“YOU’D THINK THAT if we’re playing ‘name that mystery plant,’ Sir Blatherington-Smythe would have contacted me,” Patience said as she took a curve on two wheels—again—and Sorrel’s suitcase slid across the truck bed.
“Kirkwood, Lord Kirkwood of Kirkwood St. James,” Sorrel said and checked her purse for her passport—again. “And, I may be wrong here, but aren’t you still skittish about leaving the Nursery?”
Patience frowned at her sister, and Sorrel marked the new lines around her mouth, the pallor that had stolen over Patience when Matty Short died last July and now refused to lift no matter how long she worked in the sunlit gardens. She leaned into Patience’s shoulder.
“Eyes on the road, P,” Sorrel said.
“You know, I was so sure I’d make the big break,” Patience said and shifted gears with gusto.
“Me, too,” said Sorrel. “Now there’s Henry, and he’s a tie I don’t think you should loosen right now. Besides, it’s not like I’m leaving Granite Point forever. I’m going for eight weeks on his Lordship’s dime, ‘ta’ very much, so I’ll be back before the summer rush.”
“Well, then, tally ho!” Patience pulled up to the departures curb with a jolt.
“Tell Nettie that the primulas have to be put in the small pots and the hydrangeas into the large before Mother’s Day if we’re to get the decorators’ trade,” Sorrel said. “Don’t let her cut all the marigolds, either; there’s a Colt family reunion in August so I need them for wreaths. The wisteria needs some fishmeal, and the clematis will bloom early so don’t let it fall off the trellis. Oh, and the roses by the shed need staking if we want them for the July Fourth parade.”
Those roses, their blooms as big as saucers, would flower right into December. How the Sisters managed to grow the flowers—long-stemmed, creamy white, red as blood, pale pink, sunny yellow, and every peachy tone in between—always thornless and as fragrant as a summer day even with snow on the ground, did not bear questioning. If their rare gift had nearly brought them to ruin that last summer, it was welcome again now that the town had recovered its head and its heart.
Sorrel and Patience got out and stood with the suitcase between them.
“Don’t stay away, Sorrel,” Patience said. “Please come back to Granite Point.”
Sorrel put her arms around her prickly sister.
“I couldn’t stay away, Patience,” she said. “You and Nettie are home to me.”
CHAPTER 2
Lark’s Heels
Stella Kirkwood was the most sensible of women, which could put her at odds with her impulsive husband. Still, her slightly dreamy appearance, the way she moved as if on air through the great house, everything about her lovely aspect, in fact, could set a man’s thoughts to ballads. But that soft smile, pale hair in a glossy chignon, cashmere shawl across her shoulders and always, always a long string of pearls looped around her neck, belied the strong backbone and stronger heart that beat beneath her silk blouse. She loved her husband and her family, and she loved her brother Andrew with a kind of sturdy vigor that made everyone in her orbit feel safe and cared for.
It was just this kind of care that Stella applied to her attempt at restoring the Shakespeare Garden. When it became apparent that her efforts made not a bit of difference and, further, that she felt absolutely awful, Stella stopped and allowed her husband to call in the local GP. Graham stood anxiously as the young doctor ministered to Stella in their bedroom.
“I told her that garden is cursed,” Graham said. “It’s legend, the death in that garden.”
“Like the plaque says?” the doctor asked as he fished through his bag for a thermometer.
“Obviously we don’t actually believe it’s a curse,” Stella said, shooting her husband a sharp look.
“No, obviously,” Graham said.
“You know, when I was growing up, it was a badge of honor to sneak in and run around in the place,” the doctor said. “We were certainly convinced it was haunted, if not outright cursed.”
Graham looked at his wife. “There,” he said, pointing at the doctor. “Is it any wonder my family’s tried so hard to fix the damn place?”
“I hardly think the garden is the root of Lady Kirkwood’s malaise,” the GP said. “In a village this small bugs get passed around pretty easily.”
It was determined that Stella had some kind of virus; in fact, within a week the entire first form of the local school fell ill. The only thing for anyone was rest and fluids.
“And to stay out of that blasted garden,” Graham added as he walked the GP out. Then and there he’d decided that the only way to keep his family from harm was to get someone else to distract the cursed garden from his family. Not that he believed in curses.
ONCE HE CONVINCED Stella that Sorrel Sparrow was an absolute necessity, it took Graham more than a week to craft the letter he wanted to send. It was a delicate task—sharing just as much as was needed to pique her interest while holding back some of the more difficult aspects of the job. There would be plenty of time to explain the rather unsettling legacy of the Shakespeare Garden. Plus, the estate demanded his attention now when the spring was all but sprung. Kirkwood Hall was surrounded by acres and acres of land that had been giving its people the finest sustenance for hundreds of years. The formal gardens that marched elegantly out from the manor were fertile and fragrant, and the fields beyond gave the horses, sheep, and goats feed, summer and winter. The sloping hills would be rampant with bluebells in a matter of weeks, and the three rills that wandered back and forth across the estate were quite simply perfect for walks and romps for man and beast. To say that Kirkwood Hall and the parkland were picture perfect and beloved by all was just too obvious.