The Serpentine Path
By
Edeana Malcolm
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Edeana Malcolm
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
Sample Chapter of Back to the Garden
Chapter 1
Kent, England, 1777
Susan paused on the landing and looked out at a sight that always arrested her soul. Her father’s pleasure garden lay before her with its green fields, hedgerows, flower gardens, pathways, shrubberies, and even a wilderness. Her heart was aching with an overwhelming desire to wander there and discover all its secrets when her father came up the stairs still in his nightgown.
“You are up early, my dear,” he said.
She caught a whiff of his liquoured breath. “’Tis the best time to take a walk,” she said.
He grunted and continued up the stairs.
“Father,” she said, stopping him on the first step.
He turned around. “What?”
“May I have a corner of the garden to plant my favourite flowers?”
He frowned. “Why do you want that?” He took a step back down to her level. She held her breath as he whispered in her ear: “Don’t get too attached to the garden, my dear.” Then he stepped away from her and swung his arm in a wide arc. “All of this,” he said dramatically, “will never be yours.”
Susan moved to avoid his arm.
“I’m sorry, my dear. Women cannot inherit property, and God has not seen fit to bless me with a son.”
“All I asked for was a corner of the garden, Papa.”
“Ask the new gardener, Mr. Dean. Perhaps he will plant a few flowers for you somewhere.”
“I wanted to plant them myself.”
Her father chuckled. “What, and get your pretty hands all dirty! Don’t be ridiculous!”
He continued chuckling to himself as he went up the stairs.
Susan’s silk gown rustled softly as she resumed her descent of the stairs, placing each foot gingerly on a riser as she was unused to wearing high-heeled shoes. It irked her that she could not run and play as she used to. The only compensation for being sixteen was that she no longer had a governess to confine her to the study and prevent her from escaping into the garden.
In the parlour, the butler was waiting at the sideboard to serve her breakfast. Susan accepted a slice of bread and butter and a cup of chocolate, but refused more substantial fare. She wanted to be in the garden before her mother arose, for then her time would no longer be her own. She quickly swallowed the last dregs of chocolate and called her maid Mary.
“May I have my mantelet and outdoor hat?” she asked.
“Yes, madam.” Mary ran off to fetch the required items.
“I hope you are not intending to go out in such weather,” the butler addressed her sternly.
“Why? What of the weather? If we waited for the sun in this country, we should never leave the house.”
The butler gave her a disapproving look, but only said, “Yes, madam.”
At the great hall door, Susan removed her tiny lace cap and handed it to Mary before putting on a broad-brimmed straw bonnet and the lace mantelet that covered the shoulders. “I shall take a turn in the garden, Mary. Call me when my mother is risen.”
“Yes, madam.” Her maid curtsied and nodded as Susan opened the door and stepped out into the fresh spring morning.
The rain had not yet arrived but the dew had wetted the grass of the estate lawn. She knew it was the time of day when the lawn was scythed, and she enjoyed watching the young garden worker do the mowing. It gave her a vicarious feeling of activity and industry that was lacking in her own too sedentary life. Susan turned into the serpentine walk of gravel that wound around the grass field of the estate and through scattered clumps of flowering shrubs. Here, she glimpsed silver droplets of moisture shining on the crimson petals of peonies. The sweet perfume of rose and syringa lingered in the damp air as she brushed by the branches. The hedgerow was alive with the sound of robins’ song. Susan felt sorry for the people of London who had to pay a shilling for the privilege of touring a garden the like of which she could enjoy every day.
A turn in the path revealed a rectangle of lawn bordered by flower beds. At the far end of the lawn Susan espied a strange man working with a scythe to mow the wet grass. She assumed it must be the new gardener her father had mentioned.
As she walked towards him to ask him about having her own border, she noticed the gardener’s tight hose revealing his muscular calves and his curly black hair peeking from under his tricorne cocked hat. He must have heard the rustle of her gown as she approached because he turned in her direction. Susan was unprepared for the force of his clear blue eyes that sparkled when his face broke into a broad, soul-melting smile. While she was attempting to compose herself to speak to him, she saw the flesh of his upper chest as his coat hung open and his waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned at the top. He saw the direction of her eyes and reached to close his shirt with his free hand. Then he glanced at the same part of Susan’s anatomy. The fashion of women’s gowns was not so modest and her creamy white skin and deep dark cleavage were visible. The gardener blushed, turned away, and carefully placed his scythe against a tree. Then he turned toward her again and said, “Good morning, Miss Kirke.”
His rolling Scottish lilt surprised her and made her own name sound foreign to her. “Good morning, Mr….” She hesitated, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.”
“It’s Dean. John Dean.”
“Good morning, Mr. Dean. I’m surprised to find you doing the mowing yourself. Doesn’t Andrew usually scythe here?”
“That he does, madam. Unfortunately, his mother is ill and he has gone to be at her bedside, so we are short one pair of hands for a time. I am obliged to take up the slack.”
Susan tried to remember what her father had said about Dean at the time he had been hired. He had bragged that his new gardener was only twenty years old. She knew there were twelve employees under his direction, and she was impressed with how much he had managed to accomplish at such a young age. In comparison, her greatest accomplishment was to take a walk in the garden every morning. She did not know why she felt this enormous restlessness, this longing to do more with her life than be an ornament in her parents’ lives. Sometimes she felt like a flower that no one else would ever see.
