A History of Women in the Garden E-Book

Dr Twigs Way

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 639

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2005

Beschreibung

From the early misfortunes of Eve, condemning her descendants to a dubious reputation for fruit management, to the acclaimed successes of plant breeders such as the eccentric Ellen Willmott who combined bankruptcy with iris breeding, the fortunes of the female gardener have been as varied as their roles. Telling the tales of the sixteenth-century housewife, who neatly sidestepped accusations of herbal witchcraft while working her plot, and the unconventional Ladies of Llangollen, who eloped together and created their gothic garden and many other women besides, A History of Women in the Garden showcases female horticulturists through the centuries. An enlightening and entertaining read that will allow the reader to gain fresh enthusiasm for even the most menial of garden tasks, and realise that hundreds of women have trod the garden path before.

Leseprobe

Front cover illustration: Mary Evans Picture Library.

First published as Virgins, Weeders and Queens 2005This paperback edition published 2023

The History Press97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,Gloucestershire, GL50 3QBwww.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Twigs Way, 2005, 2023

The right of Twigs Way to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 75249 578 1Typesetting and origination by The History PressPrinted and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Preface

Preface to 2023 Edition

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgements 2023

1. Weeding Women and Goodly Housewives

2. Queen Bees

3. Gardening in the Wilderness

4. Artists and Needlewomen

5. An Antidote to Levity and Idleness?

6. Writing the Female Garden

7. Virgins in the Bed

8. Genius, Spinster or Eccentric?

9. At War and Peace

Appendix: Gardens to Visit Created by Women

Notes

Bibliography

About the Author

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my mother,Beryl Margery Clarke (née Woods)1935–2005

and toSweet Pea, Bramble, Parsnip, Quince, Damson, Sage, Mulberry, Teasel and Florence

The greatest love may be found in the garden

PREFACE

’Tis Flora calls, bright Beauty come

Walk forth and view Elizium,

Where happy Lovers, crown’d with Flow’rs,

Do sit and sing, in still-green Bow’rs;

And many smiling Virgins stand,

Humbly expecting your Command.

John Rea, Flora, dedication addressed to Lady Gerrard (1665)

‘Gardening’, claimed Viscountess Frances Wolseley in 1908, ‘offers a considerable amount of freedom, the refining influences of poetry and beauty, contact with intelligent, interesting people, and health and happiness to mind and body.’1 Little wonder then that throughout the ages women have been drawn to the garden as a source of both physical and spiritual sustenance. Weeders, artists, housewives, designers, society refugees, plant lovers, and even just plain ‘gardeners’; the history of the garden is a history of women. However, it is a history from which we are all too often shut out. With its emphasis on famous landscape designers, intrepid plant hunters and grand estate owners, traditional garden history has all too often served to exclude women, whose contributions to these grandiose themes have been seen as marginal. Like Eve catching at the Tulip Tree leaf as she passes forever from the Garden of Eden, we are rewarded with only the smallest fragment, although our efforts have been great. Looking back over six centuries of garden writing, Eleanour Sinclair Rohde (1881–1950) was driven to exclaim over the paucity of books written for the woman gardener, a paucity that she felt ‘all the more remarkable because since medieval days the garden has been regarded as the special province of the housewife’.2 Eighty years on, the paucity of books on the history of women gardeners is remarkable still, although the years 2007–23 has finally seen a rush of re-considerations of the role of women in general and biographies of specific gardening women.3

An argument might be made that the history of the garden, in common with the fern beloved of Victorian female plant collectors, is genderless. Yet, for the medieval weeding woman paid exactly half the wage of the men working alongside her, or the Victorian spinster struggling to dig in constricting corsetry, the garden experience was indeed distinct from that of the men around her. But much as it was different from that of men, the experience was not the same for all women. Conditioned by cultural context or social class, some women might languish virginal on daisied lawns or hunt plants through the Himalayas, design gardens for Edwardian villas or cultivate Carolingian auriculas. The role of women has been as various as it has been neglected. For women such as Lady Luxborough or Louisa Johnson the garden was a very personal world, a retreat from the disappointments of life: ill-matched marriages, debts, scandals or spinsterhood. For others it was an arena of public achievement in a man’s world. Eleanor Coade ran her own factory creating statues and urns that still inhabit thousands of gardens, while Ellen Willmott and Gertrude Jekyll were the first women to be honoured with the Royal Horticultural Society Victoria Medal of Honour. Ales Brewer, selling strawberry plants for Henry VIII’s garden at Hampton Court, represents the many who sought neither consolation nor fame, but merely the opportunity to make a living. Housewives, whose skills in the garden supported the family with herbs for the pot and medicines in the cupboard, must form a silent majority. Writers, artists and needlewomen from the medieval period onward have also found inspiration, and sometimes consolation, in the garden: publishing against the wishes of husbands or painting despite the conventions of society, they recorded their experiences for future generations to share.

To write a history of women and the garden is to enter a world of toil and struggle, hopes and cares, successes and failures. Plants that flowered, careers that blossomed, weeds that grew, marriages that failed; all of life played out within the garden fence. As society defined and redefined women’s roles, so their relationships with the garden changed. As Elizabeth von Arnim so perceptively commented, ‘If Eve had had a spade in Paradise and known what to do with it, we should not have had all that sad business of the apple.’4 A history of women in the garden thus also becomes a history of women’s lives beyond the garden gate. As Tudor weeding women gave way to horticultural students, and aristocratic plant collectors to Amazonian plant hunters, so history moved on and women’s roles with it. Few people can name more than two or three women in the history of the garden, and yet hidden below the surface are literally thousands waiting for recognition and rediscovery. Unappreciated, unacknowledged and often unremembered, women have strived to bring life and colour to the most barren of seedbeds only to be consigned to the deserts of history. This book celebrates the lives of many of those who have trodden the garden path before us: the named and the unnamed, the rich and the poor, virgins, weeders and queens.

