Free Hothouse Flower by Lucinda Riley

understand what I mean.’
    ‘Yes,’ Julia agreed. ‘I think … well, something happened yesterday, and today – this morning, anyway …’ She struggled to voice what she felt. ‘You’re right. The “dark” isn’t quite as dark as it was.’
    They sat there silently for a while, comfortable in mutual understanding. Finally, Julia said, ‘Was there anything particular you came to see me about?’
    ‘Yes, actually, there was,’ replied George. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. What say we get out of this godforsaken cottage and walk across the road to the White Horse for a glass of wine and some freshly caught fish?’
    Julia overrode her immediate knee-jerk negative response. ‘That sounds a good idea, Dad.’
    Ten minutes later, they were ensconced at a cosy table by the fire. George ordered two plates of fish and chips and carried the glasses of wine back from the bar.
    ‘Great pub this,’ he commented, ‘a real “local”, especially in the winter, without the tourists clogging it up.’ Impulsively, he stretched his hand across the table and squeezed her arm. ‘Julia, I’m so proud of you. I know now that you’re going to make it. Keep going, darling. Understand you’ll have good days and bad, but just keep going.’
    ‘I’ll try, Dad, I really will,’ she answered, a lump wedged uncomfortably in her throat.
    ‘Anyway,’ George cleared his own throat, ‘what I wanted to talk to you about was those orchid paintings you gave me. I’ve compared them to some of the other watercolours your mother did, and there is absolutely no doubt they were painted by her. More than likely when she was much younger.’
    ‘I’m so pleased I found them, Dad,’ said Julia. ‘It was obviously meant to be.’
    ‘Yes, but there’s something else interesting about those paintings, or at least, one of them.’ George took a sip of his wine. ‘I know that, as a child, your mother would spend hours in the hothouses with your grandfather, just as you did after her. To pass the time, she’d sit and paint the flowers. Now, I’ve identified three of the orchids, which are all commonly cultivated in England and could have been grown by your grandfather; all three of them are genus of Cattleya. William Cattley, a man whom one could call the “father” of British orchids, was the first horticulturist successfully to grow epiphytic orchids here in the early nineteenth century, and most of the orchids we see here are descended from them. But the fourth orchid your mother painted, well now, that’s another story altogether.’
    ‘Really?’ said Julia, as their lunch arrived.
    ‘Yes. If her painting is accurate, and having worked with her for fifteen years, I have to assume it is, then the orchid she has drawn is a Dendrobium nigum. ’ George broke into the thick beer batter on his fish. ‘Now, either your mother copied the picture from a book, which is of course a possibility and to be honest the most likely scenario – or,’ he added between mouthfuls, ‘it was growing in her father’s hothouse at the time.’
    Julia began to eat too. ‘So, if it was growing in the hothouse … ?’
    ‘Well, put it this way, the last specimen of Dendrobium nigum sold at auction for almost fifty thousand pounds. It’s an unbelievable bloom. Only a few were ever found around the hills of Chiang Mai in Thailand. It’s the closest thing to a black orchid there is, even though its true colour is deep magenta. Botanists have never been able to reproduce it out of its habitat, which makes it very valuable. I’d be amazed if this plant had found its way to the Wharton Park hothouses in the nineteen fifties.’
    ‘Didn’t Grandfather Bill have Mum type up all his notes and then weren’t they passed to you when he died?’ Julia asked. ‘Surely there might be something in there?’
    ‘That’s what I thought too,’ agreed George. ‘I’ve spent most of my time since Sunday scouring through them, but as far as I can see, there’s