“I have a question to ask you. Do you think could take a moment from your labour and sit with me in the bower here?” Susan walked to the stone benches that formed a circle around a sundial close by. Before she could sit down, Dean spread his coat on the wet seat.
“Why, thank you, sir. You are most considerate.”
He blushed and continued standing.
“No, please. I must insist you sit and hear my proposal.”
Appearing reluctant, Dean sat on the bench opposite her. They looked at each other for an uncomfortable moment. “What is your question, madam? Or is it a proposal?”
“I would like to have a corner of the garden to plant some of my own favourite flowers.”
The gardener listened earnestly. “And does your father approve of your project?”
“Yes. He told me to ask you.”
“I can see no objection to it. Let me consider the best place for your garden. Perhaps if you tell me which flowers you would like to plant, it will give me an idea of the best location for them.”
Susan was embarrassed. She had envisioned a clump of sweet-smelling pink, purple, and white blooms cascading over each other, but now her idea seemed childish. “I don’t know the names of flowers, I am afraid.”
“Dinna fash. Let us walk about. You can point out which flowers you like and I shall name them for you.”
“What does that mean, ‘dinna fash’?”
“Dinna worry,” he said.
“Oh.” She got up and he picked up his overcoat and offered it to her. She shook her head.
“Are you sure, madam? It is cool this morning, and I am afraid you might catch a chill.”
“Don’t be concerned for me. I have a strong constitution.”
As they strolled, Susan searched the beds for the colours she loved the most in the garden and found one of them in a group of flowers along the path rising towards the house.
“What are those little violet flowers?” she asked.
He chuckled.
“Why do you laugh, sir?”
“Forgive me, madam, but those are violets of course. Surely you know that flower?”
Susan blushed. “I have, of course, often observed it. I am not ignorant of its existence, only its name.”
“I dinna wish to insult you, but not knowing the name of something is, by definition, ignorance.”
Susan stopped short. This was the second time today she had been belittled by a man, and she would not tolerate it from a servant. “Ignorance, then, is only a lack of education and not the fault of the person accused of it, especially where women are concerned. We are not to blame for our ignorance. Rather than laugh at me, you should teach me so that I might know the names of the flowers around me and not be unjustly accused of ignorance.”
He looked chastened. “I beg your pardon, madam. I shall hereafter endeavour to be your tutor in these matters.”
They continued walking and Dean taught her the names of the flowers she liked. “I shall order the seeds for you and find a good location, madam. Now forgive me, I maun get back to work.”
She could feel his impatience, but she wanted to hold his company for just a little while to get better acquainted with him. The morning seemed to stretch dull and empty before her without his company. “I shall walk with you back to the lawn where you were mowing if you don’t mind, sir.”
“If you wish,” he replied.
As they walked in awkward silence, she tried to think of a question to ask him. “What do you do when you are not working?”
“I read.”
His answer surprised her. “You read? I didn’t think servants knew how to read.” She could not recall ever seeing any of the house servants engaged in that pastime.
“Well, ‘tis the way in Scotland, you see, to educate every child of every class. Unless each child can read the Bible for himself, his salvation is not assured.”
He sounded like a dissenter, a kind of religious fanatic. She had often heard her father speak scornfully of the Scots as Presbyterians. “Is that a Presbyterian notion?” she asked.
“That it is.”
“And what do you read, besides the Bible, of course?”
“Well, I will admit to you—if you promise not to tell a soul—that my Bible is The Compleat Gardener.”
“Even in your leisure, sir?”
“It is my passion, aye. Do you read, Miss Kirke?”
“Why, of course! I am not such a dullard as you might think. I am presently reading The Fashionable Lover by Mr. Cumberland.”
“A novel! Does your father approve of such reading material? Surely your time would be better spent in reading sermons.”
“You surprise me, sir. I thought I was speaking with my gardener and not my governess.”
“Your governess sounds like a sensible woman to me. Perhaps you should heed her.”
“Fortunately, she is no longer in my father’s employ, and that should serve as a warning to you. I shall not abide dull boring sermons on any other day but Sunday when I must.”
“Perhaps you will permit me to lend you the collected sermons of John Knox. You will not find them dull, I assure you.”
“Oh my goodness, sir. If my parents found me reading the sermons of a Presbyterian preacher, I am quite sure they would turn me out! So you will perhaps give me a summation of his text, for I dare not bring such a book into my parents’ house.”
“I shall do my best, though I am afraid you might find some of his ideas revolutionary. By way of example, Mr. Knox believes that all men are equal in the sight of God and none is greater or lesser than another. Would you not agree with that?”
“Agree to the fact that his ideas are revolutionary?” She smiled at him, a brilliant teasing smile. “Yes, indeed, I would agree.”
Dean looked down as if he were uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. “Well, Miss Kirke. It has been most pleasant chatting with you this morning, but here we are at my scythe. I really must be about my work now.” He tipped his hat to her and bowed discreetly. “Good day to you.” He picked up his scythe and continued the mowing that her presence had interrupted.
Susan felt chastised by his abrupt leave-taking. He was such a serious man compared to her father and her light-hearted banter did not seem to accord with his manner. She stood for a while and watched him waving the heavy scythe back and forth across the grass, a dark patch of perspiration growing on the back of his waistcoat. No, he was not at all like her father. He was young and strong, and her father, a weak old man with a red nose from too much drink, was gouty, flabby, and most disagreeable to look at.
