“This is my stuff,” he said. “This chapel and the people who may wish to find solace here. Like the Shakespeare Garden, this little church was left to fall if not to complete ruin at least into disuse. It had become more of a curiosity than a place of contemplation and worship. Bringing it back to life and value is important to this village. I honestly think helping you is very much a part of that. Until I’m ready to go back to London and Christ Church, Kirkwood Hall is a perfectly fine place to regroup.”
It seemed impossible that only days had gone by since Sorrel’s arrival. It was true that she had begun to feel a natural part of the family, but she could still feel “other” in the face of this tight-knit unit. Each time she thought she’d pinned down what was expected of her, something shifted, or some new bit of history surfaced, changing the way Sorrel thought about her job and her employers. Here she was standing in the churchyard surrounded by headstones and a carpet of waning bluebells. The young roses that climbed along the church walls and the bushy stands of rosemary at the door were as familiar as old friends. Wisteria, heavy with buds, twisted and clambered over the pergola. Sorrel was surprised to see passionflower scaling the low iron fence surrounding the graveyard. Beloved plants—chamomile, lily of the valley, nigella, even dandelions—grounded her.
Inside the chapel, sunlight scattered through the windows, picking out the gleam of polished pews and the still water in the font. Andrew walked quickly down the aisle and went to his knees just to the left of the altar. Sorrel stopped halfway along in case Andrew was about to launch into some kind of prayer. He took a long staff from beneath the pew and pulled himself up with it. He turned and saw Sorrel.
“Daily ritual,” Andrew said, and his voice echoed through the chapel. “It won’t take a moment.”
“What are you doing?” Sorrel asked.
“The church sits on part of a flood plain. For all these centuries the verger has had to check the water level like this.” He pointed to his staff. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
Sorrel joined Andrew, and they both stared into a grated hole in the chapel floor. He slipped the grate aside and lowered the staff. It had a tatty sponge tied to one end and as he withdrew it from the hole, a single drop of water fell.
“We’re not in trouble this day,” Andrew said. “The waters will not be taking us over just yet.”
“Good news,” Sorrel said.
“Indeed. Let’s move on to the next challenge, shall we?”
“Listen, I have a bunch of stuff I need before I can even think about design and planting. Right now it’s all about clearing the garden, digging out the old soil and replacing it, feeding it with organic matter, so what I really require is a little bulldozer thingy.”
“And will you be operating this heavy machinery, Sorrel?” Andrew suppressed a laugh.
“As a matter of fact, I am quite capable, thank you, Andrew,” Sorrel said.
“Well, shoot,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to run a backhoe.”
“If we can get one, I will give you a go, promise.”
Behind the chapel, out of sight of any visitor or wandering Kirkwood was what could only be called a ramshackle builders’ dump. Stella had insisted on erecting a wooden fence to mitigate the tumbledown view. Inside, along with a JCB backhoe perfectly suited to Sorrel’s purpose, were a sawhorse, several wheelbarrows, and a stand of shovels of varying degrees of usefulness. Buckets stacked high leaned against a little cement mixer and a decrepit gas mower. Several empty pallets were piled beside bags of cement and crates of extra paving stones.
“Jackpot!” Sorrel said. “How do we get the thing out?”
“I believe we will have to drive it.”
Together, Andrew and Sorrel pulled debris away from the backhoe and made a path out of the yard. Andrew found a petrol can and filled the tank. Sorrel dried the seat with her sleeve.
“I have to say that this seems rather a blunt instrument to use in a delicate garden,” Andrew said. “And I do wish you’d let me drive.”
“Wait your turn.”
The backhoe started up with a roar, and Andrew leapt out of the way as Sorrel rocketed toward him.
“Lift the bucket!” Andrew shouted. “Up, lift it up!”
Sorrel slammed a lever forward and the boom swung away. Andrew waved his arms until Sorrel turned the excavator off.
“This isn’t going to work,” Andrew said. “We’ll never get it through the Shakespeare Garden gate.”
“Could we take some of the wall down and then rebuild it?” Sorrel asked. “I don’t know how I can clean up all the toxic stuff without a machine.”
Andrew shook his head. “Those bricks are Tudor era even though the walls are not. I’m not sure we could even get permission.”
“What if the wall was already broken through and we just took advantage of the gap?” Sorrel asked.
“But it isn’t,” Andrew said. “And if we start demolishing historic sites, we’ve no hope of turning this whole thing into an amusing backhoe anecdote we can tell our friends.”
“Let’s go see how big the opening needs to be,” Sorrel said and took off.
Andrew and Sorrel walked the perimeter of the garden with Wags leading the way, nose to the ground. When they came to the gate, Sorrel found what she was looking for.
“Look here,” she said, pointing at the join between iron gate and wall.
The bricks were laid in a sturdy cross bond pattern that created diamond upon diamond along the wall. But, as Sorrel could see, the bricks that enclosed the gate were damaged and chipping, the mortar around them crumbling, several missing altogether. She tapped the toe of her clog against the lowest brick line and watched as red dust, black rot, and decaying mortar showered her foot. Wags began to whine and nudge Sorrel away from the wall.
“She was doing that yesterday, too,” Andrew said.
“Imagine the smells she’s finding,” Sorrel said. “But I wouldn’t let her eat anything around here.”
Wags was nosing along the wall again so Andrew bent to pull her away. She already had something in her mouth and Andrew felt a moment of fear.
“Sorrel, pull that out, will you?” Andrew asked as he held the dog by her collar.
Sorrel reached in and hooked her finger around what looked to be a stem. It was green and fresh as spring, and Sorrel bent close over it, turning it toward the sun.
“Rue,” she murmured. “It’s rue.”
Andrew dropped the dog’s collar and came closer.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “This garden has been completely fallow for three hundred years.”
“The whole three hundred?” Sorrel asked. “It never had a comeback at all?”
“That’s why this little sprout is so remarkable, Sorrel,” Andrew said. “It’s the first live thing since Thomas Kirkwood effectively cursed the place with his temper.”
“So I’ve heard, but that’s a bit dramatic even for me,” Sorrel said. “And I know a lot about plagued gardens.”
Sorrel pulled the rusted gate wide open and stepped into the garden. Behind her several more bricks fell away from the hinges, leaving the gate hanging crookedly and shedding rust flakes onto Sorrel’s hand.