PREFACE TO 2023 EDITION

In the fifteen years since the first edition of this book (under the title Virgin, Weeders and Queens: A History of Women in the Garden) gendered studies focusing on the role of women in all aspects of history have become mainstream. Garden history has embraced this opportunity to expand its focus and to explore the rich and varied possibilities from combining gender history and garden history. Recent work has helped illuminate the roles of women as designers, educators, campaigners, working gardeners, writers, botanists and artists. The new approaches have broadened and deepened our understanding of the role of gardens and designed landscapes in culture though the centuries and given rise to new areas of study, from the overlap between constructions of gender in medieval literature and gardens to the on-going project on women’s role in the ‘welfare landscapes’ of the mid-twentieth century (in association with the Arts and Humanities Research Council and Manchester School of Architecture). Individual women have also been the subject of new studies, some of which have resulted in publications not only exploring their lives but increasing our understanding of their impacts on other women whether designers, creators, writers, or plantswomen. Most notable have been recent biographies of Ellen Willmott, (Sandra Lawrence’s Miss Willmott’s Ghosts (2022)), Constance Villers Stuart (Mary Ann Prior’s Constance Villiers Stuart: In Pursuit of Paradise (2022)), Mary Delany (Clarissa Campbell Orr’s Mrs Delany: A Life (2019)), ‘Elizabeth’ von Arnim (Jennifer Walker’s Elizabeth of the German Garden (2013)) and Frances Wolseley (Twigs Way’s Frances Wolseley: A Life in Garden and Land (c. 2024)). Shorter works have added detail to lesser-known lives including June Watson’s work on the Lady Emma Tankerville collections at Kew and gardens at Belsay, Sophie Piebenga on Alice de Rothschild., Leanne Newman on Lady Henry Somerset and the use of gardens in rehabilitation of women in the early twentieth century. ‘Groups’ of women, related by chronology, circumstance or location have also been the subject of study. Most recently Fiona Davison’s detailed work on the careers of the pioneering women who studied at the early twentieth century gardening schools (Fiona Davison, An Almost Impossible Thing: Pioneering Professional Women Gardeners, (2023)) , or the lives of early Scottish women gardeners 1800–1930 (Deborah Reid PhD thesis). The number and quality of current research papers and thesis on women’s varied roles in garden history bodes exceedingly well for more major publications on these subjects in the coming years, as does the interest in conferences and courses themed around ‘forgotten’ women, although one wonders how much longer one can convincingly use that phrase! In revising this work for re-publication it has not been possible to include material from these more recent studies, other than when they contradict earlier beliefs or assumptions with later evidences. Indeed it would be almost impossible (and foolhardy) now, given the wealth of material to try and undertake a work that covered the ‘whole’ of the history of women in the garden. Indeed only one other work (Catherine Horwood’s Gardening Women (2010)) has attempted to do so. Finally a sad farewell must be said to several of the women who featured in the first edition. Pamela Schwardt (pioneering joint head gardener at Sissinghurst), died in 2009, and Beth Chatto (1923–2018), ecological gardener, plantswoman and author died at the grand age of 95 leaving her gardens and nursery managed by her granddaughter, and giving rise to Catherine Horwood’s excellent biography, Beth Chatto: A Life in Plants. In summer 2023, just as the revisions were being completed, news was announced of the acquisition of a rare early seventeenth century tapestry by the garden Museum. Featuring gardeners welcoming their patrons into a fine garden it includes typical plants and tools of the period, but most importantly for our story, one of the earliest detailed images of a woman weeding (others are known from manuscript illustrations but none as detailed as the tapestry. Finely clothed, in a long-sleeved dress with puffs of material cinched into a bow at the shoulder and with ruffled cuffs at the wrists. She wears a finely decorated headdress decorated with quatrefoil flowers alternating in rows of blue and red. The couple in the picture wear finer clothing and the other gardeners wear simple smocks depicting a variety of economic status and therefore its likely to be a rare illustration of patron, head gardener and his wife and under-gardeners. Another stitch in the story of women in the gardens.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When I was first commissioned by Sutton to write this book I had two fears. The first was that there would not be enough material (a fear I can hardly comprehend in retrospect), the second that I would in some way fall by the wayside and fail to complete the work. That there has been more than enough material I owe to the vast legions of women who have gone before me into the garden: the weeders, collectors, designers, artists, needlewomen and lovers. That I have not fallen by the wayside I owe to the interest, enthusiasm, patience and knowledge of similar legions of friends, colleagues and experts.

My interest in the history of women and the garden arose, rather contrarily, from the paucity of their appearance in studies in garden history. Lecturing on all aspects of garden history, I was struck by the contrast between the high percentage of women students and researchers, and the very low representation of them in the subject we were exploring. Thus was born the idea of a course on Women in Garden History for the University of Cambridge, Institute of Continuing Education. My first acknowledgement therefore belongs to the programme co-ordinators and staff tutors for their support for this programme. Enthusiastic research among the students led to a much greater appreciation on all our parts of the role played by women in all walks of the garden. This has continued as new students have joined the courses, often bringing with them information on little-known female garden owners, distant female ancestors, grandmothers and mothers, for whom the garden played a vital role. Each wave of students has brought with it a renewed commitment to the subject and growing confidence in its validity, and for this I thank them.

Colleagues in garden history have also been of enormous assistance. I would particularly like to thank Dr Stephen Bending for taking time to discuss his work on eighteenth-century women and ‘garden retirement’, and for allowing me to see drafts of his research papers. Dr Anne Meredith shared with me her expertise on horticultural schools for women, and ensured that my early enthusiasm for Viscountess Frances Wolseley did not go entirely unchecked. Steffie Shields provided information on Lady Elizabeth Pope (an ancestor), and Joanna Martin brought to my attention her research on her ancestors, the Fox Strangways family. Anne Shellim shared information on the destination of female pupils from a larger project she was undertaking, while other colleagues brought to my attention women who had slipped through my net. Cassandra Phillips was also kind enough to allow me to quote from her grandmother’s war journals, despite being in the process of publishing them herself.

Caroline Holmes deserves particular thanks for her support, both as a fellow lecturer and experienced author. Despite working to deadlines for her own book (on the history of dung) during the last year, she has always given advice and assistance freely, and passed on information of interest from her own research. Kristin Hollis has proved yet again to be an invaluable friend, colleague and student simultaneously, and did me the huge favour of reading the manuscript in draft to help spot repeats, typos and spelling errors, etc. Without Kristin there would be a lot less plants in the garden and considerably more pants. Every non-speller needs such a friend.

