“We can’t have them thinking you’re some kind of new age, new world dippy hipster,” Patience had warned as she used a tiny pipette to add not even a full droplet of strong patchouli oil to the mix. The bottle was no bigger than the half ounce of scent it held, and the stopper was attached to a thin glass wand the length of a thumbnail. “Seriously, Sorrel, try to de-witchify us if you can in the old country,” Patience had said and nestled the linen-wrapped bottle into a corner of the suitcase. As it turned out, the scent was thoroughly bewitching to Andrew, which was not in anyone’s plan.
“Your scent,” he said. “I’ve never smelled anything like it.”
“Ah, a gift from my sister Patience,” Sorrel said.
“It’s enchanting,” Andrew said and almost smiled before he turned back to his work.
Sorrel bent her flushed face to the photos in Andrew’s box. She spread them out and compared them to the list of plants. She took notes in a cloth-bound blank-page book. Andrew could see that her handwriting was clear and graceful. He marveled at the straight lines of text as they spooled out of her pen. Sorrel used a fountain pen, which charmed him. He gave a quick headshake to clear his thoughts and went back to his pile.
An hour, then two, flew by with little conversation as Sorrel and Andrew catalogued the pieces they wanted to copy and compared the original plants in each Shakespeare play with the ones Sorrel had been using for years. Andrew provided a list of the plants Stella had identified in the tapestries, and Sorrel folded it carefully into her notebook along with the dried and pressed samples from the Sparrow Sisters Nursery. Each was stowed in a glassine sleeve so that Sorrel could see every leaf and blossom without disturbing them. There was no need for labels; Sorrel knew precisely what she held. Beneath the tattered lining of her mother’s suitcase Sorrel had slipped tiny envelopes of seeds from the Nursery as well. She’d worried as she went through airport security: What would the scanners make of the wild sweet pea pods, the spiky marigold, and dame’s rocket seeds? But no one had noticed, and Sorrel now added those seeds and others into the garden mix taking shape in her head.
At last Freya presented them with their requested copies, and the amateur researchers made their way to Andrew’s car.
“Next,” Andrew said, and they drove off from one end of London to the other, crossing Southwark Bridge to wind their way along the north side of the Thames. Sorrel watched the Embankment race by and when Andrew took the roundabout at the foot of Westminster, she slapped her hand on the dashboard and urged him to slow down.
“I need to see this,” Sorel said. “It may be old hat to you, but it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me.”
“You’re right,” Andrew said and tapped his brakes. “I forget you’re a tourist, sorry.” He slowed the Minor to a pootle and gestured for Sorrel to look out her window. Andrew almost enjoyed the sights; it had been so long since he’d really looked beyond his own troubles.
Andrew pointed out the Elizabeth Tower, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and the towers of Westminster Abbey as he drove three times around. Then he turned off and showed Sorrel Whitehall, Pall Mall, and St. James’s Palace and got back on the Embankment at speed to tear by the Jewel Tower.
“That one’s as old as the original Kirkwood Hall,” he said as the honeyed stone towers flashed past. “You should really spend more time here.”
Sorrel agreed, but what was she to do? With just eight weeks to research, select, and plant the early stages of the Kirkwood garden, to cheat the soaking rain that swept through weekly (not to mention look at a bunch of dusty tapestries that might tell her nothing more than she already knew from her own research), Sorrel barely had time to register the face of London or what it would be like to know the stories.
The drive brought them back to Chelsea, and Sorrel watched pubs and cafes come and go with some longing. She was tired, jet lagged-loopy, and hungry, but Andrew pressed on. He took a sharp right, and a surprising vista opened up: the Royal Hospital set like a graceful ship in the center of its gardens. A scattering of people strolled the grounds; old men in red wool coats festooned with gold braid and medals, tricorne black hats set on their gray heads.
“Chelsea Pensioners,” Andrew said. “Retired army, three hundred of them, fed and cared for. They live here almost free until, well, they don’t.”
“What a wonderful way to spend your last years,” Sorrel said. “My sisters and I always joke that we’ll have our own little nursing home at Ivy House in the end.”
“Ivy House?” Andrew asked.
“It’s our place in Granite Point. It’s been home to Sparrows for a couple hundred years,” Sorrel said. “Not as long as this one, I’m guessing.”
“Christopher Wren built it in the late sixteen hundreds,” Andrew said. “So, yes, older than your house.”
Sorrel wanted to mention that it wasn’t older than her town. She was beginning to feel distinctly like the unsophisticated colonist.
Andrew pulled into a side street, reversed out and spun back past the Royal Hospital. Stuttering to a halt, he reversed into a tiny, crooked road called Swan Walk, and Sorrel wondered if it was even meant for cars. It was so narrow she shrank back from her window. Andrew stopped the car and hauled on the brake.
“You can’t mean to park here?” Sorrel asked.
“It’s fine. I know the residents.”
They each had to slide out the narrow gap of their open doors.
“Couldn’t you just park on the big road?”
“No spots. I checked.” Andrew gave the hood a pat. “Come on then, deep breath in.”
Sorrel squeezed along the brick wall and considered being insulted but then Andrew crooked his elbow and she slipped hers through. This courtly gesture might be simply the product of good breeding, but it was lovely on a chilly day to be arm in arm with someone whose coat smelled of cedar and tea, no matter how aloof his disposition. After all, a man who cooked such a thing as shepherd’s pie must have a warm heart.
They stopped in front of an iron gate set into another brick wall. It was so overgrown with clouds of purple clematis and climbing roses that they both had to duck to enter. At the little ticket booth Andrew leaned in and spoke quietly to the attendant, who then used a phone that looked as old as the Morris Minor to call their host.
Andrew handed her some pamphlets. “This is one of the oldest apothecary gardens in Europe,” he said. “Planted in 1673 by”—he paused and looked at the pamphlet—“the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, not surprisingly.”
“You’ve read up,” Sorrel said and laughed.
“I have,” Andrew admitted.
“So you’re not such an unwilling tour guide after all.”
Andrew looked at her. “Perhaps,” he said. “Graham insisted on the homework.”
Their guide arrived, a small man in Wellington boots and a waxed jacket, pockets bulging with notebooks, rough twine, and a pair of secateurs. He handed them both a map and a pages-long list of Latin names.
“I’m terribly late,” he said, reminding Sorrel of the White Rabbit. “I’m double-booked for a meeting and I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to it.” He shook their hands and scurried away.