Harriett had seen the look on his face before. After her parents died, her grandparents had worn it as well. She scared him—the way she’d once frightened them. Without uttering a single word on the subject, they’d made it clear that something about her wasn’t right. It seemed Mr. Clarke dealt with fear the same way her grandparents had—by turning it into disgust.
“I don’t understand,” she said, attempting to adopt a logical tone. “What makes you think the property isn’t exactly the way I want it?”
“For heaven’s sake, look around you, Ms. Osborne!” he cried, as though making one last-ditch appeal to what little of her sanity was left. He rose from his seat and cupped a bunch of purple berries that dripped off the end of a scarlet stem. “I don’t know what these are, but my wife spends half her time uprooting plants just like this from our yard. You’re letting them grow into giants.”
“That’s pokeweed, and I planted it. The berries are generally written off as poisonous to humans, but there are healers who swear they can treat skin diseases and various forms of inflammation. I thought I’d investigate.”
What she’d been convinced was a perfectly reasonable response was greeted with thinly veiled scorn. “You thought you’d investigate? Do you have a medical degree?”
“No,” Harriett countered, without much confidence. “But I have read a fair amount on the subject, and as you pointed out, I do have time on my hands.”
Clarke gaped at her like she’d announced she was building a spaceship to travel to Mars, then glanced down. “What’s this?” With the tip of his shoe, he nudged a tangled clump of green spilling over the sides of a planter she and Chase had purchased on their honeymoon in Provence.
“It’s red clover.”
“Isn’t clover considered a weed?”
“By people who don’t know any better. This summer, I harvested the flowers to make tea.”
His eyes widened comically. “Did you drink it?”
Harriett’s throat was tight and tears had sprung to her eyes. If she’d known why she was under attack, she might have fought back. The fact that Clarke’s cruelty was unprovoked made it smart all the more. What was the point of this, she wondered? Why had this man she barely knew—this man she was paying—come to her house to berate and humiliate her?
“Women have been drinking clover tea for hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years. It helps regulate our hormones during perimenopause.”
Clarke squirmed with discomfort and promptly changed the subject. “And this lovely thicket?” He swiped his hand across a patch of plants whose formerly bright yellow parasols were now turning brown. “What purpose do these plants serve?”
Harriett winced. “That’s wild parsnip. It really doesn’t like to be touched.” The plant contained a powerful phototoxin. She would need to give him a salve to soothe the rash that would cover his hand by the end of the day.
“So you’re telling me you purposely grew all the weeds in this garden.”
“I didn’t say that.” He was putting words in her mouth.
She pulled her gaze away from him and let her eyes roam the garden. There wasn’t a leaf she didn’t recognize or a seed she didn’t know how to use. Once colder weather arrived in mid-November, the vegetation would die and the neighbors could rejoice. But next spring, when the plants from her living room joined the garden, Harriett’s magnificent vision would be realized. This was her land they were standing on, she reminded herself, and yet this man was insisting she view the garden through his eyes. Where she saw promise and possibility, he saw proof of a broken mind. Harriett knew she would never convince him of her sanity, so she found herself faced with a choice. She could either believe her own eyes—or she could see what the man told her to see.