Research has been made possible primarily by the collections and facilities of the Cambridge University Library, the University of Cambridge Botanic Garden Library (a superb and much underused resource), and the British Library. Information has also been provided by the Royal Horticultural Society Lindley Library (and in particular Brent Elliott), the National Portrait Gallery Archives and Collections, The National Trust, and the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. In addition, the many excellent authors of websites including, notably, the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography made my task much easier. Where these have been used they have been acknowledged.

Jaqueline Mitchell at Sutton Publishing responded to my enthusiasm by commissioning this book, while the supporting cast of copy editors, designers, marketing, etc. at Sutton guided it to fruition. To whom many thanks.

Finally I would like to thank Stephen Kemp and Steve Ouditt for sharing the last year with more women than they ever bargained for.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 2023

It would be impossible to include the vast array of (mostly) women who have encouraged my continued interest in women and garden history in the last fifteen years without doubling the size of the book! However I would like to especially mention David Marsh (Gardens Trust) for his enthusiasm and endless fascination and erudition on a wide range of topics including women; the Gardens Trust for commissioning two series of lectures on Forgotten Women, and the Cambridge University Botanic Gardens (for a series of half day schools exploring female plant hunters, explorers, painters etc). Sandra Lawrence has ceaselessly reminded me that Frances Wolseley’s archive awaits me, and Catherine Horwood has been a delightful fellow searcher in the history of women in the garden.

ONE

WEEDING WOMEN AND GOODLY HOUSEWIVES

Eve …

Rose, and went forth among her Fruits and Flowers,

To visit how they prosper’d, bud and bloom,

Her Nurserie; they at her coming sprung

And touch’t by her fair tendance gladlier grew.

Yet went she not, as not with such discourse

Delighted, or not capable her eare

Of what was high . . .

John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667)

Eden, that illusory and much-sought paradise, forms a dual origin in Western culture for both the history of women and the history of the garden. Adam was created to till the ground and tend the trees of the garden, while Eve was his helpmate and, according to Milton’s Paradise Lost, his equal in the tending of the sweet fruits and blossoms. The buds and blossoms ‘gladlier grew’ at her touch, and the nectarines and peaches refreshed her after her gardening labours. Eve named the plants, and knew each one. Every tree pleasant to the sight, every plant good for food and every herb that brings forth seed was in that garden, including (rather inadvisably on the part of the garden designer) the tree of knowledge of good and evil. Like a poisonous laburnum, swaying golden showers and nut-brown podded seeds over a children’s playground, the tree of knowledge proved too much of a temptation. For as Eve pointed out, surely the gaining of wisdom is a good thing. Alas, as many women have subsequently discovered, a little wisdom can lead you astray from the paths of social acceptance, and it is but a short distance from the tree of knowledge to the gate out of the garden. To compound the misery of this earliest gardening couple, the goodly fruits and herbs were henceforth to be joined by thistles and thorns, and weeding was to join tending as their labours on earth. This ancient tale of the enclosed garden of paradise has echoed down the centuries, influencing our love of gardens. Rather more subtly it has influenced the history of women’s relationship with the garden.

Restored as the original Eve into the Garden of Paradise, transfigured and transformed through the Virgin Mary, medieval women feature in endless illuminated manuscripts. Framed by rose arbours and turf benches, they are captured forever behind the locked gates of an enclosed virginal world. The Song of Solomon gives voice to this mix of passion and seclusion with its well-known verse: ‘A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; A spring shut up, a fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits.’

More worldly Eves also found themselves banished from the orchards, lest further untoward incidents led to a second fall for humankind. The flower garden with its scented blossoms, the hothouses with their childlike tender exotics, and even the weeds of the vegetable plots, all called for their attention; fruit trees, however, were strictly out of bounds. The Roman author Pliny, combining agricultural advice with rural myth, claimed that ‘On the approach of a woman in this state [menstrual], must will become sour, seeds … sterile, grafts wither away, garden plants are parched up, and the fruit will fall from the tree.’1 William Lawson (1553/4–1635), perhaps mindful of Pliny’s advice, was still separating out the gardens of flowers and vegetables from the orchard. Lawson’s The Country Housewifes Garden contained instructions on all types of herbs and flowers mete for her garden, but fruit trees were firmly dealt with in a separate part when he published the whole as A New Orchard and Garden in 1618. Referring throughout to the gardener as ‘he’ in the main part of his writings, Lawson eschews any reference to the goodly housewife in the orchard, although, rather perversely, the instructions within The Country Housewifes Garden do assume that she has read the rest of the book. One can only hope for the sake of the fruit that she has avoided actually visiting the trees.

Horticultural writers of the seventeenth-century Commonwealth, such as Samuel Hartlib (1600–62), Ralph Austen (1612–76) and John Beale (c. 1608–83), concentrated much of their writings on the necessity for new orchards to be planted throughout the country. Encouraging both the material fruits of shared labour and the spiritual fruits of a paradise on earth, Austen’s 1653 Treatise on Fruit Trees Together with The Spiritual Use of the Orchard2 does not, however, go as far as to extend its commonwealth zeal to allowing women back among the fruit trees. Even in the nineteenth century most women writers confined themselves to the flower garden and greenhouse as Eve’s unfortunate error echoed down the millennia.3

The flower garden was long regarded as the especial domain of the woman, a domain which in the medieval period both symbolised her virtues and echoed her virginity.

The hortus conclusus (literally enclosed garden) beloved of the medieval and Tudor periods appears in thousands of brightly coloured illustrations in Books of Hours, romantic texts and even the odd gardening manual. Reflecting the circumscribed lives of the women at whom the texts were often aimed, the garden appears walled or paled in, often set within a castle beyond whose boundaries we glimpse an idyllic yet unobtainable landscape. A turf seat, often with meadow flowers, is occupied by the central character of the text. Whether holy virgin, queen or courtly lover, they are shown seated demurely within their gilded and petalled cages. A fountain representing life and love springing eternal occupies part of the picture, perhaps flowing beyond the walls recalling the rivers running from Eden. Tables hold delicacies and fruits, representing the Last Supper or the unobtainable delights of lust depending on setting and symbol, while flowers hold further clues to the meaning of the picture. Lily for purity, violet for humility, wild strawberry for the Passion, and the iris of the Trinity. A garden or flower picture could be read as a book and did indeed ‘illuminate’ the text. An astoundingly wide range of plants symbolised virginity, from the obvious pure white of the lily to the rather more obscure foxglove where only the shape of the flower (sealed at one end) gives away the source of the symbolism. That all these might be grown within the hortus conclusus gave added emphasis to its sealed and enclosed nature. Lilies of course also remind us of Eve’s departure from Eden, as they were believed to have grown from the tears that she shed on leaving that gardeners’ paradise.

