Delphine turned as if to leave the room but instead she sat and began to talk as the soufflé cooled before them.
“Mathilde is my daughter,” Delphine said. “When she was little, she was convinced that gremlins had gotten into that garden. She made houses out of twigs and painted cardboard and placed them all about in the hopes that they would attract the les fees, fairies, yes? They would, naturally, chase away the bad. Those tiny houses were such a pleasure to Mathilde. Even as she grew she still treasured them.” Delphine’s voice had become almost mechanical as she explained that her daughter contracted meningitis, perhaps at boarding school, perhaps from a visitor, who could say. After the initial illness and terror it brought to the little family, Mathilde seemed to recover and came back to the village to rest up before her return to her studies. Only a month after her release from the hospital she suffered a seizure and died in the same hospital she had only just left.
“When Mathilde died,” Delphine said, “I felt as if any beauty or care these hands could make was tainted by my failure to keep her safe.” Arthur took his wife’s hands and held them without saying a word.
“Oh, Delphine, I am so sorry, and there isn’t a word I can say that will help you,” Sorrel said. “Please, know that everything you do is full of beauty. Everyone you love”—Sorrel nodded at the table—“is here because of your care.”
“Andrew has been of great comfort to me in the past, you know,” Delphine said. “That is why I am glad to see how he is unfolding again.” Delphine smiled. “This one is special, this little gardener of ours,” she said to Andrew. “Sorrel is so full of hope. Perhaps the land cannot take that from her. Perhaps she might succeed where all others have failed.”
Sorrel was not so sure. It seemed as if what Delphine called taint hung in the air around the extended Kirkwood clan. From the history poisoned by Thomas Kirkwood’s legacy of hate to Delphine’s indescribable loss, there was too much darkness pressing in for Sorrel to approach the Shakespeare Garden with anything but trepidation so soon after her initial joy.
Still, as she and Andrew walked home from the village that night, Sorrel felt an unexpected ease steal over her when Andrew took her hand in his.
“I should have told you about Mathilde,” he said. “I know her loss must remind you of that little boy back home. I wish I had prepared you—not that I could ever make sense of Mathilde’s death. It’s just that we never got a moment alone again and it seemed such a sad tale to leave you with.”
And that was true: First Graham had come in with the dogs, and then Poppy and Stella had arrived to slice the burnt loaf and make sandwiches of warm ham and melting cheese and pickle. In the general commotion there hadn’t been a minute for Sorrel and Andrew to think, let alone reflect on their kiss. If Sorrel had known about Mathilde, she couldn’t imagine that she would have thought about anything else.
After lunch everyone had scattered again. Andrew and Graham went to check on the lambs and kids, and Sorrel spent time at the little desk in her room marking out parterres and calculating square footage. In the silence and warmth she found herself irresistibly drowsy so she took her drawing pad to the bed and settled into the pillows. She woke with a start; the light had changed so she knew she was running late for Delphine’s dinner. She’d wanted a moment with Andrew, oh hell she wanted more than a moment, but again there was no time so Sorrel winged down the stairs and met him in the hall. Together they walked into the village, along with Poppy, who was meeting a friend for a drink at the pub.
“So,” Poppy said, “did you move some earth?”
Andrew heard “did the earth move” and he spluttered and coughed and thought, not yet.
Later, with dinner done and the quiet settling over the land, Delphine’s sadness lifted from them, and Sorrel and Andrew had their moment.
“I’m hoping that you haven’t had a chance to regret our kiss?” Andrew asked.
Sorrel shook her head.
“I don’t think I have ever felt so awkward in my life,” Andrew said.
“No? I may have you beat,” Sorrel said. “Actually, I suspect the only cure for awkward is this.” She reached up and ran her knuckles along Andrew’s cheek before gently pulling him close enough to kiss. Sorrel felt his quick breath and the heat rising from his neck. He sighed and pressed into her; there was no sound but the rustle of field mice in the hedgerows and the call of an owl somewhere over the field.
When they came apart Andrew took Sorrel by the hand and led her quickly through the darkness to the small Tithe Barn beyond the carriage house. He opened the door with a key the size of a teaspoon and without turning on any lights led her to the back.
“I stay here so that Stella doesn’t feel compelled to look after me all the time, or keep tabs,” he said.
The ceiling was vaulted, each carved wooden arch bending into the next, the soffits whitewashed and curved. When the farmers brought their wheat to the monks, the sheaves would have nearly filled the room to the high ceiling. Now it was divided so that a bedroom was tucked away facing the fields beyond and a wall-wide window let in the starlight. Andrew’s bed was beautifully made, which surprised Sorrel. It was draped with white sheets, a pale gray duvet, and pillows striped like ticking.
Andrew reached around Sorrel and unpinned her hair. It fell over her shoulders, the white swath like a reflection of the moon on water. He stroked her hair away from her face.
“When did this happen?” he asked, letting the streak fall through his fingers.
“When my sister died.”
“Ah, grief is a transformative thing, isn’t it?”
Sorrel took his wrist and kissed the inside where a vein tapped against her lip. “I don’t want to think right now, Andrew,” she said. “I just want to let you wash over me. I want to feel only this, only you just for a little.” She unbuttoned her shirt and let Andrew slip his arms under it and around her waist. He pressed it away from her shoulders and let it fall behind her. Then he slipped each camisole strap down until the silk pooled just above her breasts.
“May I?” he asked as he reached for the hem.
“Oh, please,” Sorrel said. She was left standing in her low-slung jeans, which she began to unzip.
In that moment Andrew thought he’d never felt such truth. This woman and this still night were as close to prayer as he had come in months. Wanting Sorrel was a pull stronger than his own fear so he placed his hands on the bones of her hips and slid her jeans off.
Sorrel reached for Andrew as he hauled his sweater and shirt over his head in one move. He dropped them and let Sorrel unbutton his own jeans.
“I’m a little, well a lot, out of practice,” Sorrel said as she fumbled with Andrew’s buttons.