Chapter Nineteen
Found in gardens across England, Nerium oleander is renowned for its beauty and reviled for its poison. Every part of the flower is toxic, from the roots to the petals. Even grazing it can irritate the skin. In floriography, this flower means caution.
By the time Elswyth felt the first breath of autumn, no lady wanted to associate themselves with her.
Invitations dried up, and soon she spent most days alone in the house, with only the occasional lesson from Mrs. Rose to keep her occupied.
The end of the social season was fast approaching, and soon noble families would retreat to their ancestral homes to wait out the winter, taking any chance of finding her sister with them.
Her father wrote constantly, asking about her search for a husband and providing updates on her wedding to Cousin Ficus—which, if she was unable to find a match, was to commence as soon as she returned.
Worse than that was the fact that her investigation into Persephone’s disappearance had completely stalled.
All she knew was that the Reaper was a member of the nobility, one with considerable wealth and power.
But that could be any number of people in the city, and Elswyth felt as though she had dined or danced with all of them.
And despite her best attempts at interrogating members of London society, no information had narrowed the field.
She still believed that Miss Forscythe was connected to her sister’s killing, but she had no evidence save for the fact that Venus had tried so fervently to ruin Elswyth’s reputation.
But then there was the matter of the mandrake.
Whoever the Reaper was, they were not only wealthy and influential.
They were also the most talented floromancer in an age.
If the mandrake was truly the Reaper’s spy, as she supposed.
But that was the problem. There were no living floromancers with that sort of power.
If there ever had been, they lived in the age of myth when eldren still walked the earth.
They certainly weren’t attending balls in Mayfair.
Further dissections of the mandrake yielded little information, and now it floated, mangled and stitched together again, in a jar of formaldehyde.
The question of the mandrake confounded her.
If the Reaper could create servants like the mandrake, what else was he capable of?
And why was he using his knowledge to do something as bleak as murdering prostitutes?
He could be showered with academic acclaim.
He could sell his inventions and reap the rewards.
No, there was something unseen about his motives, something Elswyth could not yet perceive. It maddened her.
She spent those days in the late summer at Persephone’s old desk.
She pored over her letters, double-checking her commonplace book to make sure she had not missed any names.
Mrs. Rose came by each day to continue her lessons, although there was a sense of hopelessness to it.
Elswyth recruited her to write letters, hoping for a few final meetings with peers around the city.
If a lady refused tea, she wrote them again, asking her questions directly—the time for niceties had ended.
She received heaps of sympathy but little information.
Mrs. Rose kept Elswyth groomed with a sort of frantic consistency. She brushed her hair and drew her baths, laid out her clothes—gowns far too fine for moping around the house. She kept Elswyth’s room clean, too, slowly pruning the mess that had sprouted in Elswyth’s days of melancholy.
Elswyth was coming to learn that this sort of busybodying was Mrs. Rose’s way of showing affection.
Perhaps she was not quick with a word of comfort, but she could clean and groom until there was not a hair out of place.
Elswyth learned to accept this sort of fussing.
If she didn’t, she feared that Mrs. Rose might abandon her as well.
“And this, do you need this?” Mrs. Rose asked.
She held up a schematic from Dr. Gall—an updated design for Elswyth’s living engine.
Elswyth was about to say that, of course, she needed it—but then she wasn’t so sure.
The design was a failure. She couldn’t keep the living engine from exploding when it produced too much gas.
Besides, at the end of the month, she would leave London if she could not find a match.
And she wouldn’t be able to work for Dr. Gall anymore.
“I suppose I do not,” she said. “But keep it. I’ll send it to Dr. Gall anyway.
Perhaps he can make something out of it. ”
Mrs. Rose frowned, setting the schematics aside. “And this? It’s ancient, Elswyth, really.”
Mrs. Rose gestured to a dried bouquet, sitting on the vanity. She picked it up with a look of disgust—the flowers had begun to mold at the stems.
“No!” Elswyth shouted. Mrs. Rose nearly dropped the vase. “Apologies, Mrs. Rose. That was Persephone’s. I once thought it meant something. Held some clue about her killer. But now… perhaps I was being foolish. The floriography makes no sense, and there’s no note.”