Blessed Milk Thistle (Silybum marianum)

Originating in the Mediterranean but long naturalised throughout Europe, the blessed (or holy) milk thistle was named for its association with the Virgin Mary. Drops of the milk of the mother of Christ having fallen onto the thistle while she was breast feeding, the plants have born the mark ever since as white veins on their dark green leaves. The plant was one of many associated with the Virgin Mary by the medieval period, the most famous being the Madonna lily, frequently used in pictures of the annunciation to symbolise purity. Mar[y]golds were also associated with the Virgin, as were foxgloves, commonly known as ‘Our Lady’s Gloves’, and Alchemilla mollis which is still known today as ‘Our Lady’s Mantle’. In Germany the milk thistle was actually used as a symbol for the Virgin. Known since the Roman period as beneficial for the cleansing and healing of the liver, Hildegard von Bingen (1098–1179) refers to the milk thistle in her Physica (c. 1150–58), extolling the benefits of the roots and leaves. It was still in use in the seventeenth century when Nicholas Culpeper (1616–54) noted that it was good against jaundice and other diseases of the liver. In the last few decades intensive research has been carried out on the chemical constituents of the milk thistle and the protective properties of silymarin confirmed as bringing the benefits extolled by von Bingen and Culpeper.

Books of Hours, used to remind their owners of the religious lessons of the days and the seasons, also indicate the crossover between religious and sexual symbolism. Noblewomen are portrayed sitting in enclosed gardens studying an illustration of the Virgin Mary, herself seated in an enclosed garden. This peaceful image, encouraged and promulgated by social and religious morality of the period, has long influenced our view of women’s relationship with gardens in the medieval period. Closely connected with the cult of the Virgin, women in gardens (and women as garden plants) are also portrayed in the courtly love literature and illuminations of the court of the Middle Ages. Perhaps the most famous of these is the thirteenth-century Roman de la Rose. One of the medieval world’s ‘bestsellers’, this extended allegorical poem by Guillaume de Lorris (c. 1200–40) and Jean de Meun (1240–1305) expounded the whole art of courtly love. In the poem the lover is searching for his true love, which takes the form of a rose. He enters first an orchard and then a walled garden, the door of which is opened by Idleness in the form of a yellow-haired lady in a green dress. Inside the garden allegorical characters discuss with him the art of love as he continues his search for the elusive rose of perfection, a rose eventually found among the pricks of thorns and stings of nettles. Continually retold, translated, and reproduced in a series of richly illustrated manuscripts, the Roman de la Rose offers us yet another vision of the link between the female and the garden. A French manuscript c. 1500 also tells the tale of a lover seeking love or lust. Let into a walled garden by Dame Nature his task is to choose between three ladies in the shape of fleshy love, wisdom or courtly womanhood, each ensconced in towers within the walls of the garden and each trying to capture the unwary lover.

Other tales of love and romance took up the theme of the garden as an arena for dalliance within the safety of the castle walls and soon the walled garden took on the same shades of meaning as the shrubbery was to do in the Victorian period. A retreat in which the bounds of convention might perhaps be loosened or exchanged, where romance and reality merged. This romantic vision may be glimpsed through ‘cut-away’ walls and between rose-entwined trellises, as we peer into the private retreats of noblewomen of the period.4 Tranquil and pale as befits their status, they spend their hours in the garden in religious devotion, contemplation and needlework; at least that’s how the illustrators of the period would have them appear. Idealised settings include flowery meads, turf seats backed with roses, pinks and hollyhocks gay in borders. Picnic tables, water rills, and the odd troubadour added sound and sustenance to the scent and colour of their caged world.

Although both the plants and the gardens seen in the jewel-like manuscripts contained a strong element of symbolism this does not mean that they did not also represent a more earthly reality. We know from Master Jon Gardener’s ‘The Feate of Gardening’ (c. 1440) that real English gardens of the period contained foxgloves, hollyhocks, lilies, lavender, roses and rue alongside the rather less symbolic thyme, chamomile and garlic.5

The walls and towers of enclosed gardens of castle and manor houses were also recorded in descriptions and, less poetically, financial accounts of the period. At Woodstock in 1250 the Queen’s Garden was ordered to be enclosed by two walls ‘well built and high’ by command of King Henry III (1207–72).6 The Book of Hours owned by Anne of Brittany, and now in the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, shows Anne in her own garden, with its crenellated walls, turf seats and trellis. James I of Scotland (1394–1437) first spied his future wife Joan Beaufort (1404–45) while she was walking in her garden within the walls of Windsor Castle. Looking down from the tower in which he had been imprisoned, the young James saw a fair garden, made fast within the tower’s walls. Within its hawthorn hedges and green arbours his lovely Joan, walked as ‘Cupides own princess’ in her garden of flowers. James recorded the garden, and his love, in the poem ‘The Kingis Quair’ which gives us a wonderful picture of these enclosed gardens at the beginning of the fifteenth century.

Some gardens were more extensive than could easily be shown on an illuminated miniature. At her castle in Clare, Suffolk, Elizabeth de Burgh, 11th Lady of Clare (1295–1360), had a private garden securely placed within the castle walls. The garden was crossed by paths of flint, perhaps leading to and from the fountain that is clearly recorded in her accounts. In addition she had an ‘aviary’ in the form of a pheasant house containing a glass chamber, a house for deer, and a model sepulchre or tomb, perhaps modelled on the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.7 Depending on one’s viewpoint, Lady Clare was either an extraordinarily unfortunate or fortunate woman. Granddaughter of Edward I, she was married three times, but all of her husbands pre-deceased her, leaving her an extremely wealthy widow at the age of 28. Taking a vow of chastity she devoted herself to her estate and her family, although she gave generous gifts to religious houses and in 1338 endowed Clare College, Cambridge. Undoubtedly she would have appreciated the fine gardens that now exist at the college with their smooth grass, year-round colourful borders and enclosed tranquil pool.8 Her castle at Clare was recorded as having its gardens increased by a ‘new paling about le Maydengardeyn’ in the mid-fifteenth century by its then occupant Richard, Duke of York. Whether this ‘maydengarden’ was truly a garden for maidens, or perhaps a maiden (new) garden, must be speculation.

