The Botanist's Daughter

“It is not quite intimate enough to tryst,” the botanist’s daughter says as she ignites the lamps. Her father’s library is appropriately piled with books, so much so that the collection of Moroccan furniture adopted into the room is barely visible beneath disheveled towers of leather bound volumes. The botanist’s daughter has made some attempt to shelve the books in accordance with her father’s stringent system, but has foregone the effort and opted instead to let the books become the room. Heaps of them serve as benches and seats.

The botanist’s daughter navigates between a pile of dickens and a pile of Shakespeare, righting a toppled tower of Yeats on the desk before crossing to the cabinet her father opens on occasion, while organizing his correspondences with merchants in Livorno.

“You seem quite comfortable in the library. I had not thought you were an avid reader,” her fiancée muses, following her slowly.

“Nonsense. Books are of much more import to education than one might suppose, especially for a lady,” the botanist’s daughter says, her voice rising above the colliding champagne flutes as she pushes them aside in search of the expensive Rosette.

“And is wine especially important for an education?”

The botanist’s daughter places the bottle of Rosette, half empty post-textile season, on the side table. The Moroccan lamp next to it stretches in the glass, like distortions and reflections in glowing amber.

“’Wine is bottled poetry’,” the botanist’s daughter quotes, smiling as two glasses join the bottle on the table.

“Then I am well educated,” her fiancée says, grinning wolfishly.

The botanist’s daughter turns her back as she pours, her silk skirt rustling on the carpet below. Her fiancée steps even closer, until his toes are brushing the hem of her gown.

“I hope you find it to your taste, a charming wine for a charming man,” the botanist’s daughter says, turning and passing her fiancée a glass, passing the stem from her hand to his.

The botanist’s daughter slowly removes her lace gloves, tossing them on the side table. She picks up her glass of wine and sweeps past her fiancée to the window.

“I take it you are not one for large gatherings?” her fiancée says, turning to watch her, intrigued by her seeming restlessness.

“That is not at all the case. I am fond of my father’s parties. I thought perhaps you wanted to speak in a more intimate situation.”

Her fiancée smiles widely. “How unexpectedly delightful.”

“Many unexpected things happen. I did not expect to be engaged so soon following my coming out,” the botanist’s daughter says.

“I did not expect to be engaged to such a beautiful lady. I had to act quickly, so you would not be enchanted by someone else, as you have so enchanted me.”

The botanist’s daughter blushes at the flattery. “Is that why you spoke to me at my coming out party?” she asks, seemingly curious. “Mere beauty?”

“And intrigue,” her fiancée rallies. “I had heard great things about your beauty, and also that you are sweet and angelic. I am not disappointed whatsoever.”

“Had you known me longer would you have wooed me? Properly?” the Botanist’s Daughter asks.

“I would have written you poetry.”

“Poetry, really?”

“Of course,” he says.

“I would not have thought you were a romantic,” the Botanist’s Daughter says, leaning against the wine cabinet, her skirt rustling against the wooden panels.

“You think me charming and handsome, but not romantic?”

The botanist’s daughter twirls the stem of her wine glass between her two fingers. “I do not remember calling you handsome. And it is hard to be romantic with the daughter of a botanist. I am very picky about flowers, so they rarely make good gifts.”

“You must have a favourite blossom. Let me guess what it is,” her fiancée says.

The botanist’s daughter watches him.

“Roses,” he says, fingering the silk blossoms on her gown, his hands trailing from her shoulders to the neckline.

The botanist’s daughter’s expression does not change. She does not move an inch. “Wrong.”

Her fiancée’s smile falters for a fraction of a second but his hands trace the neck of her gown, lower and lower. “Perhaps Lily of the Valley? Something as beautiful as you.”

The botanist’s daughter steps away, out of the reach of his hands. She smiles as though she has a secret. “You are very handsome,” she says, without a trace of her usual coyness. “And wrong again.”

“Would you give me a hint?” her fiancée asks, unnerved by her boldness and slightly frustrated with the elusive and enigmatic flower. “You must have a favourite blossom. Let me guess what it is,” her fiancée says.

The botanist’s daughter watches him.

“Roses,” he says, fingering the silk blossoms on her gown, his hands trailing from her shoulders to the neckline.

The botanist’s daughter’s expression does not change. She does not move an inch. “Wrong.”