Mrs. Rose frowned. “No wonder there’s no note, Elswyth. I wouldn’t advise anyone to attach their name to this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, it’s a scathing rejection. And admitting an affair, to boot.”
Elswyth’s heart leapt. She jumped out of bed and ran to Mrs. Rose. “But I searched the floriography reference. It didn’t make any sense. I concluded the flowers must have been random. Rhodendron means beware, but acacia means innocent friendship—”
“This is yellow acacia. White acacia means innocent friendship. Yellow acacia means secret love.”
Elswyth took the floriography guide from the desk and opened it, showing Mrs. Rose—the inside was riddled with scrawled notes, the pages ruthlessly dog-eared. “But I checked, over and over again. There was nothing about different colors of acacia.”
Mrs. Rose examined the book, flipping it closed to read the cover. “Dear, this is Whipplethorn’s guide. You simply must use DeBride’s. It’s much more comprehensive.”
“What? Are they not all the same?”
Mrs. Rose scoffed. “Eden, no, Elswyth. They couldn’t be further apart. Even Lady Green’s guide is better than Whipplethorn’s. Really, Elswyth, I went over this. It’s like you weren’t even paying attention to my lessons.”
Elswyth slowly set the book down. She hadn’t been paying much attention to Mrs. Rose’s lessons. For one thing, she never stopped talking, and for another, most of what she said was nonsense. And yet here she was, showing Elswyth that was not true.
Mrs. Rose assessed the bouquet with a practiced eye. “That looks like black dahlia. It could mean either elegance or dignity. I can’t quite read the other flowers…”
Elswyth grabbed the bouquet from her. She poured vitae into it, and slowly, the rotting flowers began to bloom.
It was no small trick bringing a totally dead plant back to life, and by the time the bouquet was fresh again, her head swam.
The bouquet exploded from ashen gray to bright color: emerald and crimson and gold.
“Can you read it now?” Elswyth said, breathless.
“Ah, yes. Here. Sweet pea, like you mentioned. It does mean goodbye, but it has secondary meanings: thank you and blissful pleasures. Almond flower, meaning stupidity or indiscretion. Rhododendron, as you said, as a warning. And hellebore, meaning scandal or calumny. Foxglove, which means insincerity.” She turned the vase around and pointed to a cluster of orange flowers, just barely visible beneath the rest. “And butterfly weed. It means let me go.”
Elswyth stood frozen, her mind racing. What could it mean?
Mrs. Rose kept speaking, almost nonchalantly.
“Yes, it’s all obvious now. Secret love.
Insincerity. Stupidity. Indiscretion. Goodbye.
Scandal. Dignity. Let me go. And finally Beware, I am dangerous.
Your sister was part of a clandestine affair.
Her lover rebuked her with this bouquet.
They had a dalliance, but his love was insincere, and he regrets it.
He left her with a warning that if she were to reveal their affair, it would cause a scandal.
And that she should fear him, if this were the case. ”
Elswyth felt as if she could not move. She stumbled backward, grasping the chair for balance.
“Miss Elderwood! Are you all right?” Mrs. Rose said, helping her into the chair.
“She had a lover…” Elswyth said. “Persephone had a paramour. And he scorned her. Threatened her.”
“Not so surprising, perhaps. Many young people fall quickly, only to be hurt by the realities of the marriage market. Perhaps this young man was above her station.”
Elswyth looked at Mrs. Rose. “A powerful man, then?”
“It’s surely possible. I can’t say for certain. But it’s a fine vase and would have been a rather expensive custom arrangement.” Mrs. Rose looked at Elswyth, and her face grew worried. “You don’t mean to say…”
“That the man she loved had some hand in her death? That he may, in fact, be the Reaper himself?”
“You think your sister could love such a man? How could she?”
“He must hide his true nature if he moves among the nobility in secret… but we cannot be sure,” Elswyth said.
“Still, there is some pattern forming. Why was Persephone in the Rows the night she was taken? Who is this mysterious lover?” Elswyth shook her head, her brow furrowing. “Does the bouquet say anything else?”
Mrs. Rose picked at it. “Well… there’s these small ones here. Black coriander. Coriander I think it means something like concealed merit or hidden treasures. But that doesn’t quite make sense, does it?”
Elswyth’s thoughts swarmed. “Is there anything else?”
“No… that’s the last of the flowers,” Mrs. Rose said.