“Well, that wasn’t the plan,” Andrew said. “I thought I’d seen the last of unknowable plants with impenetrable names.”
“We’re here now, and you’ve done all that homework,” Sorrel said. “Let’s just explore.” She handed Andrew her papers and pulled out the notebook. “Come on, then,” she said with a smile. “Deep breath in.”
Andrew tamped down his irritation and tucked the papers under his arm. Nothing to do but just get on with it.
Together they walked the gardens one by one, for there were many distinct areas, each with its own character and purpose. There was the Garden of Medicinal Plants, the Pharmaceutical Garden that was arranged by affliction—here Sorrel took a flurry of pictures for Patience—the Garden of World Medicine, the Garden of Edible and Useful Plants—more pictures here—and on and on. Sorrel consulted her map and list, making notes, ticking off several of the plants in each of the gardens. When they came to the rock garden, Andrew paused.
“That’s a curious old thing,” he said and looked at his pamphlet. “Made of stones from the Tower of London, oh, and Icelandic lava, it says here.”
“We use lots of Icelandic lava in our nursery. Who doesn’t?” Sorrel said and swore she heard Andrew chuckle.
“Listen,” said Andrew. “It’s been a fascinating day, but I could murder a cup of tea. Let’s go back to the house. I have the head gardener fellow’s email—or perhaps it’s more like Morse code given his age. You can consult with him throughout the project whilst you’re in Wiltshire.”
Sorrel suspected that Andrew had entered what Nettie called “The Fog of Flora.” This was a state that often crept over a Nursery visitor when Sorrel lost herself in her plants. So she agreed to put away her work for the time being and head off.
Andrew asked Sorrel to wait while he pulled the car out to make room, which was a relief and maybe even a sign of a thaw in his mood. Or perhaps the fog is lifting, Sorrel thought as she climbed in with ease. It was only a matter of minutes before they were home and just minutes more before Andrew had the kettle on and was building up the fire in the library. Sorrel settled into the sofa and shivered. Andrew took a worn blanket and tossed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel a bit like an invalid aunt.”
“You are hardly that.” Andrew almost smiled as he walked out.
Sorrel sat for a moment with her mouth open. It had to be acknowledged that Andrew was a pill, but was it his mysterious backstory or Sorrel who brought out the clipped speech, the way his eyes slid away from hers, the moments when he seemed distant and alone even in the midst of his family? Then again, there were moments when they were almost, almost comfortable together.
In the kitchen Andrew stood over the kettle and tried to figure out just how and why he seemed to be enjoying himself. He thought he’d lost the impulse to look after anyone. In the beginning, with February’s stubborn chill a match for his state, he’d hardly looked after himself. Stella came to him in London and stayed for a full week, setting Andrew up in one of the Chelsea bedrooms as if he were a child home sick from school. Only for her brother would Stella spend that much time away from Kirkwood Hall. Andrew knew his story wasn’t as awful as some, not even tragic, really, but it was his, and that was enough to derail him. Sabbatical, such a gentle word for what was, in Andrew’s case, nearly a leave-taking from his faith as well as his job. Because Stella insisted, he had begun to hack away at the thorny sadness and anger as he worked on the chapel grounds and fine-tuned the look and feel of the restored building. She wasn’t wrong in her belief that as the architects went about their delicate work, Andrew would benefit from a more physical attempt at his own restoration. Her quiet hope that the chapel could become something more than just a curiosity on the grounds of the estate rested with Andrew as he reexamined his calling along with his heart. And now here he was, making tea for someone, placing biscuits in a crescent on the plate, warming the milk, and shaking out sugar cubes into a bowl. Quotidian pleasures he almost didn’t recognize, graciousness he’d forgotten he possessed.
Andrew came in with a tray. The tea and cookies—different ones, Sorrel noticed—and cups rattled precariously as he set it down.
It was over this tea, and many chocolate digestive biscuits (even better than Jaffa Cakes) that Andrew began to understand the Sparrow Sisters. He learned, from words that only Sorrel could say, all about their trials and their town. He did not share, as Graham had pointed out, the story that was only his to tell. Instead, he let Sorrel’s tale wash over him, the beautiful and the horrible, and found in her voice a kind of consolation, an understanding that Stella was right. Hard is hard—there is no measuring stick—and sadness too often comes right in as the shadow kin of joy.
Andrew wondered at the fairy-tale nature of Sorrel’s little world. He heard the softness that crept into her tone when she talked about her sisters, and he watched her long fingers, her capable hands, gesture as she described the Nursery.
“You would enjoy my town,” she said. “Now that it’s shaken off the crazy.”
“I think I would,” Andrew said. He moved to the window and looked out at the back garden. The sturdy black mulberry tree was blossoming as it had for centuries. Legend had it that the tree was planted at the same time Elizabeth I planted the one in the garden next door. The weather was meant to warm, which was helpful, he supposed, for Sorrel—unless she didn’t need outside help, calling instead on the secrets of the Sparrow Sisters to bend nature to her will.
“I have to ask, do you believe there is magic afoot in Granite Point?” Andrew asked. “Not magic, magic, surely, but something unique to your town and your presence in it?”
That was the question, of course, that swirled around the Sisters all their lives. It hovered over the Nursery; it trailed the Sparrows wherever they went and whenever they used their gifts for making their world just a bit better, whether it was to grow a garden, soothe a fever, or feed a hungry friend.
“I’ll tell you this,” Sorrel said, neatly avoiding any opinion. “If you can’t believe in a little magic, then life is a much grimmer thing. And anyway, it’s not just me, or us. Lots of people say the whole town of Granite Point is graced with all sorts of charms.”
“Enchanting in an entirely different way than what we have,” Andrew said and waved out the window.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sorrel said. “I am quite taken by the charms here, and I think I needed a different garden to plant. I just didn’t realize it.”