Mary was coming down the path at the other end of the rectangle. Her mother must be up now, and her day’s freedom was at an end. She went halfway to meet her maid and walk back to the house with her.
Chapter 2
As she entered her mother’s sitting room, Susan saw the back of the butler standing in front of her mother’s chair. Then she heard her mother’s imperious voice: “That will be all, Sutton.” As the butler nodded and turned towards the door, she saw the dismissive wave of her mother’s hand. He cast a peripheral glance at Susan as he passed her on his way out. As usual, his impertinence chilled her.
“Sutton tells me you have been out walking in the garden again this morning, Susan.” Her mother looked her over.
“Oh does he?” She did not see what business it was of his what she did with her time.
Her mother’s eyes rested on her shoes. “And walking in the wet grass, I see. Look at your shoes and hem. They are in a disgraceful condition. Go and change your clothes immediately, and then come back here when you are decent and we shall do some needlepoint.”
“Needlepoint again, Mother! Is there not another way we could fill our time together?”
“Susan.” Her mother spoke sternly. “If only you would learn to act like a young lady instead of a tomboy! What will the Fitzwilliams think of you when they visit in a few weeks?”
This was the first that Susan had heard of the visit. Her interest was piqued. Could it be that she might have someone of interest to pass her days with? “Who are the Fitzwilliams, and why might they be visiting?” she asked.
“They are my cousins, Mr. Herbert Fitzwilliam, his wife, daughter, and son. Your father met with them when he was in London last week and invited the family to visit our garden. Before the end of the London season, your father hopes that our garden will be the talk of the town, and we may have many more such visitors.” Her mother preened herself as if the garden was her personal accomplishment, and in a small way it was. She had pushed her father to hire the great Capability Brown to design the garden so that it would be an attraction on the London circuit.
“Then what does it signify what they think of me, if they are only coming to visit the garden?”
“Consider what they might find in the garden, Susan. Perhaps a beautiful bloom fair enough for their young son, Herbert.”
So her parents were seeking a husband for her! Susan was uncertain how to respond to this unexpected news. “I do not think I am ready for marriage yet, madam.”
“Don’t worry. It is not a fait-accompli. You are only going to meet the gentleman, the first, perhaps, of many suitors. However, young Fitzwilliam is an excellent prospect; he is rich and, what is more, a member of the family.”
Susan opened her mouth to protest, but then reconsidered. She could hardly continue to argue with her mother, who was describing a perfect scenario. “I shall just go and fetch my needlework, Mama.” With that, she went to change her clothes as slowly as she possibly could, while she contemplated the bliss of living forever on her father’s estate and taking long walks in the garden with her husband Fitzwilliam, whose face in her daydream looked suspiciously like the gardener’s.
Susan walked through her dressing room and into her bedchamber, tossing her mantelet across the bed her maid had just finished arranging.
“Mary, can you imagine? My mother is chastising me for going out walking! It’s the only activity I truly love to do. And she has that horrid butler spying on me as well.”
Mary simply nodded as she picked up Susan’s mantelet and folded it carefully.
“Did you need me, madam?”
“I have soiled my shoes and gown and Mother insists that I change.”
“What would you like to wear then?”
“Nothing at all.”
Mary raised an eyebrow.
“No, I mean it is simply too much! My mother attempts to induce me to act like a lady so that she can marry me off to some distant relative or other in order to send me away somewhere so she will have the estate all to herself. I will not be removed from the garden, Mary. I intend to stay right here, forever.”
“Yes, madam. Would you like to choose a gown to wear now?” she asked patiently.
“They are all one and the same to me.” Susan dropped herself in her chair. Then she leaned forward excitedly. “I know. Fetch me the gown that is the colour of a lilac.” She named a flower she had just learned. “I would as soon attract a honeybee as a man.”
As Mary helped her mistress into the sleeves of the gown, Susan continued her harangue. “You know, Mary. Sometimes I truly envy you.” Mary looked up from the innumerable hooks and eyes she was attaching and Susan noticed her astonished face. “Don’t look askance at me like that. I really do. I envy you your freedom.”
“I work a lot harder than you are accustomed to, madam.”
“Oh, I know that, but at least your work has a point to it. You do not spend your days stitching useless pieces of cloth, of which there are already more than enough in this world. And then once you have done your work, well, you can do whatever you like.”
“But I am usually too tired to do anything else, madam.”
“And you can marry for love, can you not? Almost anyone your heart could wish. You are not required to choose from a group of fat, lazy gentlemen, are you?”
“I should like to wear fancy gowns and go out in society,” Mary suggested somewhat plaintively.
“I wish with all my heart that we could trade places then, Mary.”
“Come now. Your mother is waiting for you in the sitting room.”
“I think I shall take my novel. Can you fetch it for me on the bedside table? Oh, I cannot tell you how bored I am!”
Chapter 3
The next morning, Dean was in the greenhouse comparing the list of Miss Kirke’s favourite flowers with the young plants he had grown from seed. Miss Kirke struck him as shallow and spoiled, reading novels, ruining her silk shoes in the wet grass, and passing time with simple garden workers like Andrew. It surprised him that she even knew his name! He should not have conversed so openly with her. It was foolish of him to have made that comment to her about the equality of man. If Miss Kirke repeated it to her father, it might prove an embarrassment to him. In future he would endeavour be more guarded in his conversations with her.
