“I was wondering,” said the woman, “if you might have a moment to spare. I’m trying to break the soil in order to sow, but I’m afraid there’s still a touch of winter to it.”
Edward dismounted, opened the gate, and entered Miss Froom’s garden. As he drew closer, she seemed to grow in beauty, so that Edward felt his jaw drop slightly in her presence. Her lips parted and Edward caught a glimpse of white teeth and a hint of pink tongue. He tried to speak, but only a hoarse croak emerged. He coughed, and managed to compose a relatively coherent sentence.
“I’d be happy to help you, ma’am,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”
Miss Froom seemed almost to blush. At least, she approximated the movements of one who was a little embarrassed, but only the faintest rose of blood bloomed at her cheeks, as though she had only a little to spare.
“My name is Miss Froom,” she said, “but you can call me Laura. Nobody calls me ‘ma’am.’ ”
Laura was Edward’s favorite name, although he could not recall himself ever noticing that before. He gave Laura his own name and, introductions complete, she handed him the spade.
“It shouldn’t take long,” said Miss Froom. “I do hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”
Edward assured her that she was not. By now he could not even remember why he had come to the village to begin with. Whatever it was, it could wait.
And so they worked, side by side, in Miss Froom’s garden, sharing small details of their lives but largely silent, Edward occupied mainly by thoughts of the woman close beside him, and the faintest scent of lilies that emanated from her person.
And Miss Froom?
Well, suffice it to say that Miss Froom was thinking of Edward in return.
As the light began to fade, Miss Froom suggested that they finish up, and inquired if Edward might like to step inside for some tea. Edward readily agreed, and was about to take a seat at Miss Froom’s kitchen table when she asked him if he wouldn’t like to wash his hands first. Now it was Edward’s turn to be embarrassed, but Miss Froom hushed him and led him by the hand up the stairs, where she showed him into her spotlessly clean bathroom and handed him a towel, a wash-cloth, and a bar of clear soap.
“Remember,” she said. “Right up to the elbows, and don’t neglect your face and neck. You’ll feel better for it.”
Once she had left the room, Edward removed his shirt and cleaned himself scrupulously. The soap smelled a little funny, he thought, rather like a hospital floor after it has been disinfected. Nevertheless, it was undoubtedly effective, for Edward believed that he had never been cleaner once he had finished drying himself off. There came a knock at the door and a hand appeared, at the end of which hung a crisp white shirt.
“Wear this,” said Miss Froom. “No point in being clean in a dirty shirt. I’ll let the other soak while we eat.”
Edward took the garment and put it on. It felt a little rough against his skin, and there were small rust-colored stains upon the sleeve and the shoulders, but compared to his own shirt it was spotless. Truth be told, Edward’s shirt had not been entirely fresh before he began his labors on behalf of Miss Froom, and he rather hoped that the lady in question would ascribe its unfortunate state to his exertions in her garden and not to any lapse in personal hygiene on his own part.
When he returned to the kitchen, Edward saw that there was an array of cheeses and cold meats displayed upon the table. There were also assorted pastries and biscuits, and finally there was a large fruitcake that still steamed slightly from the oven.
“Were you expecting someone?” Edward asked.
Actually, it looked to Edward as if Miss Froom was expecting a whole team of someones, and that he had seen less lavish spreads at the end of village cricket games.
“Oh,” said Miss Froom. “You never know when company will drop by.”
She poured him some tea and Edward, famished, began to eat. He was finishing his third sandwich before he noticed that the woman on the other side of the table was not joining him.
“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.
“I have a disorder,” said Miss Froom. “It limits what I can eat.”
Edward didn’t press the lady further. He was largely ignorant about the female body, but he had learned from his father that such ignorance was only right and proper. There was, he gathered, nothing worse for a man than to inadvertently set foot in the minefield marked “Women’s Troubles.” Edward decided to make for less dangerous territory.
“You have a nice house,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Miss Froom.
There was another lull in their discourse. Edward, unused to taking tea with strange ladies in their kitchens while wearing unfamiliar shirts, was struggling to keep the conversation going.
“You’re not, er…?” he began. “Um, I mean, is there a-”
“No,” said Miss Froom, cutting him off at the pass. “I’m not married.”
“Oh,” said Edward. “Right.”
Miss Froom smiled at him. The temperature in the kitchen appeared to Edward to rise a couple of degrees.
“Have a bun,” said Miss Froom.
She extended the plate of pastries toward him. Edward opted for a lemon tart. It disintegrated as soon as he bit into it, showering him with crumbs. Miss Froom, who had stood to pour him some more tea, placed the teapot back on its stand and brushed softly at Edward’s shirtfront with the palm of her hand.
Edward nearly choked on his tart.
“Let me get you some water,” said Miss Froom, but as she turned she staggered slightly, apparently about to fall. Edward rose swiftly and held her shoulders, then helped her back to her seat. She looked even paler than before, he thought, although her lips were redder yet.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been feeling a little weak lately. The winter was hard.”
Edward inquired if she needed a doctor, but Miss Froom told him that she did not. Instead, she asked him to go to the refrigerator and retrieve from it the bottle that stood beside the milk. Edward did as he was told, noting as he opened the door that the interior of the fridge was very cold indeed, and returned with a red wine bottle.
“Pour me some, please,” said Miss Froom.
Edward poured the liquid into a cup. It was more viscous than wine, and had a faint but decidedly unpleasant smell. It reminded Edward of the inside of a butcher’s shop.
“What is it?” he asked, as Miss Froom took a long mouthful.
“Rat’s blood,” said Miss Froom, wiping a little dribble from her chin with a napkin.
Edward felt certain that he had misheard, but the stench from the cup told him that he had not.
“Rat’s blood?” he asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. “Why are you drinking rat’s blood?”
“Because it is all that I have,” said Miss Froom, as though the answer were obvious. “If I had anything of higher quality, then I would be drinking that instead.”
Edward wondered how hard it could be to acquire something tastier than rodent’s blood, and decided that it couldn’t be very difficult at all.
“What about, er, wine?” he suggested.
“Well, wine isn’t blood, is it, dear?” said Miss Froom gently, in the tone teachers are accustomed to use with the slower children in the class, the kind who sup from ink pots and misjudge the time it takes to get to the toilet.