Her fiancée’s smile falters for a fraction of a second but his hands trace the neck of her gown, lower and lower. “Perhaps Lily of the Valley? Something as beautiful as you.”

The botanist’s daughter steps away, out of the reach of his hands. She smiles as though she has a secret. “You are very handsome,” she says, without a trace of her usual coyness. “And wrong again.”

“Would you give me a hint?” her fiancée asks, unnerved by her boldness and slightly frustrated with the elusive and enigmatic flower.

The botanist’s daughter picks up the bottle of wine, pouring a second glass as she answers, “Bleeding hearts.”

Her fiancée leans against the window, his arm cold through the velvet of his coat.

“How… unusual,” he says. “I must admit I am not familiar with that particular flower.”

The botanist’s daughter smiles, a smile that makes her fiancée decidedly uncomfortable, feeling like the wolf who is corned by a deer not easily intimidated.

“It is one part of my education. Unusual plants and rare plants. I could tell you facts you would not dream of comparing with botany. It is a wicked science, that winds its way into most other parts of history.” When her fiancée does not interject she continues. “For example, did you know that Lucrezia Borgia was rumoured to wear a hollowed ring filled with poison?” The botanist’s daughter asks, looking not at her fiancée but at the bubbling fountain outside, as she speaks.

“I am not familiar with Lucrezia Borgia,” her fiancée answers, his eyes twinkling.

“Lucrezia Borgia was a famous Italian poison-ness in the 1500s. She was famous for her crimes. She was clever and cunning, and knew quite a bit about poison.”

“And why would a refined young lady know about poison?”

The botanist’s daughter adopts an expression her fiancée does not understand.

“Quite a lot. There is much more to being a botanist’s daughter than you might think.”

“Apparently,” he says, feeling slightly more comfortable now that the expression on her face is less predatory.

“There is something rapturously beautiful about poison,” the botanist’s daughter says, gazing at her wine.

“You are beautiful,” her fiancée says, eyes gleaming as his gaze travels from the hem of her gown brushing the carpet to he fine boned face.

“Thank you,” she replies. “You are too charming.”

They stand in silence, gazing at one another. The botanist’s daughter has changed, in some indistinct way; she has become less open, less soft. She does not possess the good posture and hint of a smile that her fiancée is used to seeing, the sign of youth and inexperience. She is sphinx-like, beguiling and alluring. Her beauty is like a siren song; there is a hint of malice beneath it.

“There is history involved in botany. I admit, my father rather spoiled me in that regard. Not that I didn’t help him along. There are many interesting facts one could learn about the implementation of plants in the past.”

Her fiancée is formulating a response when she continues. “Did you know that Italian women used to drop tinctures of Bella Donna in their eyes to dilate their pupils? Because they believe it made them more attractive. It is where the name comes from. Atropa belladonna. It is also called deadly nightshade. In Ancient Rome Agrippina the Younger killed her husband, Emperor Augustus, with the poison.”

Her fiancée appears uncomfortable, unused to encountering intelligent women. Unaccustomed to the challenge.

“It’s rather romantic, isn’t it?” the botanist’s daughter says. Her fiancée grins, feeling once more on familiar ground, the impression of romance in a young girl’s mind is more common to him than musings about poison. She lifts her glass to her lips.

“I hope you would not poison a modest man-in-love,” her fiancée teases, his grin widening. He takes a step closer to the botanist’s daughter.

“I would not dream of it,” the botanist’s daughter says, smiling over her wine.

“You smile as though you have a secret,” her fiancée comments, nodding to her.

“I have none. Save for that which I keep from my father.”

“And what is that?” her fiancée asks, the piquing of his interest almost palpable.

“My father wants to be famous for his discoveries, the be in illuminated script in historical journals. He desires recognition above all else. I only get in the way of his ambitions. I suspect that is another reason he is marrying me off. Were his plan not such an interference with my own, I would hardly mind.” The Botanist’s Daughter watches her fiancée curiously as he coughs.

When the fit has passed he straightens once more, watching the lantern light flickering across her face. “Your plans? What are your plans?”

The Botanist’s Daughter’s gaze flicks from his face briefly to the plant on the desk, partially obscured from his vision by the multitude of books. “I have studied at least half what my father has, in less than half his lifetime. He prefers theoretical study, while I prefer practical. I have my own hypotheses that go, I believe, beyond some of my father’s theorems. I would look beyond his boundaries, and even more, beyond my own. Had he a son, I believe my father would respect his endeavors, but as it is, he hardly acknowledges my interest.” The smile accompanying this last statement is not bitter, despite the edgy tenor of her voice. Rather it is amused. “Beyond that is my pride.”

