period, the manufacturer doesn’t need to list ingredients. The active one in most of them? Tincture of opium.
We can be shocked by that now, but this is a time when lower-class women were expected to put in a full day of backbreaking work at home—plus taking in extra chores, like laundry—while tending to an endless stream of pre-reliable-contraceptive babies. If something would keep those babies quiet while their mothers worked, they’d jump at it, especially when it was an approved medicine.
Even if those mothers had known the truth, opium use is widespread at this time. It’s legal and easily available in laudanum, a lovely little sedative to help with everything from restless sleep to “attacks of nerves” to menstrual cramps.
“That reminds me,” I say. “If in a few years, the doctor tries prescribing you anything containing a new miracle drug called cocaine, best to refuse it.”
“Freya has already made an appointment for me to meet the doctor in modern High Thornesbury. No offense to dear Dr. Turner, but one thing I am fully taking advantage of is twenty-first century medicine.”
“Good call.” I sip my punch.
“Stop looking at the presents.”
“I’m not—”
“You can’t take your eyes off them. Particularly this one here.” He rises and picks up a gift I couldn’t even see, tucked behind the tree.
“Fine,” he says. “I surrender to your relentless curiosity. You may open it.”
He hands me a long narrow box, unduly heavy. I weigh it in my hands. Then I smile. “You bought me a clothing iron. How delightful.”
He shakes his head and motions for me to get on with it. I untie the ribbon and take my time unfolding the paper, enjoying his obvious impatience. Finally I lift the lid off the box. Inside is a brass plate engraved with “Epona.”
I look up at him.
“You are as easily fooled as young Edmund,” he says. “Did you really believe I’d sell your favorite filly?”
“You said she’d been sold since before her birth.”
“And now she is unsold. The buyer was more interested in a colt, and so I convinced him to wait for that, with the added incentive of a reasonable discount.”
“So she is mine?”
“No, I simply bought a brass name plate for her door until I find another buyer.”
I throw myself into his arms for a fierce hug. “Thank you.”
“She will not be ready to ride for a year or so, but you said you’d like to participate in training.”
“I would very much. Thank you.”
He reaches into the pile of gifts and hands me another heavy box. This one is addressed to Will Jr.
I open the gift, faster this time, and discover another brass plate. This one reads Gringolet—the name of Sir Gawain’s horse. Beneath it is the bill of sale for a young gelding pony.
I laugh. “You’re already buying our daughter a pony?”
“Never too early to start.”
I lean in to kiss his cheek. “She’ll love him.”
“And now a gift for me,” he says. He picks up the one in brown-paper wrapping. “Oh, I am most curious about this present.”
“The one you bought yourself?”
“Nonsense. It clearly says it’s from you.”
He settles into the spot beside me again, his hip rubbing mine. I reach for a candied nut and as soon as I snag one, he tugs me onto his lap.
“I do believe we should open this one together,” he says. “Since you seem to have forgotten what you got me.”
“Baby brain,” I say.
“Undoubtedly.”
He pulls the string and I unwrap the paper, which has been carefully folded and secured without the use of tape.
“Books!” he says. “You bought me a trio of tomes. How kind.”
“Because you obviously need more,” I say, waving at the overstuffed shelves surrounding us. “I’m not even sure where you’ll put three more.”
“Not in here, given the publication dates.”
“Ah, I see. They’re modern books.” I lift the first one. “An Introduction to Baking.”
“So I can learn to bake for you,” he says. “Excellent choice. I can only hope it includes instructions on operating modern appliances.”
“Well, this one does. Though not for the kitchen.” I hold up an ‘idiot’s’ guide to smart phones.
“Thank you,” he says. “I do need that.”
I sputter a laugh and then flip to the third and final book. “A Father’s Guide on What to Expect in the First Year.”
“Now that,” he says, “is definitely a modern book. I do believe the current version would have exactly one page, telling me to cede all responsibility to the angel of the household.”