So then, to hear Lord Kirkwood say that he was looking for a gardener made no sense to most people. There wasn’t an inch of land in the park—fields, flower gardens, or maze—that wasn’t tended with great expertise. People came from far and wide to see the Italian Gardens and buy a honeycomb or damson jam in the farm shop. The wool from the sheep and the cheese from the goats drew buyers in a queue the day they were ready for purchase. In June the pick-your-own strawberry fields were filled with children carrying baskets of berries, their lips stained red with sweet juice. In August the dahlia fields were so flush with color that the cloudy days seemed brighter, and in autumn the apple and pear orchards were woven through with ladders and littered with overflowing bushel baskets. A raft of stable hands, gardeners, landscape architects, greensmen, and woodsmen made sure that Kirkwood Hall looked as beautiful as it must.
There was no spot in need of care and certainly not from an outsider. Except for one: the ancient Shakespeare Garden. Behind its walls it was as empty of life as the other gardens were full. The silence that hung over it was not broken, ever. Not by birdsong or bee buzz or fox call. It was this place that preoccupied Graham, as it had his father and mother before him, and generations before them. Joke all you like, he thought, that spot is a blight and a blot on my world, and I will make it right, curse be damned.
Graham had no wish to have Stella sucked back into the garden, to be troubled and haunted by its emptiness and saddened by her failure, for she had failed as had all the others. The fact that her health was fragile and that she still rested most afternoons made finding help essential. So when his sister spoke to him from her home in Granite Point, a small town on the edge of the sea in New England, he heard the promise in her voice and dared let the excitement travel down the line to him in Wiltshire.
Stella was the last person to entertain superstition. Unlike her husband, she was troubled not by the fallow garden’s lack of life, although that was eerie, but by the potential it held that simply would not be fulfilled. It was like a recalcitrant child who refused to obey, except that this child was stronger than its caretakers. Never mind, Stella thought, we’ll have an adventure with this Sorrel Sparrow, curse be damned.
Stella did feel a little deceptive when she roped her brother, Andrew, into the plot to resurrect the Shakespeare Garden. She couldn’t deny that her being unwell this season had unsettled her brother, too. The fatigue that fell over her like a fog, the low fever that came upon her some evenings, and the concern on Andrew’s face as they sat over tea, had lessened, but Stella’s unease remained. And her energy was still at an ebb. So she leapt on the opportunity to enlist Andrew as Sorrel’s official welcoming party in London and a minor partner in the garden, to make the spring and the delicious slide into summer a new beginning for them all. This Sorrel Sparrow (whose beauty Stella could see even in the newspaper photos from the trial) might prove a most promising distraction for a man who seemed determined to remain snarly and unwelcoming to pleasure. Andrew had always been such a joyful man. Now he trudged about the estate like a surly teenager. Stella felt for her brother although, to be fair, she was rather glad his life was changing, even with the heartache. So, yes, a jolt of the new, that’s what he needed to help him forgive and forget.
Since Graham would be in London when Sorrel arrived, the house in Chelsea would already be open and welcoming. Stella suspected that once her daughter Poppy learned of the plans, she’d be sure to be in residence as well. All in all, Lady Kirkwood felt quite satisfied with her organization. She would rest at Kirkwood Hall confident in the knowledge that all the cogs would turn smoothly. And turn they did.
ANDREW WARBURTON PULLED into the terminal and parked his car exactly in the middle of the strip that said NO STOPPING. He sat and scrolled through his phone: sympathetic texts from friends he really should answer and a message from his sister, whose gentle voice informed him that the plane he was here to meet was forty minutes late. That was a call he wished he’d answered. As it was he had another twenty minutes till the Boston flight landed and at least that much time again until this mysterious Sparrow person was expelled from immigration. He spied army security, just a boy really, in his heavy bulletproof vest, an M16 cradled in his arm. Andrew met his eye and silently dared him to make him pull off. But the policeman looked at the CLERGY ON DUTY card on the windscreen and strolled on.
That’s right, Andrew thought, temporarily churchless man of God sitting here in my Morris Minor, and I’m not moving. He was actually a little surprised it worked, the card. But since it did, he got out, leaving his hazards blinking, and went into the airport for a coffee. He had only the barest sketch of whom he was meeting and knew less than that about what made this gardener so very important. Andrew plucked at his balding corduroy trousers. Perhaps he should have smartened up.
AS THE PLANE came into Heathrow, it struggled through the heavy cloud cover, juddering as it descended. Sorrel woke from a dream, her eyes wide, a breath caught in her throat, her sisters’ faces before her.
Lord, what have I agreed to? she thought.
Sorrel turned to the window, watching the formless clouds press against the plane. When it finally broke through, fog and rain swept away the oddly peaceful cocoon. The Thames snaked through London below, flat and gray as pewter. She scrabbled for a brush and wrestled her long black hair into a knot at the base of her neck. The white swath that ran straight beside her part from crown to tip had surely widened over the terrible summer. Ah me, she thought, what’s done is done and this Sparrow has taken flight.
After the late landing and the slog through immigration, Sorrel walked out into the terminal and looked around for some kind of welcoming somebody. She saw her name on a bent card held by a rangy man who was scanning the crowd. She had been told to expect a driver. She didn’t relish any more hours sitting, but that’s what seemed in store. Sorrel approached him with a small wave.
“That’s me,” she said.
“Hullo,” the man said as he held out his hand for Sorrel’s suitcase. His smile was tight and his nose was crooked, just a little. This couldn’t be Fiona Hathaway’s brother: he bore no resemblance to the minister’s wife and he certainly wasn’t lordly, or how Sorrel imagined lordly looked. His hair was black and messy, and his eyes were green as moss, wide and dark. There was a shaving nick on his chin and a thoroughly tatty scarf around his neck. He was tall enough so that Sorrel had to tilt her head back to take him in. Her own eyes were squinty and dry from the flight and against her will she felt the impulse to straighten her sweater and tuck her hair behind her ear.
“Andrew Warburton, Stella’s brother,” the man said. “I’m here to collect you.”
“Oh, lots of brothers to keep straight. I’m Sorrel Sparrow,” she said and they shook hands. His was warm and Sorrel’s was cold, and for a moment she just wanted to keep holding on until the warmth spread. Instead, she cleared her throat and hefted her bag higher on her shoulder.
“I guess we’re going to Kirkwood Park, Hall, um, Manor?” Sorrel asked.