Consulting her list, he chose the hardiest seedlings that were ready to be transplanted in the garden now that spring was well-established. He placed them on a tray and stepped outside. There she was a little way up the path, approaching a deer at the edge of the wilderness garden. Dean stood transfixed for a moment watching her. He had forgotten how lovely she looked—how her lovely chestnut locks escaped the pins confining them and curled about her slender white neck, how the dramatic billows of her gown accentuated her tiny waist so that she reminded him of a leggy seedling that could be broken by the buffeting of nature, how her appearance stirred in him the same curious desire to care and protect that his plants evoked.
Her hand slowly stretched out to touch the forest creature, and the deer bolted at the rustle of her gown, galloping along the hedgerow and leaping gracefully over the ha-ha that delineated the border of the estate.
Susan stamped her foot and cried, “Damn.”
Dean could not help but laugh out loud at the incongruity of this angelic vision, cursing.
She turned around quickly and gave him a scathing look.
“Good job, madam,” he said. “I dinna think I have ever seen anyone approach a wild creature so closely before. But they are nae pets, you know. You canna get them to eat from your hands like a dog.”
Susan smiled. “I suppose not. But I should like to have a pet. The only animals we have at the house are father’s foxhounds, and he will not abide them being treated as pets. At least not by anyone else but himself or the groom responsible for their care.”
“Do you ride to the hunt?”
“I think that I should like that better than anything, but my father and mother would most certainly not allow it. It is not a lady-like activity in their estimation.”
He saw the gleam in her eye and said, “Well, I dinna ken that, but it can be no great sorrow to the poor fox.”
“What were you doing in the greenhouse, Mr. Dean?”
“Well, I was looking for the plants you had requested when I was distracted by the bewitching sight of a maiden and a deer.”
“Did you decide where we should plant them?”
“I thought we should place them near the side of the house, so you will not have far to walk to enjoy them.”
“That is not a consideration. I enjoy a good walk. How about here?” She indicated a shrubbery under a shade tree.
“These plants will not tolerate the lack of sunlight here,” he responded.
“Then they are just like me, for I cannot abide the lack of sunlight.”
“’Tis a shame that you live in such a climate as this.”
“I do so agree. What I would not give to be transplanted with the garden to India or some such place.”
“How about America? Should you like to be transplanted there?”
“I believe that I would, at least in the more southern lands. I have heard good things spoken of the Carolinas.”
She seemed to be genuinely interested in the garden, so he could not resist showing her more. “Perhaps you would like to see the exotics, madam. I could show you some plants that come from the Carolinas.”
“Nothing would give me more pleasure, sir.” He carried the tray of seedlings and led her along the garden path back in the direction of the great house.
They came to a wall at the north end of the house where there was a border garden. “Here we are now.”
A few ordinary-looking plants were barely visible under a blanket of dried ferns. “Why are they covered over so that they cannot be seen?” she asked.
“The tender young plants need to be protected in the winter. They are not used to the frosts we have here in England.”
“But it is spring. Surely you can take off the ferns now.”
“Aye. I have begun to uncover them gradually. Do you remark the soil, madam? I have planted them in a rich black turf mixed with some sand. They seem to thrive best in this.” He surveyed the border proudly. “Mark ye that it is a north-facing wall protecting the plants from the hottest sun of the midday.”
“Do the exotics not like the heat, then?”
“A few hours of sunlight in the morning and evening is what they like best, ye ken.”
“Which are the ones that come from Carolina?” Susan asked.
He bent down and began removing some of the ferns from a group of plants. “These are called Amorpha fruticosa. They have lovely purple flower spikes dusted with orange when they are in bloom.” He looked at them tenderly.
“I have never studied Latin, sir. What is their English name?”
He hesitated, but she had shown no modesty with regard to language, so he continued. “They are called Bastard Indigoes.” In spite of himself he felt his face redden, and Susan responded with a giggle.
“What are some of the other flowers called?” she asked. “In English, please.”
“There are lady’s slippers and side-saddle flowers, some leatherwood, and the Mayflower.”
“What lovely names! Why do you give them Latin names as if you were some kind of scholar?”
Dean blushed again. He felt for the first time that she was calling attention to his menial position. “Pardon my impertinence, madam.”
Susan seemed a little embarrassed and quickly changed the subject. “Well, there seems to be a great deal of work that you must do to keep exotic plants alive in our cold, damp climate.”
“’Tis true that they must be treated with special care and attention, but they reward one with such beauty and originality when they survive.”
“Tell me, sir. Will the rebellion in the Americas make it more difficult for you to obtain these exotic plants?”
She surprised him again with her intelligent questions. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his earlier assessment of her character. “Aye, some of them. You are a most perceptive young lady! If your father knew how bright you are, he would dismiss me and hire you in my place.”
“You flatter me too much. I am sure you must be mocking me.”
“Not a bit of it. I am quite in earnest, I assure you.”
Her face glowed in response to his praise; he wanted to continue conversing with her so that he could watch the animation that his words evoked. “There are plants here from other countries as well. There are Chinese plants and alpines and shrubs from the Falkland Islands…”
“And what about plants that come from Scotland?” she asked, her head cocked like a bright bird.
“Och. Never you mind, lassie.” He laid on his thickest Scottish burr for her amusement. “Scots will grow anywhere. They are of very hardy stock indeed.”
