Porterfield and say ‘I do’ without looking like a victim of domestic violence. Wouldn’t be good for the groom’s reputation. Yours either.”
“You know,” Ruby said, “I never thought about plants having birthdays.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Most of mine don’t make it out of their babyhood, poor things. My thumbs are both purple, not green.”
“Winnie’s roses are antiques,” I said. “They’ve had a lot of birthdays.” I was grateful to Ruby for changing the subject. The less said about my nose, the better. At Ruby’s questioning glance, I added, “Technically, a rose is antique if it was introduced before the Civil War.”
Winnie pulled off her red neckerchief and mopped her face with it. “I’ve got some that are older than that.” She pointed to an erect, bushy shrub with dark gray-green foliage, covered with bright red hips—the small, flask-shaped fruit that some roses produce. “That gallica, for instance. The Apothecary Rose. Been around since the Middle Ages.”
Ruby looked at the bush with respect. “Is this what Brother Cadfael would have grown in his garden?”
“Brother Cadfael?” Winnie asked. “Never heard of him.” She bent over to pick a yellow leaf and held it up critically, examining it. “Damned black spot,” she muttered. “One whiff of my baking soda spray, and you’re history.”
“Brother Cadfael was invented by Ellis Peters,” I explained. “He’s a fictional twelfth-century monk who grows herbs and solves murders.”
Winnie headed toward a ramshackle back porch, its screen door canopied by fat pink cabbage roses. “I never read murder mysteries.” She opened the door and set her basket on a bench. “Real ones are hard enough to stomach.”
“Oh, right,” Ruby said. “Even when it’s somebody like Coleman.”
Winnie made a face. “We won’t talk about him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my momma used to say.”
Ruby laughed a little. “Yes, the way I hear it, he was asking for trouble. I guess you know him from his Council appearances, huh?”
Winnie acted as if she hadn’t heard. “If your Brother Cadfael grows roses,” she said to me, “I might be interested in reading about him. Back in the Middle Ages, roses were medicine, you know.” She pulled the bandanna off her head and ran her hands through her hair so that it stood up in damp gray spikes, giving her the look of an overage punk rocker. “Good medicine, too. If somebody had a heart problem, or a stomach ailment or a fever or trouble with his liver, he’d be treated with roses.” She gestured toward a table at the far end of the screened porch, centered with a glass bowl weighted with crystal marbles and filled with large floppy white roses. “You girls sit there and look out over the garden and decide what you’d like to cut for the wedding. I’ll be right back with the jam cakes and tea.”
We settled ourselves in the wicker chairs, and I glanced around. The porch might have been a set for a 1930’s movie, with an old oak icebox standing against one wall and a bench with a white enameled bucket and wash basin on the other, an embroidered hopsacking towel hanging above it. The painted floor was covered with a worn braided rug, on which lay several napping cats, like orange and white and gray dust mops. Somebody had told me that Winnie had inherited a great deal of money from her parents when they died ten years ago, but it didn’t show in the modest way she lived.
“ ‘Treated with roses’?” Ruby asked, after we sat down. She leaned forward and sniffed deeply at the bouquet of white roses. “How do you treat somebody with roses?”
“With a tea made from the petals,” I said. “Or with rose honey or rose syrup. Or rose vinegar, or oil of roses, or rosewater. Or you could make rosehips into jam, or brew them as tea, or powder them to be added to wine. The hips are loaded with vitamin C and some P and K—although of course people didn’t know that back
“You know,” Ruby said, “I never thought about plants having birthdays.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Most of mine don’t make it out of their babyhood, poor things. My thumbs are both purple, not green.”
“Winnie’s roses are antiques,” I said. “They’ve had a lot of birthdays.” I was grateful to Ruby for changing the subject. The less said about my nose, the better. At Ruby’s questioning glance, I added, “Technically, a rose is antique if it was introduced before the Civil War.”
Winnie pulled off her red neckerchief and mopped her face with it. “I’ve got some that are older than that.” She pointed to an erect, bushy shrub with dark gray-green foliage, covered with bright red hips—the small, flask-shaped fruit that some roses produce. “That gallica, for instance. The Apothecary Rose. Been around since the Middle Ages.”
Ruby looked at the bush with respect. “Is this what Brother Cadfael would have grown in his garden?”
“Brother Cadfael?” Winnie asked. “Never heard of him.” She bent over to pick a yellow leaf and held it up critically, examining it. “Damned black spot,” she muttered. “One whiff of my baking soda spray, and you’re history.”
“Brother Cadfael was invented by Ellis Peters,” I explained. “He’s a fictional twelfth-century monk who grows herbs and solves murders.”
Winnie headed toward a ramshackle back porch, its screen door canopied by fat pink cabbage roses. “I never read murder mysteries.” She opened the door and set her basket on a bench. “Real ones are hard enough to stomach.”
“Oh, right,” Ruby said. “Even when it’s somebody like Coleman.”
Winnie made a face. “We won’t talk about him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my momma used to say.”
Ruby laughed a little. “Yes, the way I hear it, he was asking for trouble. I guess you know him from his Council appearances, huh?”
Winnie acted as if she hadn’t heard. “If your Brother Cadfael grows roses,” she said to me, “I might be interested in reading about him. Back in the Middle Ages, roses were medicine, you know.” She pulled the bandanna off her head and ran her hands through her hair so that it stood up in damp gray spikes, giving her the look of an overage punk rocker. “Good medicine, too. If somebody had a heart problem, or a stomach ailment or a fever or trouble with his liver, he’d be treated with roses.” She gestured toward a table at the far end of the screened porch, centered with a glass bowl weighted with crystal marbles and filled with large floppy white roses. “You girls sit there and look out over the garden and decide what you’d like to cut for the wedding. I’ll be right back with the jam cakes and tea.”
We settled ourselves in the wicker chairs, and I glanced around. The porch might have been a set for a 1930’s movie, with an old oak icebox standing against one wall and a bench with a white enameled bucket and wash basin on the other, an embroidered hopsacking towel hanging above it. The painted floor was covered with a worn braided rug, on which lay several napping cats, like orange and white and gray dust mops. Somebody had told me that Winnie had inherited a great deal of money from her parents when they died ten years ago, but it didn’t show in the modest way she lived.
“ ‘Treated with roses’?” Ruby asked, after we sat down. She leaned forward and sniffed deeply at the bouquet of white roses. “How do you treat somebody with roses?”
“With a tea made from the petals,” I said. “Or with rose honey or rose syrup. Or rose vinegar, or oil of roses, or rosewater. Or you could make rosehips into jam, or brew them as tea, or powder them to be added to wine. The hips are loaded with vitamin C and some P and K—although of course people didn’t know that back
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