Stella stood, shaking off the brief moment of intimacy. She whirled and walked out of the room, clapping for the dog and calling down to Andrew, “Kettle on, brother mine!”
Sorrel turned in a circle trying to gather both the sight and the scent of the room. A fire was already snapping in the hearth, the high ceilings climbed to ribbed coffers painted with the clouds and sky of a summer day, and the leaded glass windows, diamond upon diamond, looked out toward the stone horse stalls, the carriage house, a long wooden barn wreathed in wisteria vine, and the fields beyond. An armoire stood, doors open, waiting for Sorrel’s things. The bath was painted in lightest blue, the tub, shower, and all fixtures chrome and modern yet utterly at home in the light-filled room. A bathrobe, softer if possible than the one in London, lay across a small slipper chair in the corner. Sorrel was already planning a bath and a nap.
DOWNSTAIRS ANDREW AND Stella sat in the study. Their heads were bent toward each other, and their voices were lowered.
“Tell me, do you think Sorrel even guesses at the true state of the garden?” Stella asked.
“Good heavens, Stella, you make it sound like you believe it’s cursed, too.”
Stella tipped her head. “Well, there are some . . .” she said. “Perhaps we should send Sorrel to Delphine. She remembers more than I do.”
“She’s forgotten more, too,” Andrew added. “Is that why Gray went straight to see Delphine with Poppy? Is he drawing her into this adventure?”
“We could hardly leave Delphine out, plus I know he wants Poppy to be a part of the project. He’s worried. Poppy seems less connected to us somehow, and Gray thinks the garden can bring her home as well.”
“He’s not wrong, but only if he leaves her be for a bit,” Andrew said. “Poppy isn’t a child anymore and she can’t be jollied into being Gray’s little girl. Let her have her ‘bolshie’ rebellion; she’ll be the wiser for it. Besides, she honestly likes Sorrel; they can be a good team.”
“We all can,” Stella said.
SORREL CAME DOWN at the same time that Graham and Poppy arrived at the house. The three collided sweetly in the great hall, Poppy shaking the new rain from her hair and Gray hopping around on one foot as he tried to remove his boots.
“Ah, the gang’s all here,” he said just as one boot flew off and he stumbled into Sorrel. “Jesu! I hate getting older!”
Sorrel steadied him, and Poppy kicked her clumpy boots away as the dogs leaned into her, a single mass of joyful wriggling fur.
“My darlings!” she crowed.
“Come through, you lot,” Stella called. “Tea!”
“Tea?” Gray asked. “I need whiskey to warm these creaky bones.”
“Though it must be said that Delphine’s barman pulls a damn good pint,” Poppy added.
Everyone settled into one or another of the squashy sofas before the fire with sighs and murmurs while the dogs snuffled and groaned as they calmed. Sorrel felt the silence as a comfort. The shelves that faced every wall were crammed with books and pictures, silver cups and porridge bowls, and small blue and white Chinese pots. The firelight flickered off the wavy glass windows. Platters of cold meats, cheeses, fruit, and crackers had been set out on the table by an invisible hand, and a bowl of the estate’s apples sat at her elbow.
“I’m going to get right to it,” Graham said. “Sorrel, if you are who we think you are, the garden beyond these walls has been waiting for you for a very long time.”
The silence lost its comfort as Sorrel digested the full meaning of Graham’s words. It seemed that this lord of the manor believed he’d hired himself a sorceress as well as a gardener.
“If you think I have some kind of superpower,” Sorrel said, “I’m afraid I left it in my other cape.” Her voice was sharper than she had intended. And the look on Graham’s face proved that her fragile peace with her town’s accusations was just that, fragile. For a moment she wondered if she’d actually shouted.
Andrew rose and moved to the decanters arrayed on a side table. He poured a glass and handed it to Sorrel.
“Let’s not overreact,” Andrew said. “Sherry.” He nodded at the glass.
“Yes, let’s pause,” said Stella. “Don’t think for a minute that you have been engaged as a hedgewitch.”
“Christ, Mom,” Poppy said.
“Well, that came out all wrong!” Stella said.
“It certainly did,” Sorrel said. She took the sherry and drank it in a gulp, which sent her off into a splutter. “My sisters and I had a really bad time because we are gardeners,” Sorrel said. “We are part of our gardens, born and bound, but we are not witches or magic, or even very special.”
“Now look,” Graham said. “All I’m trying to say is that given your gifts in the garden, your work in the Nursery and your recent troubles, we naturally thought that you could bring something to that godforsaken garden that we cannot.”
“As Gray said rather inelegantly”—Stella reached for Sorrel’s hand—“there are your surface abilities about which we are very confident”—she paused and looked at Andrew—“and then there is what is in your heart as well as your hands. Can you understand what I mean?”
Sorrel felt the fight go right out of her because of course she understood. She knew what she and her sisters could bring to an empty place. It’s just that no one at home had ever said such a thing to Sorrel’s face. No one, that is, until everything fell apart and the Sisters’ gifts had been turned against them. And now, these people she’d only just met were talking as if there was nothing odd about her, as if they needed her, just her, not all the Sisters, not Patience to heal or Nettie to feed, just Sorrel to make things grow, to make things right again. And this was fine.
“I hope you don’t think my sister and her husband have lost their way,” Andrew said.
“Just that they’ve lost their minds,” Poppy said. “Really, what were you two thinking bringing Sorrel here without full knowledge of your silliness? And me, Dad, did you think you needed me to distract her, to trap the nice American lady in Kirkwood Hall, hostage to the haunted garden, the creepy tapestries?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Poppy, it doesn’t suit you.” Graham sounded peeved.
“It suits me just fine,” Poppy said. She turned to Sorrel. “You know they’ve been fixated on that place for years. They think I don’t know that something’s wrong in that garden, something more than bad soil and poor light. It’s been fallow for a bigger reason, and Dad believes it’s the curse, you know he does.”
“Poppy!” Stella snapped. “That’s just silly. You make us sound mad as March hares.”
“What? You and Daddy are the world’s worst secret-keepers. And you have always been a bit mad in the nicest way, but I think too long in the countryside has made it permanent March and all those hares are breeding. Andrew, you’re the sane one. What are you doing here?”