Chapter 10 #2
If either of them suspected I had been listening, they gave no indication. Dr. Winthrop’s manner was once again cordial, all traces of the urgent conversation vanished beneath academic courtesy.
“The greenhouse is this way,” he said, gesturing down the corridor. “I will show you to the Bacopa specimens myself.”
We followed him through the building and out a rear entrance that opened onto the gardens, and the weight of what I had overheard twisted in my stomach like sediment at the bottom of a lake—disturbed now and clouding everything, refusing to sink back into ignorance.
I glanced at Dr. Ambrose as we walked. His expression was placid, almost serene. There was no evidence in his posture that the tense exchange with his colleague had even occurred.
Does she know what you are working toward? What it might mean if you succeed?
I frowned, curious what Dr. Winthrop meant by those words. What was Dr. Ambrose keeping from me? What exactly were we working towards?
He hides many things, my companion responded. Just like you.
The observation unnerved me. What did I truly know about Dr. Ambrose?
I knew he was brilliant. His work with plants and his understanding of botanical compounds spoke of years of dedication and a mind that saw connections others missed.
I knew he was kind, at least thus far. And I knew his wife was dead, but there were vast territories of information I did not possess, and one thing kept pricking at my thoughts.
How had his wife died? Agnes had never specified the cause—no mention of illness or accident or any of the normal explanations one might expect when a young woman passed before her time.
He killed her, the voice suggested with menacing satisfaction. And perhaps you are his next experiment.
Dr. Winthrop paused ahead to unlock the door, and I pushed the thought away, though it clung like cobwebs as he ushered us inside.
The greenhouse was enormous—far larger than Dr. Ambrose’s structures, and considerably more organized. Plants were arranged in tidy rows according to some classification system not immediately discernable, each labeled with both common and scientific names on neat placards.
“The medicinal specimens are toward the back,” Dr. Winthrop said, leading us down a central aisle past rows of flowering plants, ferns, and various tropical specimens that clearly required the greenhouse’s controlled environment to survive the English climate.
“I have been cultivating several varieties of Bacopa—the monnieri you are interested in, as well as a few related species for comparative research.”
We walked deeper into the greenhouse, the cultivated rows giving way to a more densely planted area where specimens grew in what appeared to be more natural arrangements. Dr. Winthrop stopped before a collection of low-growing plants with small, succulent-like leaves and delicate white flowers.
“Here we are,” he said, gesturing to the Bacopa section. “Help yourself to whatever you need, Nicholas. The plants are hardy enough that transplanting should not prove difficult.”
He checked his pocket watch, then offered us an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, but I have a lecture in twenty minutes that I cannot postpone. Take as much time as you require. The greenhouse will lock automatically when you leave, so simply pull the door closed behind you when you are finished.”
“Thank you, James,” Dr. Ambrose said. “I appreciate your assistance.”
“Of course.” Dr. Winthrop’s gaze lingered on me for a moment, his features somber before being replaced by professional warmth. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Reed. I hope we will have the opportunity to discuss your botanical theories in more detail in the future.”
“I would like that very much,” I said, meaning it despite the unease their overheard conversation had planted in my mind.
Dr. Winthrop departed with a final nod to Dr. Ambrose, then we were alone among the plants in the vast silence.
“Well then, Miss Reed. You are more familiar with Bacopa than I am. Which specimen would you recommend?”
I moved among the plants, my mind only half engaged with the task of selection. The rest churned through what I had overheard, trying to piece together a theory through inconclusive material.
I ran my fingers along the leaves, checking for signs of disease or pest damage, assessing vigor and root development with automatic confidence, but beneath that calm gesture, questions multiplied like cells dividing.
“What is your reason?” I asked without looking up at him, keeping my tone casual despite my unease.
“My reason?” he replied, voice dropping as he stepped closer.
I hesitated, examining one of the plants that had the most developed root system, visible in thick white tangles just beneath the soil surface. My fingers traced the delicate petals as I formulated how to press for information without revealing I had eavesdropped.
“During my interview you said that most people who seek positions in private research have personal motivations.” I kept my focus on the plant, afraid that if I looked at him I would betray too much curiosity, too much suspicion. “What is your personal motivation?”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the sound of my pulse beating against my eardrum. The weight of his attention stung my skin as he calculated how much truth to offer and what must remain hidden.
“Helping people is my motivation,” he answered finally, but it was rehearsed, too simple to be the complete truth.
I glanced up at him now, raising a brow. “Nothing else?”
He grinned, recognizing his own words thrown back at him, but his guard remained raised despite the gesture. “What else would there be?”
I returned his smile. “Touché.”
I turned away, examining one of the smaller specimens more closely, using the action to hide the trembling in my hands. “Perhaps,” I said, forcing the words out though they wanted to lodge in my throat, “your reason has something to do with your wife?”
The silence that followed was so complete that I almost wondered if he had heard the question at all.
He shifted his weight, the quietest exhale of breath passing through the space.
The greenhouse glass rattled in a breeze, stretching its tired bones, then settled around us like a living thing adjusting to new pressure.
I lifted the plant I had been examining and turned to face him, needing to see if his face might betray his silence.
He stepped closer, taking the pot from my hands, but his expression was completely unreadable. If the question had upset him or taken him aback in any way, he certainly did not show it.
When our eyes met, he shook his head, and I was not entirely sure if he was answering the question or simply refusing an answer. The ambiguity felt deliberate, a calculated response without providing any actual information.
His gaze drifted to the green ribbon around my throat, his pupils dilating with some thought or emotion pressing behind them, begging him for release.
His fingers tightened around the clay pot until I thought it might crack beneath the pressure.
Then he stepped back, retreating behind the impenetrable wall he had built around himself.
“We should return,” he said, his voice rougher than usual, the emotion he refused to release catching like a stone in his throat. “I will need to transplant the specimen.”
I opened my mouth to stop him, to plead for a true answer, to demand he tell me what Dr. Winthrop had been referring to, but he was already moving toward the greenhouse exit.
I followed, and tried to ignore the frustration flaring in my chest. If he would not tell me what we were truly working toward, if he would not explain what success might mean, then I was left with only my imagination to fill that void.
Guided by my companion’s dark suggestions and the memory of a ghost with vines spilling from her mouth, my imagination would paint possibilities far more disturbing than the truth might have been.
The carriage ride back to the estate passed in charged silence, neither of us willing to address what had not quite been said in that greenhouse, both of us painfully aware of it nonetheless.
I stared out the window, watching the landscape pass in blurs of green and gray, and wondered whether I should be grateful or terrified that Dr. Ambrose had not answered my question.
I wondered if ignorance was protection or simply a blindfold that kept me from seeing the precipice I was walking toward until the moment I stepped off the edge and fell.