They were both laughing when the maid arrived and announced that Susan’s mother had risen.
“Before you go, madam, let me show you where I shall plant your flowers.” He led them around to the eastern wall of the house. “Here,” he said.
“Thank you, sir, but just leave them. I wanted to plant them myself,” she said.
He had not expected such an unusual suggestion. “But you havena the equipment you will need. Do you hae gloves?”
“I’m not afraid to soil my hands.”
“Madam, I shall turn the soil with my spade and then I shall leave a pair of gardening gloves and a trowel for you to use. You must plant them as soon as you are able.”
Susan nodded and then left with Mary.
For the rest of the morning as he dug her border, he could not stop thinking of her slender figure walking away from him along the garden path.
Chapter 4
Susan was more impatient than usual to get out in the garden the next day, yet she took great care to choose her most modest gown and her firmest walking shoes. She glanced at the parlour on her way to the front door. She did not want to have to face that despicable butler Sutton and suffer his critical and demeaning glare. Why did it matter in the least what he thought of her? The sun was out this morning and the garden was basking in its radiant light. The reds, yellows and oranges of freshly opening blossoms were brilliant against the green foliage.
Susan walked to the side of the house that held her border and saw where Dean had turned the soil for her. There was the tray of seedlings, a trowel, and a pair of gardening gloves as he had promised. She put on the gloves. They were much too big for her tiny hands and she did not know how she would manage to manipulate the trowel wearing them. She crouched down and her billowing skirts formed a barrier that kept her from reaching any of the objects she needed to begin her work. Trying to tuck her skirts under her knees, she picked up the trowel and began digging a hole. She took one of the seedlings, dumped it out of its pot, and realized she had not dug the hole deep enough. As she bent forward, a stray lock of hair fell into her face and she tried to brush it away with the over-sized gardening gloves. As soon as she bent over to continue digging, the stray hair fell across her face again, and she tried to blow it away. Trying to ignore the annoying strand, she dug the hole deeper and plopped in the plant. It immediately leaned to one side. Her legs were beginning to ache from their unaccustomed position, and she stood up and sighed. She took off her gardening gloves, dropped them with the trowel, and refastened her unruly hair. Now she would need to put more dirt in the hole so that the seedling would stand up straight. She replaced her gloves, crouched down again, and readjusted her gown. Then picking up the trowel, she dug some dirt, and scooped it into the hole. She patted it firmly and admired the plant. Then she looked at the tray of seedlings still to be planted and groaned. She could not hold herself up on her haunches anymore and sat down on the dewy grass.
Dean appeared at that moment. Susan felt sure he must have been watching from somewhere. It was humiliating, but she knew she would have to admit defeat.
“Good morning,” he said, tipping his hat. “May I help you up, madam?”
She accepted and he lifted her from the ground. He was so close she could smell his minty breath.
He smiled at her. “You have a streak of dirt across your forehead,” he said.
Susan wiped it with the gardening gloves.
“No, stop. That is only making it worse.” He laughed.
She blushed.
“Here. Let me wipe it off.” He took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and gently cleaned the dirt from her forehead.
Her heart was beating noisily in her ears. When he had finished, she said, “I think you have been well amused this morning watching me plant my flowers.”
“No, not at all. I was just around the other side of the house looking after the exotics.”
“Come, Mr. Dean. You know it is a sin to tell a lie.”
He blushed. “Did you want to finish planting these?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“If you like, we could leave them to Andrew. He is back from visiting his mother.”
“Oh.” It was a kind of compromise. “Yes,” she said. “That is a good idea.” She dropped her gardening gloves. “Now, you must show me what you were doing with the exotics.” She started walking along the path, and he followed.
Susan saw that he had removed the dried ferns from the bed. “I see the sunshine has made you optimistic about their chances,” she said.
Aye, spring has arrived at last.” He smiled again.
She did not want him to leave her. “I should like to continue my gardening education this morning,” she said.
“Once the flowers are all planted, there is naught to do but give them a wee bit of water now and then.”
“Yes, of course, but what I mean is I would like you to continue showing me the garden and teaching me the names of flowers.”
“Oh,” he said. “Shall we start with the wilderness?”
Susan nodded. She looked forward to seeing that familiar part of the garden through his discerning eyes. She followed him along the gravel path, past the greenhouse, beyond the shrubbery, and down a path that led into a wilderness hollow. There they strolled over a blanket of bluebells while the warm sunlight filtered through the trees illuminating bright flashes of blue and green that danced across their path as the wind gently shifted the leaves. The soft rustling of foliage, the sweet scent of the bluebells and the warm spring breeze on her face cast a spell of silent reverie that was suddenly broken by the businesslike sound of a woodpecker. They both laughed.
“I almost thought I was in a dream,” Susan said.
“Yes, it is very peaceful here, is it not?”
A few more steps and they abandoned the shade of the trees to return to the formal garden. Dean led Susan to an arched bridge over the canal.
“From here we can observe almost all of the garden,” he said.
“Yes, it is a lovely aspect.”
“Do you see how the fresh yellow-green leaves of the weeping willows contrast with the darker green of the laurels and yews that have been placed on the earth banks behind them?”
“They are very pretty.”
“It was an artist’s eye that created that, and on the canvas of Mother Nature herself. Do you see the lime trees there with their shiny new leaves?”
