“Hey, guys, it’s just me,” she said as she straightened with a little groan. I hope someone has an aspirin, she thought. Then, why didn’t I bring a Patience remedy for the creeping crud?
In the kitchen Sorrel found Poppy and Graham sipping coffee and eating toast with what looked like black sludge spread across it.
“Morning,” Poppy said. “You look complete crap.”
“Thank you,” Sorrel said and poured herself a coffee.
“What I meant to say was . . .” Poppy continued. “No, I was right, you do look complete crap. Are you ill?”
“I think I’m coming down with something,” Sorrel said.
Graham’s head came up.
“Oh dear, that’s not good,” he said unnecessarily. “You’ve work ahead and besides, we can’t have you ill after I have declared all and sundry renewed by spring!” He stood and came around to Sorrel’s chair. “Is it a fever?” He bent to stare into her eyes. “Stomach, throat, grippe?”
“Dad, stop it,” Poppy said. “You sound like you want to call a witch doctor.”
Sorrel stuck her tongue out at Poppy and laughed. But the truth was that she didn’t like the look in Graham’s eye as he continued to stare at her. It was an alarmed and, somehow, calculating look that she hadn’t expected from such a cheery man. It did indeed make him seem as superstitious as the biggest idiot in Granite Point.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s probably just the last of the jet lag.”
“Or the last of that wine last night.” Poppy laughed. “We Brits are champion drinkers, and sometimes we forget not everyone has the training on board.”
It was true that Sorrel had probably had more fine wine in the last few days than she’d had in the month before. A hangover, how embarrassing.
“Have some toast and Bovril,” Poppy said. “Breakfast of said champions and a surefire cure for when you’re feeling tired and emotional, also known as hungover.”
Sorrel looked at the shiny smear on the toast Poppy held out for her. It smelled beefy and malty and altogether unpleasant.
“And what is it, this foul paste you offer me?” she asked.
“Only meaty extracts and yeasty bits, you know, the muck at the bottom of a beer barrel.” Poppy fought a grin as she watched Sorrel’s eyebrows disappear into her hairline.
“Stella, ever the wise one, stocked up before the makers stopped using beef in an overabundance of caution, if you ask me,” Graham said with renewed good humor.
“Mad Cow and all,” Poppy said, and Sorrel dropped her toast.
“Well, I am a cautious sort,” Sorrel said, which she was not or she’d never have come to Kirkwood Hall in the first place. “So, no thanks.”
Croissants were scared up, jam was found, and Sorrel had breakfast without danger of infection. And so she was ready to begin. Her fingers twitched and she checked and rechecked her pockets for her gardening gloves, worn, nearly bald suede, rubber-tipped things so old they were the color of the soil Sorrel worked.
“I’m heading to the Shakespeare Garden,” she said. “Wish me luck.”
“I’ll do more than that,” Poppy said and pushed her chair in. “I’m coming along.”
“Poppy, no!” Graham snapped.
“What is the problem?” Poppy asked.
“Your mother has plans for you today. She wants you with her in the library.” Graham patted Sorrel’s arm as he shooed Poppy away. “Plenty of time for mucking about once Sorrel has had a spell on her own with the place.”
Because Sorrel didn’t know Lord Kirkwood all that well yet, she didn’t register the guile in his voice, nor the look on Poppy’s face as she followed her father out of the kitchen. She didn’t notice that Graham couldn’t get Poppy away fast enough and, in fact, couldn’t wait to have Sorrel, only Sorrel, behind the garden walls.
“WHAT IS UP with you?” Poppy asked as they climbed the stairs to Stella’s library. “The secret is out, the garden is dodgy in the extreme, and you are the only one who thinks the Kirkwood legacy includes a supernatural hazardous waste site.”
“Absolutely not,” Graham said. “I am confident that we’ve moved off that particular theory. I really did promise Mum you’d give her a hand with some research this morning. You’re welcome to join Sorrel later if you like.”
“Dad, you are stranger than usual, and that’s saying a lot,” Poppy said and joined her mother in the library.
SORREL MADE A list of what she needed just to begin: shovels, excavator, rototiller, compost tea, mulch, and stakes, chalk lines, organic matter, sterile soil. She also needed a couple of strong backs and stronger arms. There was no doubt that all the groundskeepers would be roped into service at some point, but Andrew had promised his help today so Sorrel stuffed her pocket with a banana and a bottle of water and went in search. She found him at the chapel with a mug of tea and a cigarette. As she approached, Sorrel took a moment to observe Andrew in what she thought of as his natural habitat. He stood looking at the chapel, his sweater tied around his waist and his shirtsleeves pushed up over his elbows. He rolled his neck and shoulders, took a last sip of his tea and drag of his cigarette and turned to see Sorrel.
“Ach, don’t tell Stella,” he said as he stubbed the butt out on a rock and slipped it into the gap between shrubs. “I’ll be back for this,” he said pointing at the butt.
“I won’t say a word,” Sorrel said. “Patience thinks we never knew she smoked, but we did. We just decided that the less we bugged her, the quicker it would lose its allure.”
“And did it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Come, I’ve got a couple of chores inside then I’m all yours.” Andrew beckoned Sorrel toward the chapel.
“Just to be clear,” Sorrel said, “telling me about Miranda, about your . . .”
“Breakdown, nervous collapse, episode of self-inflicted madness?”
“No,” Sorrel said. “Your grief and general shit show of guilt.”
“Oh, much better, those are American technical terms then?”
“Please, I just want to be sure that you are comfortable with me, working on the garden, taking time away from your own stuff.” Sorrel stopped. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped.”
Andrew took Sorrel’s hand and turned her toward the chapel.