Viper Wine by Hermione Eyre

Author:Hermione Eyre [Eyre, Hermione]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Historical Fiction, 17th Century, Fiction, Drama, Fantasy, Adult, Historical
ISBN: 9781448155965
Amazon: B00GO8HY2E
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2014-01-24T18:30:00+00:00

THE OPIUM GARDEN

ANOTHER LETTER CAME for Venetia from Penelope, delivered by a hooded plague doctor. Venetia’s first impulse was to have it burned at once, but she had suffered a fit of penitence over her burning of Pen’s last two letters, fearing that she had destroyed Penelope’s final farewells to this world, or even admissions of florid secrets. This was unlikely, given Penelope’s nature, but every imagination responds to an unopened letter. Venetia would not touch this new letter herself, but curiosity drove her to make Chater open it, in front of the fire, using tongs, while she watched from the semi darkness of the other side of the room, dramatically covering her nose and mouth with her veil, her hands clasped in prayer for Penelope. Straining by firelight to read the writing, Chater managed to make out a few phrases.

‘Our Old Pippin . . . has had a ham bone. He had great pleasure of it, dragging it to his bed, even though his teeth are fewer than they were . . .’

Chater and Venetia’s mood of spiritual earnestness cooled. The letter was full of platitudes about the weather, her dogs, and news of her embroidered bed-jacket.

‘So we risk our lives for kennel talk,’ said Venetia. ‘She is on her deathbed, and yet I never read a more boring letter!’

But then Chater read aloud a few fond words of friendship, which touched her, as well as a passage in which she implored Venetia to come and nurse her, saying she would do well to catch the smallpox from her as it was a light visitation and not likely to cause much scarring.

Venetia thought Pen must be out of her mind with illness, but she decided to send her a comforting little present – some tansy from the botanical gardens at Holborn.

Venetia drank her draft of Venus Syrup – although she did it every day, it could never become so drab a thing as a habit – and an hour later, with the Wine stoking her blood, she rapped at the door of the Terrestrial Paradise, a small garden door in the long brick wall. It was known as Sir John Parkinson’s Terrestrial Paradise because it was a place of rare beauty, arranged like another Eden with all the herbs in harmonious groupings. He made a play on his name and called it the sole paradisus terrestris, Park-in-Sun.

The bricks in the wall were deep red, and she was absorbed with looking at their marbled veins like lumps of beef, when a gardener appeared at the door, hooded, and carrying a broom.

The Terrestrial Paradise was largely dank earth, dotted with greenish shrubs, hawthorn spikes, reeds and mouldy, broken bulrushes. Some plants had petrified where they stood, crucified to wires, while others had liquefied to mush. A small pond was cracked like a mirror in the middle, and frosted solid around its edges. All was hung over with a pall of blue woodsmoke, issuing from behind the brickwork nurseries.

Venetia had forgotten, somehow, that the garden would be dead or resting, buried below the sod.

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