Undoubtedly for some women, in particular the nobility, the garden was a place to languish rather than labour; however, for others the reality of the garden involved less purity and more earthiness. A life at court was not the agreeable fate of the majority in the Middle Ages, or indeed at any subsequent time. Rather than having their hearts swelled among jewel-like flowers, the responsibilities of most women were rather the swelling of the stomach. Housewives were busy with sowing and raising in kitchen, herb and physic plots and weeding women laboured earning a poor but honest wage. These are the women who were not merely in the garden but were part of the garden, for whom the garden was a place of engagement and activity, rather than isolation and repose. Neglected in the sparkling books of romance, their story may be found in more prosaic books of instruction and accounts recording the day-to-day dealings of working women or worried housewives. Without them the medieval garden would have been a much poorer, and weedier, place.

Following her expulsion from the paradise of the weedless Eden, and subsequent heartless imposition of thorns and thistles on the world, Eve would have found herself carrying out that most basic of gardening duties – weeding. Equipped ‘with such gardening tools as art, yet rude, guiltless of fire, had form’d, and angels brought’.9 It comes as no surprise to discover that the deity associated with weeding is, in fact, Runciana, a goddess.

Although this vital duty often fails to merit a specific mention among the numerous exhortations to the housewife to ‘plant and tend’, this may be regarded more as an oversight than an indication of lack of weeds. Anthony Fitzherbert (1470–1538) in his 1523/4 Book of Husbandry, stated that the housewife’s garden should be weeded ‘as often as need shall require … for else the weeds will overgrow the herbs’.10 Almost 100 years later, in 1618, William Lawson extolled the seventeenth-century ‘Eve’ to take ‘skills and pains with weeding the garden, with weeding knives or fingers’. In his Art of Simpling (1656) William Coles also observed that even Gentlewomen, if the ground be not too wet may doe themselves much goode by kneeling upon a cushion and weeding.’11

Weeding was not only the duty of the meritorious housewife, but was one of the relatively few ways in which ‘respectable’ women, including undoubtedly the spinster and the widow, might earn a small income. The sturdy figure of the weeding woman plods through the history of the garden from the Tudor court to the Victorian kitchen garden. Consistently poorly paid and little regarded, these women had the merit (from an employer’s point of view) of being able to carry out monotonous but intricate tasks for remarkably little reward. The restricted social position and financial precariousness of the single woman made them ideal for such positions. As early as 1354 women were employed among the gardening workforce at Rotherhithe (Surrey).12

In the early fifteenth century the wife of William Bishop, gardener at Winchester College, had earned 4s by weeding, a considerable amount, although how many days she spent on her knees we do not know.13 A hundred years later, in 1515, twenty-two women were employed at York Place (later Whitehall), each earning what appears to have been the standard wage for the period of 3d. More weeding women appear in the accounts of Cardinal’s College (later Christ Church), Oxford. In the spring and summer of 1530 Margaret Hall, Joan Fery and Agnes Stringer were all paid 3d a day, plus free bread, ale and herrings, for ‘cleansing the garden’ and ‘rooting up unprofitable herbs’.

But perhaps the most famous women weeders are those listed in the Royal Accounts of Hampton Court in the first decades of the sixteenth century. Here we learn of women such as Agnes March, Alice and Elizabeth Alen, Elizabeth Anmun, Joan Smeton, Annes Lewes, Jone Abraham, Margaret Cookstole, Katherine Wite and Agnes Norton. Their duties, paid at the rate of 3d a day, were the removal of charlock, cockles, convolvulus, dandelions, docks, dodder, groundsel and nettles. In addition they were to attempt to eradicate that very weed that Eve had supposedly been the cause of, the thistle. A further two women, Ales Brewer and Margaret Rogers, appear to have expanded their role beyond their weeding duties by selling strawberry roots, primroses and violets. These were collected by the bushel load (at 3d a bushel) and presumably indicate plants being collected from the wild to be planted in the gardens.

Rather disturbingly, wages of women weeders were still 3d a day at Knole (Kent) in the time of Charles I, although they could earn 5d a day for picking hops in the grounds. By the reign of William III (reigned 1689–1702) wages for gardeners at Hampton Court had increased to some 8d a day – although with a maintenance budget of £4,800 a year either there were an awful lot of weeders or some gardeners were getting rather more than their fair share. Picking light or difficult crops such as hops or peas was another task commonly allotted to women through the centuries. Women pea-pickers were recorded in a photograph in Country Life in the early twentieth century, and hop-pickers still worked in the Kentish hop fields after the Second World War.

Actual weeding women were one thing in the garden, but at Woburn they went one step further in their commitment to the working woman. In 1697 the intrepid traveller Celia Fiennes (1662–1741) recorded that ‘you pass under an arch into a Cherry garden in the midst of which stands a figure of stone resembling an old weeder woman used in the garden, and my Lord would have her effigy which is done so like and her clothes so well that at first I took it to be a real living body’.14 To modern minds it may seem unusual to celebrate one’s employees in such a public way, but in the first century AD Pliny had suggested that one might place the initials of the ‘gardener’ in topiary about the garden. Much as such a permanent monument might serve to please, the small matter of remuneration was undoubtedly foremost in the minds of most of the women gardeners and harvesters. To place the wages of weeding women in perspective, a sixteenth-century wheelbarrow might cost 1s 3d, a shovel 4d, and a ceramic watering pot 1d. After a hard day’s weeding a woman might thus earn almost enough to purchase a shovel with which to cultivate her own garden – if she had energy left to do so – or perhaps a choice variety of apple tree for 6d under which to contemplate the turn of fortune’s wheel since the Garden of Eden.15

Although it looms large in the accounts of the Middle Ages and Tudor periods, weeding was not the only task that working women gardeners might carry out. At Little Downham, the Bishop of Ely’s manor in Cambridgeshire, ‘Juliana’ was in charge of the labourers in the kitchen gardens, keeping the kitchens provided with peas, beans and orchard fruits.16 Sadly we know nothing more of Millicent Vauxe, gardener of Peterborough, than she was successful enough to require an apprentice in 1695, and chose a young girl, one Elizabeth Watts, an orphan, which resulted in her name (and that of Elizabeth) entering the records and archives of the Overseers of parish apprenticeships. Illustrations in estate management books of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries give us further clues to the varied role of women in the garden. Although of wider European origin, these manuscripts perhaps give us an insight that may well be of relevance to the English experience.

