“Buses!” he said and clapped his hands. “Nothing better to give you the lay of the land. And tomorrow you shall have your own personal guide.”
Andrew was peeling potatoes over the sink but even with his back turned Sorrel could see the stiffening in his shoulders.
“I hope you didn’t have other plans, Andrew,” she said.
“Hardly,” Andrew mumbled without looking up.
Poppy set the chicken on top of a bed of vegetables in the roasting tin. She rubbed butter and salt and pepper over the skin and threw thyme all around it, slid it into the hottest Aga oven chamber, and set a timer. Then she filled a pot with water for the potatoes.
“Uncle Andrew,” Poppy said, “what does the day look like for you two?”
“Well, while I still don’t quite know how I got sucked into this adventure, we will begin at the Globe,” Andrew said. “We’ve an appointment with the curator who’s opened the archive to us. Sorrel can look at some of the contemporaneous materials that might give her clues to the gardens in the tapestries so she can suss out her own ideas.” He tipped the potatoes into the pot, wiped his hands on the towel tucked into his belt and came to sit at the table with everyone else. “Then to the Physic Garden so she can see some of the oldest botanical specimens.”
“A reluctant tour guide, but a good one, I promise,” Poppy said.
“Onward,” Graham said and raised his glass. “To our intrepid explorer!”
“To Sorrel,” everyone said while the woman herself hardly knew where to look or what to say.
The dinner was, if possible, lovelier than the night before. Andrew portioned out the roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and vegetables into wide, shallow bowls so that the rich sauces pooled invitingly all around. Graham poured more wine, and Poppy and Sorrel pulled the wishbone, a tradition the Kirkwoods found hugely endearing
“Tell us your wish, Sorrel,” Poppy said.
“Only that I can fulfill your expectations and, somehow, repay you for your kindness.”
“Sweet Sorrel,” Graham said and patted her hand, “We really do feel that you’ve been delivered to our doorstep like a much-anticipated parcel. We can’t wait to see what’s inside that magical gift of yours!”
THE NEXT MORNING Andrew arrived to find Sorrel, wrapped up like the present Graham had described, sitting on the low brick wall that marched around the house on Cheyne Row. The weather had turned sharp, so she’d borrowed Stella’s loden coat and was folded into one of her cashmere shawls. They set off together in Andrew’s ridiculous little car with a grumble and a backfire.
Andrew was nearly silent, only briefly pointing out the occasional landmark or swearing under his breath at his fellow—far more polite—motorists. Poor Sorrel might have coaxed him out of what was a familiarly unpleasant mood if she hadn’t been so focused on willing the car to stay on the road.
“Almost there now,” Andrew said as they took some air over Blackfriars Bridge. “Tate Modern,” he waved at a giant old power station. “Nice views of St. Paul’s.”
“No doubt,” Sorrel said with her eyes closed.
SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE WITH its plaster and timber fa?ade and its thatched roof like a heavy halo, was as captivating in the twenty-first century as it must have been in the sixteenth. Visitors milled around the pit and the galleries just as they had in Shakespeare’s time. Andrew let Sorrel gape a bit (like the penny groundlings before her) before leading her toward the museum beneath the stage.
“There are candlelit concerts indoors in the off season,” Andrew said. He paused for a moment and looked at Sorrel. “You would like them.” He moved off before she could comment.
Sorrel followed Andrew, who seemed thoroughly confident as he wove his way down the stairs, around the giant tree that sprang from the center of the below-ground space, and through a door marked STAFF. He held the door for her and said, “The Kirkwood Foundation is a major donor. The curator is an old friend of the family, and she’s been very generous with her time.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her,” Sorrel huffed.
Freya Millen and Andrew greeted each other with handshakes and murmured hellos. Seems he’s not the only grump in town, Sorrel thought.
After they were settled into a corner of the small meeting room next to Freya’s office, she brought them three archive boxes and two pairs of white cotton gloves.
“I don’t need to tell you how precious these things are,” she said, looking straight at Sorrel. “The first one includes an annotated list of all the plants mentioned in the plays. The second is a collection of woodcuts and other art that illustrate some of the scenes and botanicals, and the third is just a load of photos fans have sent in of their own Shakespeare gardens.” Freya left them, calling over her shoulder, “Come find me when you’ve finished. I can make copies of the documents you want to take away with you.”
“Divide and conquer,” Andrew said and pulled over the box of photos.
“You don’t have to stay with me, Andrew,” Sorrel said. “You must have other duties.”
“Not today,” he said shortly. “This is my duty.”
“Great,” Sorrel muttered and reached for a box herself.
“Why don’t we just make copies of everything?” she asked. Then she opened her box and drew in a breath. Nestled between archival tissue and protected by nearly transparent paper were woodcuts and engravings of such detail and delicacy that Sorrel was afraid they’d lift right off the page. With a glance she could see and name many of the plants: lavender, of course, primula, bay laurel, viola, yew, box, holly, and roses. She had to grip her gloved hands together to keep herself from running her fingers over the papers.
Andrew sifted through the photos: lush, sprawling gardens of herbs and flowers, others dotted with crabapple trees, woodbine, and hawthorn—not that he could name anything. Sorrel leaned over and picked up several photos. Her long, loose braid fell over her shoulder and brushed against Andrew’s hand. He shivered and pushed it away. For a moment he thought that the gardens in the pictures had come to life as Sorrel’s scent drifted over him. She smelled of summer and sea with a whisper of something he couldn’t name, familiar and strange at once. He didn’t know that Patience Sparrow had concocted special cologne for Sorrel’s trip. It was made of privet blossom, new green grass, lime, and the smallest hint of patchouli and had been the last thing she packed.