Free The Lady's Slipper by Deborah Swift Page A

had been surprised that Lady Swainson received them without fuss, almost as if she had been expecting them. She received them in the drawing room and had them lay the young man out on the tapestry day bed, despite the fact that the wound was still pouring blood. She calmed the man with her soft voice, talked matter-of-factly to him, telling him that yes, he was about to die, but to be at peace. She did not use any religious language, but spoke plainly. She asked about his family, and how he remembered them, and how he would like to be remembered himself. He quietened, as if he had drunk a draught, though indeed he had not, and began to talk. Richard asked if he should fetch anything. Dorothy turned briefly to him and said, ‘There is no time. But let us pay him the honour of our full attention for his last moments with us. Listen well.’
    And she bent over him and listened while he talked about his parents and his home, and how much he would miss them, and of a grievance he should have settled with his mother but for which there had been no time before he enlisted.
    Dorothy Swainson did not speak, she just nodded every once in a while, her brown eyes resting all the time on his face, his hand clasped in hers. Richard and his friend listened too. The young man’s voice grew fainter and more broken, until he seemed too tired to speak. When he was still they sat for a long time, just looking peace ably at this man who was so recently alive. And there had been some thing different in this man’s death than any other death Richard had experienced. It was nothing he could put a label to, but rather an atmosphere, a quality of light in the room he would always remember.
    After the last unspeakable battle and the atrocities perpetrated in the name of faith, he had remembered that night like a beacon, and finding no enduring peace he had sent word to Dorothy Swainson asking if he might be admitted to the meetings. He was so warmly welcomed that he had purchased nearby Helk Cottage and its little plot of land so he could be close to the meetings at the Hall. He sold his estate, and all his fine possessions, placing the capital at the disposal of his new-found brethren for their alms work. His life had begun anew. People called such folk the Quakers, and laughed that they trembled before God. But Richard preferred the term ‘Society of Friends’, for that was how they seemed to him, in nature as well as in name.

Chapter 7
    Alice ate her soup and bread alone in the dining room. Thomas was never in for lunch. The empty chair and the cushion where Flora used to sit stared back at her. The house echoed as she moved in it now, the rooms grown too large and silent. Alice pictured Flora opposite, eating slowly, spooning the food into her mouth with concentration, in her little white lace cap and pintucked apron, her peg doll laid beside her plate. Flora would have loved her painting of the orchid. The watercolour was finished. It had turned out well–working quickly had given the picture a fresh and lively quality.
    She had hidden the picture face to the wall behind the others in the summerhouse. The orchid itself she had hidden in an old beehive amongst the ones in the orchard. Wearing her protective veil and gloves she had planted the pot directly into the ground, underneath an empty hive. That way the wooden walls protected it from view, and also from herbivorous animals such as deer or rabbits. The bees were used to her coming and going to collect the honey and ignored her presence. She had left the roof of the hive open so the plant could have sunlight and air. At night, or if Wheeler came back, she could slot the sloping roof back on again. It was a good hiding place. People would not approach other people’s hives for fear of setting a swarm.
    After her meal she returned to the summerhouse to finish the commission for Geoffrey’s client, Earl Shipley. She was enjoying the challenge of painting solely in tones of green. She