One of the most popular, and frequently copied, of these texts is Liber Ruraliam Commodorum (Book of Rural Benefits) by Pietro de’ Crescenzi (1233–1320). Written in the first years of the fourteenth century and dedicated to Charles II of Naples, it repeated much information on estate management, agriculture and horticulture from the classical texts. It became extremely popular across Europe and was translated from the original Latin into four languages including Italian, French and German. Each of the translations was accompanied by a series of illustrations illuminating the text and often showing Crescenzi himself in the act of pointing out particular tasks to the landowner. Also illustrated are the labourers carrying out these gardening tasks, among them many working women. Women are shown planting seedlings, raking and preparing ground for seed, and also tending to the weaving of plants into the particular shapes (known as estrades) favoured in this period. Often distinguished by their practical brown clothing, some appear to wear gloves or gauntlets, similar to those that would be recommended by Jane Loudon some 500 years later. Some wear practical white headgear, while others are shown balancing a wimple while coaxing recalcitrant herbs into anguished positions.

Unsurprisingly, the illuminations in Christine de Pizan’s fifteenth-century Le Livre de la Cité des Dames also include women involved in manual labour. In a hurdle-bound field or garden a woman turns the earth with a spade while another watches. Both in the same practical grey clothing, the one watching wears a wimple – one wonders is she mistress or work colleague? Are the women real or imaginary in this world of exceptional women that also includes artists, stone masons, and writers. Christine de Pizan (1362–c. 1430)was herself a professional woman writer. Born in Venice in 1363/4, she was married at 15 and widowed at 25. She combined a career in epics and verse with bringing up three children and caring for her own mother; unsurprising then that she should extol the virtues of the working woman in all fields.

Books of Hours of this period also portray women in horticultural tasks, either as the main picture or more often in the decorative borders surrounding the text. An early sixteenth-century Flemish example includes a lady of the manor supervising her female gardener, who is on her knees tending to one of the small boarded beds in a railed garden.17 The scene reminds us immediately of the instructions given by the contemporary gardening author William Lawson that the lady of the house should always superintend her weeding women to avoid costly and unfortunate errors of identification an admonition repeated in the nineteenth century by Louisa Johnson.

A wheelbarrow is pushed by a woman in another Flemish Book of Hours of c. 1500.18 Her colleague or husband helps support one end of an unfeasibly enlarged and extended carnation that grows from the wheelbarrow and continues around the page border. They are both dressed in plain working clothes and she has tucked up her aprons as she lifts the burden. Another border has the tables turned as a man wheels a barrow loaded with potted plants, while two women carry further flowers and pots – whether from their own home or a nursery we do not know. A fourteenth-century guide to the healthy life, Tacuinum Sanitatis, shows women working in small fields or gardens collecting spinach leaves and cabbages or coleworts (a non-heading brassica) of some kind. Most of these women appear to be workers in the gardens they inhabit, toilers for money rather than love, but many more must have taken on the burden of the garden as part of their wider duties to home, hearth and husband. Between the working women and the leisured noblewomen lay the ‘gentle housewives’ who worked in their own kitchen gardens, laying siege to the labouring man’s heart with their concoctions of herbs and simples, or perhaps with their melons and parsnips. Barnaby Googe, in his Foure Books of Husbandry (1577) claimed that an out of order garden was the sure sign of a ‘no goode huswyfe’ for unto her was the charge of the garden.19

Although books of gardening advice were rare until the seventeenth century, the few that we do have emphasise the vital role of the housewife in both the flower garden and, especially, the productive garden. Divisions between the several types of garden were not so strong in the medieval period as they were to become by the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and so the idea of a housewife being responsible only for flowers, while her husband grew the vegetables and herbs in a separate area, would not have been appropriate. Within the productive gardens would be grown not only the vegetables for cooking and for salads but also the herbs for physic and flavouring. Intermingled with these might be the scented plants, whether for decoration, cooking or strewing. Not only did these scented herbs act as ‘companions’ at the dinner table, but their properties were believed to keep away the harmful pests and insects in this pre-chemical age.

The skills needed to understand the growing and tending of these plants were as vital to the housewife as the knowledge of how to eventually use them. Distillations and decoctions of herbs would keep her household healthy and fed during the coming months, but only if she could provide the plants needed for them. Gardening was not merely a leisure activity but an occupation vital to the success and survival of a woman’s household and her family. Gardening and medicinal skills would be handed down from mother to daughter in an age when female literacy was low and patent medicines unknown. Concerned by the inexperience of his youthful wife, Le Ménagier de Paris prepared detailed instructions on her household, cookery and garden duties. His 1393 script included such tasks as setting rosemary cuttings and preparing them for sending to ‘distant parts’. One wonders whether the rosemary cuttings supposedly brought into England by Queen Philippa at the start of the fourteenth century had themselves been prepared with the waxen cloth, smeared honey and wheaten flour Le Ménagier recommended.

The Book Of Husbandry by Sir Anthony Fitzherbert is one of the first books in England to acknowledge the vital role that the housewife has to play as gardener and producer. First published in 1523/4 and marketed as a general book of instruction to the husbandman, the book also addresses the good housewife of the day. Although he admits himself ignorant of many of the tasks undertaken by women, Fitzherbert acknowledges the multiplicity of their tasks and proffers advice on time management to help them through the day. A task he refers to as essential for the housewife is the obtaining of as many seeds and herbs as she can, especially those that are good for the pot and to eat.

A less conscientious housewife might have preferred the more satirical Ballad of the Tyrannical Husband, published anonymously a few decades earlier and recording a lively debate as to whether it was the husband or wife who contributed more to the household. But choice was not on the housewife’s side. The paucity of household books in general prior to this period, and more specifically those aimed at women, can be blamed on both lack of printing and also lack of general literacy. One can imagine the relevant parts of Fitzherbert’s book being read to the conscientious housewife by her more literate husband, in an age when reading aloud was a common practice. As the century progressed, bringing with it a Protestant emphasis on Bible reading, the number of literate women grew, particularly among the gentry. By the end of the century texts addressed to the housewife might actually have been read by them, although book buying would still be seen as a male pursuit.

