Now that Sorrel had seen the garden with her own eyes, she indeed began to wonder if she was on a fool’s errand. She’d assumed that the site was simply fallow from neglect so the idea of resurrecting a Shakespeare Garden in a green and pleasant land had given her new purpose. Then, after meeting the Kirkwood family, each member more charming than the last, she’d thought that leaving Granite Point and her sisters was going to be easier than it had any right to be. But now, as she washed her hands and watched the sandy, sooty grit swirl down the drain, Sorrel was having a hard time recalling the easy pleasure that this project had once promised. The grime beneath her nails spoke not of growing things but of hopeless ones. She wondered if the privilege so evident in the Kirkwood family had numbed them all to the possibility that this project might be doomed. She sat down at the desk in her room and emailed her sisters, a poor substitute for throwing herself on Patience’s bed with a deep, satisfying groan. No instant advice would be forthcoming from the girls, no laughter as she mimicked Graham’s fluty tones and florid language or Poppy’s acid remarks. And certainly no one was going to tell her the thrill of fear that ran through her blood at the sight of the garden was just a chill.
It was clear that no matter the short season, the Kirkwoods would have their Shakespeare Garden. Sorrel was engaged by the challenge of time, if not by the creepy nature of the land itself. If nothing else, she could grid the plots, get the bare root roses in, maybe find some peonies, alliums even, and certainly the herbs would be simple enough. Still, the thought of scrabbling around inside the crumbling walls, hauling out the spent soil, and carting in the fresh, marking with string and chalk each square, storing her seedlings and young plants in the greenhouse—after first getting the greenhouse repaired—left her overwhelmed and anxious. She decided to go looking for distraction in the long halls, the wide rooms of Kirkwood Hall. If she shook off her disquiet, she might earn her bath.
It was silent as the grave when she stepped out of her door. Was there an English equivalent of an afternoon siesta? Had everyone simply up and left once they realized she wasn’t some malleable toy shipped in from the colonies? Sorrel went down the stairs and back into the library where a snoring pile of dogs lifted their heads as one and regarded her with a moment’s interest before wheezing back to sleep. She paced the bookcases, rolling the ladder before her, and tried to understand how the volumes were shelved, hoping to find some kind of guidance. Nothing made sense: Agatha Christie next to the letters of Abigail Adams, Boris Johnson’s book on Churchill cheek by jowl with a study of Flannery O’Connor by Brad Gooch. The books were shelved in layers two deep, resting sideways, top in or out in some places. Sorrel had no idea how she was meant to access the historical resources Graham had promised her if she couldn’t even find a volume of Shakespeare.
“What are you up to in this, the lunatic’s library?” Poppy stepped onto the ladder and rode it a few feet.
“I’m not doing much because I don’t see much of a system,” Sorrel said.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Dewey would have a hard time finding a single decimal in here.”
“How can I start my research if I can’t locate anything?”
“Well, as I am a highly disorganized sort, like my father, I can tell you that these shelves speak to me.” Poppy waved her arms through the air as if incanting. “Yes, I’m getting something.” She turned to Sorrel.
“The volumes are arranged by author’s first name,” Poppy said with a triumphant bow.
“That’s ridiculous,” Sorrel said and leaned in, tipping out one book and then another to see the spines. “Oh for garden seed,” she said. “You’re right!”
“Indeed, so what are you looking for first?” Poppy set herself rolling again, one socked foot pedaling her along the longest wall.
“Shakespeare,” Sorrel said.
“To the W’s, then.” Poppy nudged Sorrel away and took off. “You know Mum has a wicked hidden library.” Poppy looked at Sorrel as she hefted down a book. “She didn’t tell you?”
“Not yet,” Sorrel said.
“Well, then let’s go on a reccy!”
“A what?” Sorrel asked.
“A reconnaissance mission,” Poppy said and hopped off the ladder. “Third floor, next to the hall of horrors tapestries room.”
“Jesus, you people are just full of weird,” Sorrel said and took the book from Poppy.
They climbed the stairs and walked past Sorrel’s room, several additional closed doors, Poppy’s room, and her parents’ suite at the end of the hall.
“Where is everybody?” Sorrel asked.
“Mum is resting. Dad will, no doubt, be reading in the chair next to their bed, and Andrew, I reckon, is walking with Wags—you know, getting his gloom on.” Poppy put her finger to her lips and tiptoed as she approached the second flight of stairs. “Perfect timing for us, but watch the seventh step, it’s wonky.”
This staircase was narrower, carpeted in sisal and lit by modern sconces along the wall. No ancestral oil paintings here, just frame after frame of architectural drawings of Kirkwood Hall. Some looked nearly as old as the house, and others were clearly from the renovations undertaken through the last years. The hall itself was also narrow, and Sorrel realized they were in one of the four corners of the house, not exactly towers, more large square blocks with a room on three sides, a door to a connecting hall and a landing at the center.
“Right, let’s hope Mum hasn’t taken to locking up.” Poppy turned the knob on a worn wooden door, which opened easily. “Hey, presto,” she said. “History at your fingertips.”
An upholstered bench piled with books nestled below a wide square window, the glass wavy with spent rain. A desk flanked by two old gray filing cabinets sat against one wall, and a low bookshelf ran along another. It was filled with glossy coffee-table books, their covers bright with colorful gardens, simple stone country cottages, castles, and reproductions of paintings. On top were three silver pitchers overflowing with blowsy roses, their petals falling in a drift. There was a mounted magnifying glass on the desk, fuzzed with grime. The air itself was suffused with dust and pollen, and a confused lonely bee bumped against the window.
“Has your mother been in here recently?” Sorrel asked.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Poppy said. “I guess she really was pretty out of it.” Her face clouded. “Flu, Dad told me. I do wish he would be a bit more forthcoming, you know?”
“Yeah, I do,” said Sorrel.
“Well, where do you want to begin?”