“What do you mean?” her fiancée asks.

“My father believes he can marry me off to the highest bidder. He is often of the opinion that I am to young and silly to make my own decisions,” she says as she gazes at the books, seeming to speak to herself as much as him. She glances back over her shoulder at her fiancée. “It is in part why we are engaged.”

Her fiancée is visibly startled, the glass slipping in his grip and it is only by reflex that he catches it around the rim, wine sloshing within the glass. “I did not know that.”

“Did you not?” the botanist’s daughter does not seem to expect an answer. She finishes perusing the library and turns back to him with an amused smile, though there is an edge to it, like the brittleness of newly formed ice.

“How much did my father offer for my dowry?”

Her fiancée frowns. “What, dearest?”

“An exorbitant amount, I imagine. I told him he could not sell me to the highest bidder, but fathers, at least mine, do not listen to their daughters as well as they should,” she says pensively. “What did he offer for my dowry?”

Her fiancée seems to be struggling to compose himself. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The botanist’s daughter leans against the windowsill, her back against the cold glass, regarding him in the lantern light as she swirls her glass between her fingers. Her eyes appear darker as she stares for some time at him.

“Would you like to know what I’ve heard about you?”

Her fiancée opens his mouth to answer, but suddenly coughs, a shockingly strong cough that leaves his hands shaking and his cheeks red. The botanist’s daughter continues on as though he has been silent.

“You are charming and charismatic. And that is before someone knows you well. After someone knows you very well, you are distant and dismissive and disloyal.” Her fiancée’s smile, already thin, falters further. “Of course, that is only what I have heard from a lady I am acquainted with, and another lady I know, and one of her maids.”

Her fiancée frowns deeply and opens his mouth once more – to deny the accusation – and bends over coughing. He stumbles toward the curtain, grasping for some support. Her fiancée clutches the curtain in a white knuckled fist as he doubles over, his hand in front of his face as he continues coughing. His coughs become wet sounding, small sprays of blood appear on the white cuff of his shirt and the black sleeve of his suit.

The botanist’s daughter watches wordlessly, sipping her wine, counting the ticks of the clock.

“Bella donna has very interesting effects,” the botanist’s daughter says calmly. “The poison stops your heart. You begin with a pain in your stomach that grows until you feel as though something is trying to crawl out of it. Horrible gnawing pain. Then the coughing starts. It racks your body, purging it of your own blood…” she breathes. “And that is only one account of it.”

Her fiancée cannot stop coughing. The thin sprays of blood have progressed to large clots that stick to his sleeve. He sinks to the floor, propping himself up on his arm as black dots dance before his vision. He shakes as the botanist’s daughter kneels over him.

“I would rather die than be married to the highest bidder. “You’re just doing it for me.” Her voice is a barely recognizable whisper.

She straightens and steps back gracefully before he reaches for the silk of her skirt.

As he gasps for breath she takes a last sip of wine. When he has ceased to move she places her glass upon the wind cabinet.

Her former fiancée’s face is a mask of surprise. His skin pale, lips dotted with blood.

The botanist’s daughter taps her ring thoughtfully before opening the top of it and peering inside. She frowns and brushes her finger into the hollow, withdrawing her finger and rubbing the last of powdered belladonna from her fingertip.

The botanist’s daughter smoothes her skirts and twists the ring on her finger before crossing to the door of the room.

The botanist’s daughter strides through the door, passing through the darkened hallway lit only by shafts of light shining through the adjacent ballroom curtains. The music swells then fades as she walks down the stairs at the end of the hall. She makes several twists and turns before arriving at the greenhouse, shivering slightly from the drop in temperature.

Beyond the glass walls there is darkness, only the flickering lanterns half hidden by foliage provide any light, but the botanist’s daughter navigates instinctually around spiked plants and under large hanging leaves.

The clipping of belladonna is hidden in plain sight, tucked into the vase of roses.

“It did not take as much as I’d thought,” she murmurs.

The botanist’s daughter smells the roses, sweetness with a hint something sharp and bitter, before departing for the ballroom.

Art by Monika Viktoria

Text by Lucie MacAulay