Thomas Tusser (1524–08), farmer and poet, was one of the most successful writers, catering for both the rise in literacy and the desire to understand estate management. His book A Hundrethe Pointes of Goode Husbandrie was first printed in 1557 and became an instant success. He followed his advice to husbandmen with A Hundrethe Pointes of Goode Huswifery in 1562, perhaps with the help of his own wife. Not content with having amassed by then over 200 bestselling ‘good points’, 1573 saw the good husbandman and his wife bombarded with Five Hundred Pointes of Good Husbandrie, of which some were specifically aimed at the education of the gardening housewife. Written in excruciating but memorable doggerel, these five hundred points went well beyond estate husbandry. Drawing on his own by then considerable experience, Tusser gave advice on farming, animal management, religion, marriage, life and just about everything. He even included a short autobiography by way of proving his authority. To avoid information overload (not to mention doggerel indigestion) Tusser helpfully divided his ‘Hints’ into seasons, with jobs for each of the months. In January, for example, the housewife should be busy planting peas and beans and setting young rose roots; during March and April she will work ‘from morning to night, sowing and setting her garden or plot’, to produce the crops of parsnip, beans and melons which will ‘winnest the heart of a labouring man’ for her later in the year. Her strawberry plants will be obtained from the best roots which she has gathered from the woods, and these are to be set in a plot in the garden. Berries from these plants will be harvested later the same year, perhaps a useful back-up if the parsnips have failed to win the man of her dreams. July will see the good wife ‘cut off … ripe bean with a knife’ as well as harvesting the hemp and flax which it will be her responsibility to spin later in the year.

As the seasons turn so does the weather, and by December the strawberry plants will need covering with straw (hopefully having accomplished their aims): ‘Laid overly trim upon crotchis and bows, and after uncovered as weather allows’. Also susceptible to the hard frosts and winters of the sixteenth century were the small pinks or gilleflowers and Tusser notes that, ‘The gilleflower also, the skilful doe knowe, doe look to be covered, in frost and in snowe. The knot, and the border, and rosmarie gaie, do crave the like succour for dieng awaie.’20 Small wonder, perhaps, that in 1523 Anthony Fitzherbert had noted that the housewife’s duties were never at an end.

Tusser lists the plants that would provide the colours and scents to uplift the soul, as well as those used more practically to lift the body from illness and affliction. Those that he expects the country housewife to be familiar with include Bachelor’s Buttons Campions, Columbines, Daffadowndillies, Gilleflowers, Hollyhocks, Lark’s Foot, Rosmarie, Snapdragons and Sops in Wine. This last was the charming name for the pinks that are white or pink with red edgings and markings. They could be dropped into wine to give a subtle flavouring as well as looking pretty. Most of this array of country flowers would either be planted as sets from existing plants or produced from sowings. Unsurprisingly, among other tasks the good housewife is admonished to save her own seeds for next year’s planting, and swap with neighbours as needs be to supplement her own stores. The obtaining and the propagation of plants was, of course, one of the main concerns of the housewife, and something which in the age of the catalogue and seed packet we are prone to neglect – if not forget altogether.

Another essential of the good housewife, according to Tusser, was the ability to rise early. This is mentioned with a suspicious frequency within his ‘points’, perhaps suggesting that rising on a cold March morning to collect and set strawberry roots was not a task relished by many. Rising late, we are told, would betoken a bad housewife or one of ill repute. Magdalene Herbert is a shining example of one of the many women who undoubtedly took Tusser’s advice to heart. Born and brought up in a proud border family at Eyton-on-Severn in Shropshire, she was married to Richard Herbert. Her son George (born in 1593) immortalised his mother with the poem ‘Memoria Matris Sacris’, in which he recalls how she began every day early, with prayers and simple braiding of her hair. Then ‘on her family forth she shone, and spent on kitchen, garden, house, due management’.21 Perhaps reflecting as she went on Fitzherbert’s hints on multitasking.

At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the newly literate country housewife was rewarded for her studies with the first book specifically addressed to her gardening duties, William Lawson’s 1618 publication, The Country Housewifes Garden. A practical gardener himself, with over forty years’ experience in his own gardens in Yorkshire, Lawson outlines both the design and planting of the housewife’s garden, before then leading her through the monthly tasks to be carried out in both the productive and flower gardens. Lawson’s division of gardens into the kitchen garden and the summer garden reminds us of the very restricted number of plants available to gardeners of the period. Extending the flowering season beyond late spring to autumn was almost impossible without recourse to the new and expensive ‘exotics’. To make up for the lack of these Lawson recommends the country housewife to make ‘those herbs and flowers comely and durable in squares and knots’ to provide pattern in the garden in the autumn and winter period. No doubt some of these were to be raised from the seeds and division the goodly housewife had stored up, while others might be swapped with neighbours.

The kitchen garden was to contain the standard mix of herbs, fennel, onions, skirrets and worts, which seem to have dominated the medieval and Tudor diet. In case of a ‘cloyed’ stomach, rather than a warmed heart, wifely ministrations might include radish sauce, capers and cucumbers. Cucumbers might be had ‘young and fresh’ by casting the seeds all summer long ‘here and there’. Rue, set from slips along with rosemary, was used in physic only, being ‘too strong for my housewife’s pot, unless she will brew Ale’. Turnips, thyme, parsnips and pennyroyal were among the simple ‘herbs’ Lawson recommended because, as he said, ‘I teach my Country-Housewife, not skilful artists … Let her first grow cunning in these and then she may enlarge her garden as her skill and abilities increaseth.’22

During the English Civil War, Goodwife Cantry was one of those who seem to have enlarged their gardens and their skills. Her Northamptonshire garden might appropriately be described as a riot of colour, with larkspur, single and double, three kinds of spiderworts, and lupins in four different colours vying with each other for attention, while chamomile provided a calming sedative in those troubled times. With herbs from the garden this Goodwife brewed a potion against plague which no doubt was as effective as any other of the medicines available for this scourge of the times.23 To help the budding housewife gardener achieve the skills attained by Goodwife Cantry, Lawson closes with a list of sixteen good gardening rules, many of which have stood the test of time: set moist and sow dry; gather herbs for pot when tender and true; gather seeds ripe and dry; thin out settings and sowings; and the somewhat rueful reflection that Yorkshire, Lawson’s home, is colder and less timely for gardening than more southern parts. His parting shot (an unnumbered seventeenth ‘rule’) brings us firmly back to that other role that women were thought to excel at in the garden, weeding: ‘The skills and pains of weeding the Garden with weeding knives or fingers, I refer to themselves and their maids, willing them to take the opportunity after a shower of rain, withal, I advise the Mistress either to be present herself, or to teach her maids to know herbs from weeds.’ No wonder the diligent but indigent old maid or widow might turn to weeding as a way to keep the wolf from the door when the skills of weeding had been instilled from an early age.