“Yes. The garden looks especially beautiful in the spring, does it not?”
“I would agree, but each season has its particular beauty. Shortly, last year’s bulbs in the borders of the shrubbery clumps will add even more colour to the palette.”
“Those trees over there already have some rosy blooms. What are they?”
“Those are larches.”
She sighed, not wanting their time together to end.
“I must get back to work now, madam,” he said, as if her sigh were a signal to him. He tipped his hat and left her on the bridge, observing the garden with newly opened eyes.
***
For some days after this conversation, Susan walked in search of her tutor each morning. She passed many agreeable hours in his company and acquired more knowledge than she had ever learned from her old governess. Perhaps it was the handsomeness of her tutor that made her more attentive.
This particular morning was no exception. In her search for the head gardener, she followed the serpentine path by the rectangle of lawn where she had first seen Dean and espied, not the head gardener, but the boy Andrew, barely strong enough to hold the scythe. When he saw her, he put it down and tipped his cap to her.
She nodded. “How is your mother, Andrew?” she asked him.
“Fair to middling, madam,” he responded.
“Thank you for planting my little border shrubbery,” she said.
“You are welcome, madam.”
“Have you see Mr. Dean this morning?”
“Yes, but I cannot say where he is now.”
She walked past the seedlings that Dean had planted in the shade of a great elm on the morning when he had set aside his work to talk to her about the exotic plants of the Carolinas. She retraced their steps to the exotic garden, but he was not there. Then she decided to seek a secluded bower where she often used to sit alone daydreaming even before Dean came to the garden. Susan found the stone seat and sat down. Shivering as she felt the dampness of the stone through her thin silk gown, she remembered how the gardener had spread his coat on a bench for her and wished it were beneath her again. Suddenly, between trees, she caught sight of him pulling the dead blooms off flowering shrubs and placing them in a basket. She should have called out, but it was so pleasant to watch him in secret for a moment or two.
She did not understand the sensation that coursed through her whenever she saw him, but she knew it was more pleasant than anything she had previously felt. She examined him closely, trying to ascertain what it was about his appearance that gave her such pleasure. Was it the loving way his eyes looked at the shrub? Was it the tender way his hands plucked off the dead flowers? Was it the strong limbs or the broad back of him? She shivered.
Then he moved out of her view, and she shifted herself to a new part of the bench, feeling again the shocking chill of wet stone; a moment later, he was out of sight again. She was at the end of the bench and decided to come out of the enclosure to surprise him. At first, he seemed to be so engrossed in his work that he did not notice her.
“Mr. Dean,” she said.
He looked up, nodded at her, then put his head down again and pulled vigorously at a flower. She stood waiting for him to give more response, but he continued working as if she were not even there. He did not smile in his usual manner, and she felt the lack of it colder than the chill of the stone bench.
“Mr. Dean,” she repeated.
“Excuse me, madam. I dinna wish to seem rude, but I have much work to do this morning,” he spoke without looking up. The shock of his words left Susan speechless. There was no mistaking him now. She was clearly rebuffed. For a moment, she considered begging him to talk to her, but how could she stoop so low as to beg a servant? She looked away, saw the house in the distance and started to walk back in its direction.
She was deeply embarrassed. The garden, which only moments before had seemed so fair, now seemed ugly to her. The sun shone too brightly, and the flowers were gaudy and common in their disarray. It was difficult for her to look at them as she passed because each one of them bore a name that had been given to her by him. She was angry. How dare he strip the beauty from these flowers and pollute them with names that now she would rather not know? How dare he trifle with her heart? Why had he become so cold and distant to her? She could not remember having done anything to occasion this change in him. She would not think about this mortification. She would go back to the house and resume her life as if she had never seen the man before.
In spite of her vow not to dwell on her embarrassment, Susan thought of nothing else as she traversed the distance from the garden to her mother’s sitting room. Her humiliation had her so transfixed that she passed through the house without a word or thought to anyone or thing around her. When she was next aware of her surroundings, she found herself staring at tiny stitches of colour arranged higgledy-piggledy on a cloth. A great fat shiny tear fell on the stitches. She quickly shook it off, afraid that her mother might see.
Why should his indifference make the slightest impact on her? He was just a gardener after all. How had she been so foolish as to come to care for a simple gardener? What could he offer her, beyond teaching her the names of a few plants? Why had she imagined that she loved him or that he cared about her? What kind of future was there for her in a life with a gardener to whom the garden did not even belong? There was another man coming soon, one who might even become the heir to the garden. Was he not more worthy of her consideration and affection?
“You know, Mother,” she said aloud. “I can scarcely wait for the Fitzwilliams to arrive. It is so deadly dull here without proper company.”
Her mother smiled. “Mr. Fitzwilliam is my cousin, you know.”
“I think you mentioned that.”
“I know you have not met his son yet, but just think how lovely it would be if you should like him.” Her mother looked at her coyly.
“Why do you wish me to marry him, Mother?”
“If you married him and he took the Kirke name, your father could leave the estate to him.”
“Really? Is that true?” Susan would not have to leave her home and the garden. The memory of the garden brought a painful stab. “Is he handsome?” she asked.
“I do not know, but it does not signify. He is rich and that is what matters.”
Susan continued stitching, annoyed by her mother’s response.
