Halfway across the second field she drew level with the barn. The large double doors were open and as she passed them she glimpsed inside a large farm machine – a thresher; the word came to her – and above, strung from the rafters, a wooden rowing boat with a distinct look of neglect about it.
As Juliet neared the edge of the field, the yellow crop made a dramatic transition to the vibrant, juicy green of an English country garden in summer. The garden was at the rear of the twin-gabled house, and while most of the fence line was concealed by an abundant blackthorn hedge, there was a hinged gate through which Juliet could see a gravel courtyard with a chestnut tree at its centre. Surrounding it were raised beds from which tumbled a profusion of foliage and cheerful flowers.
She skirted along the hedge until she reached the corner of the field and hit a dirt road. Faced with the choice to turn right and head back in the direction from which she’d come, Juliet turned left. The blackthorn hedge continued along the boundary of the garden before abutting a stone wall that became the side of the house. Just past the house was another gate, this one decorative iron with an arched top.
On the other side of the gate, a flagstone path led to the front door of the elegant house, and Juliet stopped to drink in its pleasing shape and details. She had always had an eye for beauty, especially that of an architectural nature. Sometimes, on weekends, she and Alan had taken the train to the country or borrowed a car from a friend and puttered around the winding lanes of the smallest villages. Juliet had a notebook into which she made quick notes about rooflines she liked or paving patterns that charmed her. The hobby had made Alan laugh fondly and call her ‘Lady Tessellated’, because she’d made the mistake of drawing his attention to the tile pattern one too many times.
This house was of lichen-coloured stone and stood two storeys high. The roof – also stone, but a shade or two darker – was deeply satisfying. The slates at the peak were small, gaining in size with each course as they lowered towards the eaves. Sunlight made them appear dappled and shifting like the scales of a slow-moving fish. There was a window in each of the gables, and Juliet pressed lightly against the gate to observe them more closely; for a second she thought she saw movement behind one of them, but there was nothing there, just the shadow of a passing bird.
As she studied the house, the gate pushed open beneath her hands like an invitation.
With barely a hesitation, Juliet stepped down onto the flagstone path and was suffused immediately with a sense of deep contentment. It was a beautiful garden: the proportions, the plants, the feeling of enclosure granted by the surrounding stone wall. The fragrance, too, was heady: a hint of late-blooming jasmine mingled with lavender and honeysuckle. Birds flitted in the gaps between leaves, and bees and butterflies hovered over flowers in the ample garden beds.
The gate through which she’d come was the side entrance, Juliet saw now, for another larger path led away from the house towards a solid wooden gate set into the stones of the front wall. The wider path was lined on either side by standard roses wearing soft pink petals, and at its end was a large Japanese maple tree that had grown to reach across the front entrance.
The lawn was a deep bright green, and without thinking twice Juliet took off her shoes and stepped forward onto it. The grass was cool and soft between her toes. Heavenly – that was the word.
There was a particularly inviting patch of dappled shade on the grass beneath the Japanese maple tree, and Juliet went to sit down. She was trespassing, of course, but surely no one in possession of a house and garden like this one could be anything but charming.
The sun was warm and the breeze light and Juliet yawned widely. She had been struck by a wave of weariness so intense that she had no choice but to surrender to it. It had been happening a lot lately, at the most inopportune times – ever since she’d found out about the baby.
Using her cardigan as a pillow, she lay on her back, her head turned to face the house. She told herself that she would just take a few minutes to rest, but the sun was delicious on her feet and before she knew it, her eyelids had turned to lead.
When she woke, it took Juliet a moment to remember where she was. She’d slept so soundly: deep and dreamless, in a way she hadn’t for weeks.
She sat up and stretched. And that’s when she noticed that she was no longer alone.
There was a man standing at the corner of the house near the gate. He was older than she was. Not by much, not in terms of years, but she could tell at once that his soul weighed heavy. He had been a soldier; there was no mistaking it. They still wore uniforms, those poor, broken men. They would always be a generation unto themselves.
He was looking at her, his expression serious but not stern.
‘I’m sorry,’ Juliet called out. ‘I didn’t mean to trespass. I lost my way.’
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and then answered with a simple wave of his hand. From the gesture, Juliet understood that all was well; that he didn’t consider her a menace, that he understood the lure of this garden, this house, the magic it cast, and the helplessness a passer-by might feel when called on a hot day by the cool, shady patch of grass beneath the maple tree.
Without the exchange of another word or glance, the man disappeared inside the house, the door closing behind him. Juliet watched him go and then let her gaze fall to her shoes on the grass. She noticed the creep of the shadows since she’d arrived and glanced at her watch. It had been over four hours since she’d left Alan at the jetty.
Juliet slipped on her shoes and laced them up, and then she pushed herself to standing.
She knew she had to leave; she still wasn’t even sure where she was in relation to the village; and yet, it was a wrench. She felt a pain in her chest as if something were physically restraining her. She stood in the middle of the smooth lawn, staring up at the house, and an odd suffusion of light made everything seem so clear.
Love – that’s what she felt, an odd, strong, general love that seemed to flow from everything she saw and heard: the sunlit leaves, the dark hollows beneath the trees, the stones of the house, the birds that called as they flew overhead. And in its glow, she glimpsed momentarily what religious people must surely feel at church: the sense of being bathed in the light of certainty that comes with being known from the inside out, from belonging somewhere and to someone. It was simple. It was luminous, and beautiful, and true.
Alan was waiting for her when she found her way back to The Swan. Juliet hurried up the stairs, two by two, bursting through the door to their room, her face warm with the day’s heat, her day’s revelation.
He was standing by the leadlight window with its crooked glimpse of the river, his pose stiff and self-conscious, as if he’d assumed it only when he heard her coming, a performance of readiness. His expression was wary and it took a moment for Juliet to remember why: the argument on the jetty, the fire of her withdrawal.
‘Before you say anything,’ Alan started, ‘I want you to know that I never meant to suggest—’
Juliet was shaking her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, don’t you see? None of it matters any more.’
‘What is it? What’s happened?’
It was all inside her – the clarity, the illumination – but she couldn’t find the words to explain, only the golden energy that had infused her and that she could no longer contain. She hurried to him, passionate, impatient, seizing his face between her palms and kissing him so that any animosity between them, any lingering guardedness, fell away. When he opened his mouth to speak, surprised, she shook her head and pressed a finger to his lips. There were no words. Words would only spoil things.
This moment.
Now.