“See,” she said, “this wall obviously needs shoring up. It’s a good thing we have that backhoe!”
Andrew came in just behind Sorrel. He was the first to notice that the path before them shimmered with puddles. Each watery patch was like a step forward, leading Sorrel and Andrew deeper into the garden.
“Did it rain all that much last night?” Sorrel asked.
“No, it was clear,” Andrew said. “Maybe the flood plain is affecting the garden?”
“All of a sudden?”
“Right . . . no, I mean . . . seems unlikely.” Andrew suppressed a shiver. “I don’t think you should mess about with this until we figure out . . .”
Sorrel was already scooping water with her hand, peering into it, confirming what she knew in her bones: this water was fresh, clear and sweet and absolutely astonishing.
“No rogue irrigation system under here?” she asked as she squatted over a puddle, scraping away the gravel until she came to soil. “No leak from the chapel, village pipes, anything?”
Andrew shook his head. “You know, this is the first time I’ve come all the way in here, ever.”
“And why would you?” Sorrel said. “It’s a graveyard, not a garden.”
And that was the challenge; one that Sorrel already knew she could never turn away from. In fact, her enthusiasm rose like sap, and she stood up with a whoop.
“This is going to be wonderful,” she said. “I am going to transform this garden and you, Andrew, you are going to join me.”
“I know very little about horticulture and even less about hands-on gardening,” he said. “I’m not even very good company these days, although I am trying.”
“I do like a challenge, Mr. Warburton,” Sorrel said. “Game on.”
BY MID-AFTERNOON GABE had cleared a path for the little backhoe. His mood was no better than before, and it was clear that he thought he should be in charge of the JCB, so Sorrel left Andrew to direct him. Each time she glanced their way, Gabe seemed to be scowling right at her. Give it a rest, Sorrel thought. She collected all the hand tools she needed and spent some hours scraping down the last of the lichen from the outside of the garden walls. It fell away easily and seemed to melt into the dirt.
“Let’s take a break before we go at it,” Andrew said. “I’m starved.”
“You’re always starved,” Sorrel said.
“I am!” Andrew grinned.
He whistled for the dog, and they walked back to the house.
“Are you really going to be friendly now or is your good cheer temporary?” Sorrel asked.
“I will do my best,” Andrew said, and his smile faded. “I’m sorry that I told you my story now because you’ll just look at me as Stella does.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh, darling brother,” Andrew said in a falsetto, “we must save you from yourself.”
“Ah,” Sorrel said, “I’ve had a similar lecture from my sisters.”
“And did you save yourself?”
“Well, I’m not entirely sure that’s what I required,” Sorrel said. “Perhaps I needed to get away from everything that made me find out if I’m worth anything at all.”
Andrew thought that Sorrel was worth a great deal. In fact, as he watched her work, pulling wadded leaves and rot away from the garden gate, starting up the yellow JCB with fearless gusto and laughing as Wags tried to climb onto her lap in the excavator, Andrew was certain that this particular American tourist was very precious indeed.
It was hardly eleven, but already the kitchen was in full swing. Several dogs were sitting under the kitchen table with rawhide chews, and a tiny woman stood kneading a great pillow of dough. She wore a linen apron that came nearly to the tips of her terribly chic boots, and a sky blue scarf wrapped around and around her neck in a complicated yet somehow effortless cloud.
“Delphine,” Andrew cried as Wags threw herself around the floor in a spasm of joy. “Sorrel, this is Delphine Vermeil, Delphine, Sorrel Sparrow.”
“Hello, little gardener,” Delphine said. “You are here to change the fortunes of this family, yes?”
“Oh, well, I’m here to change the garden, I hope,” Sorrel said.
“La même chose,” Delphine said as she tipped half the dough into a large green bowl and threw a towel over it. “The same thing, believe me.”
“Hetzelfde,” Andrew said.
“Close enough, Andrew,” Delphine said. “Sit while I finish off the bread.”
Once a month or so Delphine came by to top up Stella’s sourdough mother and sometimes leave her with a loaf or two of warm bread. As soon as she heard that Sorrel had started in the garden, Delphine made sure that her husband, Arthur, had things in hand at the inn and hurried over to meet the American.
“You know that I have been a part of this family and this village for more than forty years,” she said. “And for all those years that Shakespeare Garden has lain fallow. Worse, it has been a dark presence because of the absence of life in it. You are here to fix that?”
“Is that a question or a command?” Sorrel asked.
“Graham has made a study of you and your sisters,” Delphine said as she peeled a pear and arranged the slices on a plate along with some cheese. “He thinks that you have never met a garden you cannot coax into blossom.”
“You’re right, I haven’t,” Sorrel said, and simply acknowledging that gave her confidence a bounce. “I am not going to let this one ruin my record.”
“So, tonight you will come to me for supper and I will tell you about what I know of the tapestries Graham hates so much.” Delphine looked at Andrew. “Yes, you will come, too.” She stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “He has some light back in his eye. This I give you, Sorrel.”
While Sorrel blushed and ate pear slices as if her very life depended on it, Delphine punched down the second ball of dough, instructed Andrew on oven temperature and proper use of the lame and set out a baking stone.
“Diagonal slashes, yes”—Delphine pointed at the bread with the tiny razor—“then, tell her our tales, Andrew. Be bold,” she said and swept out of the house.
Andrew went about his bread making, shaping the dough, placing each boule gently between two damp towels, slicing the tops with the sharp tool as Delphine had instructed.
“Delphine taught me to cook,” he said as he looked up from his work to see Sorrel staring at him with interest and, he hoped, affection.