“You know it has never seemed fair to me that when your father dies, I shall lose this house and be at the mercy of one of his relatives. They might, if they wished, turn me out on the street,” she said peevishly. “All because I did not have a son. Oh, I wish you had been a boy, Susan!” She sighed.
Susan did not know how to respond.
Chapter 5
The Kirkes sat at the great table in the dining room, attended by the butler and three footmen. Susan’s parents sat at either end of the long table, with Susan between. It would have been easier to converse with the footman behind her than it was to keep up a conversation with her parents. However, her father, who generally came to the table already well refreshed with libations, made a great effort to shout the day’s affairs to his wife and daughter.
“And so, Susan,” he slurred, “how have you passed this fine day? Were you out walking in the garden, as is your wont?”
“No, sir. Not today.” Susan did not wish to discuss the garden. For the past few days she had gone on her accustomed walk hoping that Dean’s rebuff was only a temporary aberration of character, but he had not once spoken to her beyond a cursory nod and a succinct, “Good morning.” She had foregone her only pleasure and resigned herself to her mother’s will.
“But you are tending the flower garden that you planted, are you not?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Every morning she went there and found a watering can and gloves that she could only presume the scowling gardener left for her.
“Susan has been sewing with me,” her mother bellowed. “We will soon be finished embroidering the skirt of the gown that she will wear when the Fitzwilliams arrive. Is that not so, Susan?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And are you looking forward to that event, Susan?” her father asked.
“Yes, sir. I hope it will relieve my utter boredom.”
Her father laughed heartily in response. “Sutton, pour me another beaker of wine, please.” He handed his glass to the footman to be refilled at the sideboard.
Susan observed her mother’s scowl.
“Yes, well, I told your father that you were ready to begin the London season this year, but he insisted that you were too young.”
He took his glass from the footman, said “Thankee” and slurped with relish. “A very good wine, Sutton.” He raised his cup to the butler before finally returning his attention to his wife. “What’s that, madam?”
Mrs. Kirke repeated her remark. “I said Susan was ready to be introduced to London society this year, but you insisted otherwise.”
“And I was quite right about that, madam. What could Susan learn about life in London at this time of year, except perhaps how to shop and how to gossip, neither of which is an asset in a wife. She is better off here in the country where she can walk out of doors and enjoy the garden.”
“Nonsense, sir. That is such a limiting activity for a young lady. It affords her no opportunity to go out and meet society, and such a thing is essential at her age. How else is she to meet a suitable young man?”
“Why, the young men will come to her, madam. The Fitzwilliams will be only the first of our visitors, I am certain. As soon as news of this garden’s attractions spreads, it will become a regular feature on the circuit of country estates at the end of the London season. You will see.”
“I hope you are right. But I still see no reason why we could not have gone to London.” Mrs. Kirke pouted and took a sip of her wine. “Would you not have liked that, Susan?”
This was a frequent dispute between her parents. In the past, her sympathy had been with her father’s point of view, that she was not ready for the evils of London society. Now, for the first time, she found herself wishing that her mother’s argument had prevailed. If it had, the family would be in London now, far from the accursed garden and the cold, heartless gardener. “Yes, Mother. I believe I would have enjoyed the London season.”
“Good God, now I have all my females against me!” her father shouted. “It will nearly drive me mad!” He finished off his wine in one angry gulp and handed the glass to his footman. “Bring on the next course, Sutton. We have had enough of this one.”
***
The next morning, Susan went as usual to her mother’s dressing room when she thought her mother would have completed her toilette. She knocked on the door, entered almost immediately, and was surprised to see the butler sitting on a chair at her mother’s side. The servant sprang to his feet like a Punch and Judy puppet and said “Will that be all, madam?”
Susan looked on, astonished, as the embarrassed servant rushed out the door.
“You must not come to a hasty conclusion, my dear Susan. Sutton was not doing anything improper, I assure you. He asked to sit down as he had some important information that he did not wish the other servants to overhear. He was sitting so close to me in order to whisper these extraordinary allegations.”
Susan’s expression must have revealed her disbelief because her mother hastened to add, “You need not act so superior about the matter, my dear. His remarks concern you and his discretion was to the advantage of your reputation.”
“Whatever do you mean, Mother?”
Her mother hesitated. “My dear Susan, it has come to my attention…. In short, you have been seen engaged in intimate conversation with a man of a very common sort.”
Susan was brought up short by her mother’s accusation. “How can that be, Mother? I assure you, I never pass my time with ruffians.”
“Did I say ‘ruffians,’ Susan? I most certainly did not. I only referred to the man as a ‘common sort,’ that is to say, a person of the common class, someone not at all an equal to your status. In short, you have been seen in close conversation with the head gardener, Mr. John Dean. What have you to say to that?”
Susan did not know what to say for a moment. A glimmer of understanding was beginning to peep through the clouds of gloom that envelopped her for days. “Why do you listen to the idle gossip of servants? I can assure you that nothing of an improper nature has ever passed between Mr. Dean and myself.”
“You do admit that you have spoken to the man?”
“Yes. I have on some occasions spoken to the man. What is improper in that?”
“As I mentioned earlier, this man does not belong to the class of people with whom you should be spending any time. There can surely be no need for you to speak to the gardener. You are not at all responsible for the condition of the garden on the estate. So what has been the topic of these conversations?”
“Although I am not responsible for my father’s garden, I am very much interested in it. Mr. Dean has been so kind as to teach me the names of some of the plants and their methods of cultivation.”