Preparation of physic (medicine) was another female duty that most of us have abandoned, but the relationship between the garden and the physic chest was a very close one in the days before patent medicines. Tusser tells us that the sixteenth-century housewife should keep, among many others, ‘cold herbes in her garden for agues that burne, that over strong heat to good temper may turne’. Mystic visionary and saint, Hildegard von Bingen (1098–1179) compiled one of the earliest medicinal herbals in c. 1150–58. The tenth child of a German noble family, Hildegard von Bingen became an anchorite at the age of 14. Visions of salvation came to her over the following years and were recorded in a book entitled Scivias which appeared in 1151. The following years saw her writing on health and healing (the Liber simplicis medicinae, later called Physica), and notes for a medical handbook (Liber compositae medicinae, later called Causae et Curae). With the protection of her position as head of a nunnery, and the blessing of her archbishop, Hildegard von Bingen did not run the risks faced by most wisewomen of accusation of witchcraft and was able to explore fully the use of herbs and plants. Describing 230 plants, 63 trees, and 45 animals under nine general headings, she tells of the basic qualities, the medicinal value, and the proper application of each. From the Liber compositae medicinae comes this recipe: if a depression conditioned by various fever attacks should cause a person headaches, they should take some mallow and twice that amount of sage, crush these into a pulp in a mortar and pour a bit of olive oil on it. If there is no oil, a little vinegar will do. They should then apply it over the skull from the forehead to the neck and cover with a cloth, repeating this for three days’. Sage was known as a cure-all in the medieval period, and mallow drew the bile of black humours.

Teresa McLean in her study Medieval English Gardens draws attention to the numerous references to women herbalists in medieval literature, many growing medicinal and pot herbs in the same small plots, others with separate infirmary gardens based on those of the Benedictine infirmerers, or perhaps inspired by von Bingen.24

William Turner’s New Herbal (1551) was the first herbal written in English to enable those not schooled in Latin to have access to the knowledge of herbs and physics. Most women of course would have been ‘unschooled’ and Turner thus made the classical works of Pliny and Dioscorides available to them for the first time. Although, perversely, the dedication to Queen Elizabeth draws attention to a conversation she had with Turner in which he states her Latin was far above that he had encountered in any other gentlewomen.

Addressed to the ‘Courteous and the well-willing’ as an introduction to the gentle art of ‘simpling’ or herb knowledge John Gerard’s famous Herball or General Historie of Plants (1597) was addressed to the ‘Courteous and the well-willing’ as an introduction to the gentle art of ‘simpling’ or herb knowledge. Written in English. Containing, plant identification, cookery and physic, it has been argued that it was also intended in part for the use of the gentlewoman,25 freeing her from the need to resort to the wise woman or the witch.

Frowned on by apothecaries and herbalists, the lower class herb-wise woman always flirted with danger. There was a fine line between the goodly housewife curing the ague and the witch who was accused of creating potions for less worthy purposes. Gerard relates how the Small Moone-Wort [sic.] (Lunaria) might be used by both apothecaries and witches and urges caution in resorting to the wiles of the latter.

The cautious housewife might be safer sticking to Gerard’s recommendations for nosegays and posies or flowers for decking the house, advocated by him for their sight and smell and their ability to make the heart merry and joyful. House decorations included pinks, columbine and meadowsweet, which used as garlands and nosegays might keep away not only the pervasive noxious smells of the sixteenth century, but also ward off the plagues and diseases that periodically swept through both urban and rural areas.26 Gerard does, however, relent in recording the common names given by the ‘English women’ to herbs and plants; cotton-weed, for example, being known by countrywomen as ‘Live Long’, due to its long-lasting flowerhead.

Mandrake was a popular herbal cure among women, causing them to be fruitful and bear forth children, but again caution is urged and the words of the ‘unschooled’ doubted. Certainly the long-held belief in the ability of the mandrake root to scream as it was dug up, and cause insanity and death in those who overheard, deserved debunking as it was based largely on a desire to artificially inflate prices rather than any reality.

Thomas Johnson, a seventeenth-century apothecary, was so concerned about the dependence of the medical profession on women who dealt in roots and herbs that he instituted the idea of the botanical outing among his profession. Until that time his fellow apothecaries had relied on purchasing the ingredients for their remedies from the market place, a market place they shared with the very women healers and collectors that they despised. ‘Almost every day in the herb market’, he claims, ‘one or other of the druggists, to the great peril of their patients, lays himself open to the mockery of the women who deal in roots. These women know only too well the unskilled and thrust upon them brazenly what they please for what they will.’ One wonders whether he himself has been the subject of such mockery as he continues in uncomplimentary terms, ‘the doctor relies on the druggist and the druggist on a greedy and dirty old woman with the audacity and the capacity to impose anything on him. So it often happens that the patients’ safety depends on the herbal knowledge of an ignorant and crafty old woman.’27 This description of old, crafty and ignorant is one that would be levelled by men at women collectors and gardeners through the centuries.

In his work of 1629, Paradisi in sole Paradisus Terrestris, or A Garden of all sorts of pleasant flowers which our English ayre permitt to be noursed up, John Parkinson is more complimentary about some of the women who had helped him in his quest for plants, either by exchange of knowledge or with specimens. Mistress Tomasin, a gentlewomen from Hornby Castle, was one such. She provided material for Parkinson from her collection of rare plants including hellbore roots which he later commented ‘had borne fair flowers’. Parkinson dedicated his work to Queen Henrietta Maria (herself a plant lover and known as the ‘rose and lily queen’) but he also had care to address himself to the lesser gentlewomen. To these he devoted his discussions on the planting and ordering of ‘The Garden of Pleasant Flowers’, and in particular the tulip, a flower which he says owes its popularity to the love and liking that women bear to them.28