marry!”
“Must I? I don’t see why she should need to see me at all. It is not Viscaria I must seduce,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose huffed. “Of course. Without a presentation to the queen, men are not allowed to approach you for marriage. You are not considered a woman until the queen has given you her blessing. Only then can you enter the marriage mart.”
“Ah. A showing of the prize hogs,” Elswyth said.
Mrs. Rose sighed. “I certainly hope there is some man who finds you more amusing than I do, my dear. I wonder, does your Cousin Ficus enjoy your jests?”
Elswyth scowled. Mrs. Rose had made it a habit of reminding her what awaited her if she could not find a husband.
As did her father, who wrote frequently, asking for updates.
How did she fare? Had there been any interest?
Any gentlemen that she had taken to? Elswyth wondered why he bothered.
Mrs. Rose was certainly informing him on the minutiae of Elswyth’s progress.
Perhaps most infuriatingly, he refused to speak about his health, insisting she focus on her marriage prospects. It made her sick with worry.
Elswyth took a deep breath and tried to focus on the countryside. They rode for a while, Mrs. Rose droning on, until Elswyth saw the outline of tall green shrubs in the distance.
“Oh, look! A hedge maze. I do love a hedge maze,” Elswyth said. “Shall we?”
“We have so much to go over, Miss Elderwood. Perhaps it is not the time.”
Elswyth frowned. “We’ve been doing nothing but etiquette for a week.
I’ve earned a little recreation, don’t you agree?
” It was true—Mrs. Rose had filled every day with lessons on seating charts and silverware and proper posture.
At night, they worked on Elswyth’s skill in entertainment, which was dismal to say the least. Ladies were expected to showcase their unique talents at social functions, as both a means of entertaining guests and attracting eligible bachelors.
Elswyth was a skilled floromancer, and so Mrs. Rose had suggested a tableau vivant—a kind of living portrait popular among the ladies of court.
“I’ll tell you what. If you can make it to the hedge maze without falling off your horse, then we may take a stroll. And if not, then we will spend the whole evening preparing for your presentation to the queen and your tableau vivant.”
Elswyth considered. The start of the social season was just around the corner, and to hear Mrs. Rose tell it, Elswyth had all the refinement and class of a bog mummy. But the prospect of an entire evening spent balancing books on her head filled Elswyth with a dull horror.
“You have a deal, Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said.
And with that, she swung both legs—still in sidesaddle—and slammed them into the horse.
Perhaps it was not as delicate of a gesture as was required.
She’d seen men spur horses before but had never seen a woman do it from sidesaddle.
The result was a resounding thunk from the horse’s rib cage and then a high-pitched whine.
The beast lurched forward, breaking into a sprint and nearly throwing Elswyth from the saddle.
She screamed, grabbing at the creature’s reins, but it would not yield.
It took off across the field in a gallop.
Elswyth, abandoning the reins, wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck.
Behind her, Mrs. Rose’s horse startled, attempting to follow Elswyth.
The woman screamed as well, commanding her horse to stop this instant, but it merely thundered on.
Elswyth risked a look over her shoulder and saw Mrs. Rose teetering on the saddle, holding the reins with one hand and trying to keep her hat from flying off with the other.
In her mind, Elswyth searched through the constellations of vitae she’d memorized for any plant essence that might be useful.
She recalled the essence of poppy, found the constellation of vitae that formed opium, and summoned it to her hand.
From her fingertips, she grew nettle, little needles that could pierce the skin of the horse.
And through them, into the horse’s neck, she pushed as much opium as she could manage.
At first, the horse kept thundering. Then it thundered less, and less, and slowed to a trot.
She lifted her head, removed her palm from where it was attached to the creature’s neck, and then gently steered it toward the hedge maze.
By the time Elswyth reached the high green wall, Mrs. Rose was far behind her, having slipped off the saddle and into the grass.
She followed her horse around the field, chiding the beast as it ran freely.
Elswyth thought about going back for her—it had been her fault that Mrs. Rose’s horse startled—but she wouldn’t give up a few moments of privacy.
She dismounted, straightened her skirts, and led the horse to the hitching post. She tied up the reins and then stroked the beast’s muzzle.
“Sorry about that, friend,” she said. She brought her hand to its mouth, and green leaves sprouted from the veins of her wrist, followed by a shining red apple. The horse accepted it quickly, lips smacking wetly against her skin.
With her mount settled, she turned her attention to the hedge maze. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction, at least nine feet tall, shaped of twisting yew. Little red berries dotted the hedge, colorful against the shadowed green.
Before her stood the entrance, flanked by two topiary dryads, their hands reaching up to form the archway, slender arms crafted, by floromancy, from the yew.
The arch itself was a marvel of twisting branches, dotted with crimson yew berries like droplets of blood.
Beneath it, a passage lined by more hedges led deep into the maze.
A sign on a chain across the entrance read CLOSED FOR THE SEASON.
And yet beyond it, leading deep into the maze, she spied two sets of footprints in the dewy grass.
They were fresh, certainly made sometime that morning—it appeared someone had not heeded the sign.
She crossed her arms, looking in either direction.
The field around the hedge maze was empty save for Mrs. Rose, chasing her errant horse.
She doubted she’d get into any trouble for indulging in curiosity.