“Do you think such an education is proper for a woman of your station?”
“Yes, I do, for surely one day I will be the mistress of a great estate, and I will be responsible for overseeing the choice of plants and the correct procedure of planting them.”
“I should hope your husband would have a gardener to look after such mundane affairs. I can assure you that I know no more about flowering plants than that they are beautiful to look upon. Perhaps you will learn more than you ought to about things you ought not to know if you continue to consort with common people, Susan.”
“That is the most absurd notion I have ever heard.”
“Take care how you address your mother.”
Susan bowed her head and spoke to the floor. “Yes, madam.” Inside she seethed at the hypocrisy of the woman whom she had just found in close conversation with a servant herself. But she knew the futility of speaking any further.
“In the meantime, you are not to spend time in the company of the common gardener.”
Susan knew it was useless to respond. Instead, she went straightaway through the house to the front door. Once outside, she allowed herself to feel the fullness of joy that had slowly grown in her during the preceding conversation. She had barely been able to keep from smiling as her mother had chastised, and she had begun to realize the truth. Perhaps Dean had been ordered by her father not to speak to her. Why had he not told her so? Why had he allowed her to believe that he no longer cared for her? She was determined to find the gardener and ask him to explain himself at last. She went with unerring directness, as if some unknown force guided her straight to him. He was walking in the same direction ahead of her on the serpentine path, so that he did not see her until she was right behind him.
“You will not elude me any longer, Mr. Dean.”
He jumped off the path, startled by her voice.
“I know the reason for your peculiar coldness to me now, and I wish to speak to you about it.”
“If you know the reason, then you know that I am forbidden to speak to you.”
“Who forbade you, sir?”
He looked around, and drew her off the path, closer to him. “Your father, and my employer.” He spoke softly.
“Why do you listen to him? Are you a hypocrite?”
“What do you mean? Why do you accuse me of hypocrisy?”
“You yourself told me that you believe that all men are created equal by God. So, if my father is your equal, why must you follow his orders?”
“As I recall, I said that that was John Knox’s belief. I may strive to believe it also, at least in a theoretical fashion, but only God recognizes the true equality of the human species. We live in an imperfect world, in a society that believes quite otherwise. Your father is my employer, and I must obey him or lose my employment. It is that simple.”
“It is an imperfect society, you are right. But we must strive to improve it. We must try to right injustice whenever we are able. I shall speak to my father. I shall make him see the unfairness of his position.”
“Please do not defy your parents on my account, Miss Kirke. They want what is best for you.”
“They do not know what is best for me.”
“I am afraid that I cannot agree. You are still young, and they have more experience of the evils of this world than you do.”
“You are certainly not one of the evils, sir. You will at least allow that!”
“Where you are concerned I am not so sure that is true. Regardless of that fact, no less an authority than the Bible admonishes us to honour our father and mother.”
“I will not do it!”
“Do not be willful, Miss Kirke.”
She stopped pleading, suddenly aware that it would not move him. Her mood was quickly turning to sorrow.
He spoke to her gently. “I am sorry that I appeared rude to you, but now that you understand the reason for it, I hope that you will understand.”
Yes, and I thank you, sir, for assisting me with my garden plot.” She looked at him, daring to be hopeful.
“It is part of my job. Now, we will never again exchange words.”
Susan felt as if the world had suddenly ended. She opened her mouth to speak but knew her words would be wasted. Then her eyes slowly filled with tears, and she turned away from him. She could not even bring herself to say “goodbye.” Her feet escaped the clutches of gravity and took her with all dispatch back to the house.
Dean watched her go with ineffable sadness. He had committed a great sin in allowing her to become attached to him; his penance was to see how she suffered for it. What is more, the absence of her company while he worked in the mornings had made him realize how close she had come to his own heart. What a fool he had been! But it was not too late to make amends by his correct and distant behaviour in the future.
Chapter 6
On an unusually hot day at the end of May, Susan sat fanning herself on a bench close to the house with a view of the long driveway to the estate. Her mother had warned her not to gad about but to be available whenever the visitors arrived. In any case, she no longer relished her walks in the garden. It had been two weeks since she and Dean had said goodbye and she could not bear to pass him in the garden one more time. That cool nonchalant nod of his and the way he deferentially touched the tip of his cap sometimes maddened her beyond despair. She longed for him to talk to her. She longed to hear the sound of his voice again—the way he pronounced her name with that guttural rolling sound. On the occasions when she dared to greet him with a “Good morning, Mr. Dean” and a bright, and she thought irresistible, smile, he would return not a word, just a nod and that infuriatingly dismissive touch of the hat.
She turned her thoughts to her mother’s cousin’s family, who were due to arrive today. This was a more pleasant contemplation since the Fitzwilliams happened to have a son, a young man of marriageable age and of her class. While spending more time at the house, she had been able to learn through the servants’ gossip and careful eavesdropping of her parents’ conversations that a business arrangement was being discussed between the families. The Fitzwilliams were looking for a wife for their son and were greatly interested in her father’s property, which might be included in the deal. There was little benefit to the Kirkes in such an arrangement—the possibility of keeping the estate within the family, albeit on the mother’s side, might be some small consolation—but they had to be resigned to the fact that, because their only child was a female, the Kirke family had few options. This was a salvage operation at best.