Graham spluttered and then sat down on an overturned bucket.
“No, no indeed. There is very little humor to be found at Kirkwood Hall at the moment. Of course, it is my fault, my shortsighted, misdirected, ill-considered plan to save a family, a legacy, my wife, and my daughter in one stroke. You have to know that I truly believe the garden is only a danger to Kirkwoods.” He stopped. “I haven’t any words for my regret.”
Sorrel let Graham sit in silent misery for a moment or two while she hosed the dirt off her hands and grabbed a towel to dry them. She walked over until she stood over him—loomed was how she saw it, and she hoped he saw it that way too. Her height could be an advantage and with Graham hunched over on his sad bucket, she felt satisfyingly looming.
“Come with me,” Sorrel said.
Graham looked up and let out a breath as if he’d been spared execution.
“Absolutely, right behind you,” Graham said as he stood.
Sorrel led him through the garden, pointing out what she’d planted, what she’d changed, what she would do next. She stood him at the center of the four paths and told him how the sharp-edged gravel walkways would all lead to a sundial, that a chamomile lawn would roll away from the external walls on each side; dwarf apple and pear trees would espalier over one internal wall while the others would be home to climbing roses and clematis or perhaps woodbine if she knew it could be controlled. She sketched out the willow teepees she planned to install so that sweet peas would fill the air with scent.
Graham followed her in a fog of relief and gratitude. He was surprised at Sorrel’s gracious pardon. Of course, he hadn’t been terribly good at keeping his concern to himself so Sorrel had, at least, been cautious in a healthy fashion. And now, with the garden underway, he felt reprieved and optimistic once again. Stella was another matter. He wondered if Andrew had softened his sister in his absence. As befuddled as he could appear, with a shambolic, good-natured mantle he could and did put on when necessary, Graham was sharp as a razor and missed nothing. He knew that Sorrel and Andrew were ensconced in a pleasing love affair, but he had worried that Andrew’s own protective bent might have swayed Sorrel away from her task. Today he felt his mood lifting and was already imagining a jolly lunch, perhaps on the terrace overlooking the formal gardens. Yes, that was the way forward: pink wine, cold roast beef, Delphine’s bread, his cheeses, and tender leaves from the kitchen garden. Such an idyll, he thought. All is well.
Sorrel brought him up short.
“Graham,” she said, “you need to know that what you did was wrong and that while I am determined to make this garden as rich and lasting as Shakespeare’s work itself, I do not excuse you. I was brought here without full disclosure, and I can’t forget that.”
“I am undone by my deceit,” Graham said.
“Hardly,” Sorrel said. “But you’d better hope that no one else is.”
DELPHINE AND ARTHUR joined the family for lunch. Graham was subdued, but clearly it took an effort. Every time he tried to leap to his feet or envelop someone in a bear hug, Stella put a hand on his arm.
“You really must contain yourself,” she whispered in his ear. “It’s unseemly given your recent revelations.” With the omission of the endearment “darling,” Stella made it clear that she still harbored some robust resentment.
Graham took Delphine aside at one point to apologize.
“I am sorry that I never told you of my suspicions, however unfounded, that the garden was a thing of, well, a thing not to be trifled with,” he said. Graham could see Arthur eyeing them with a fierce look.
“You did not need to tell me, Gray,” Delphine said. “I knew, somewhere, I knew. When we found the tapestries together, all I could think about was how exciting they were. I let my spirit run away from my wits.”
“I think we were a team in the witless department,” Graham said.
“Still”—Delphine pinched between her brows and looked up at Graham—“Mathilde, do you think she . . .” Delphine couldn’t finish.
“Oh, no, Delphine!” Graham couldn’t pretend he hadn’t had the same thought over the last few years, hadn’t in fact included Mathilde in his late night worries when he decided to look outside for garden help. Still, he pushed forward. “If for one moment I had thought she was in real danger, I would have stopped her forays instantly. You must believe me.” And that was true, all those years ago.
“I do,” Delphine said. “And now, this Sorrel, this little gardener you have imported, how will you protect her?”
“Unclear,” Graham said. “She doesn’t believe that she needs protection. Sorrel doesn’t believe in the curse at all. And perhaps she’s right, or at least safe because she does not bear my name. I must have been a bit mad to be swept up in such a ridiculous tale to begin with.”
“We shall see,” Delphine said. “Perhaps Sorrel is immune through her own sorrow.”
“Or through her new happiness,” Graham said and kissed Delphine’s temple. “Thank you, for all you are and all you do. You became family the moment you set foot in Kirkwood Hall, and you are under my protection henceforth!”
Delphine rolled her eyes and went off to reassure her husband that she was not about to fall prey to the Kirkwood family curse, or its charms.
Poppy had been curiously silent as she drank her wine and ate the first of the white asparagus. Sorrel sat beside her and snagged a spear, which she dipped in lemony butter and carefully lowered into her mouth.
“Careful,” Poppy said. “Kirkwood butter is notoriously difficult to get out in the wash.”
Sorrel was wearing a white poplin shirt with a high collar. Her mother’s string of lapis lazuli beads lay against her chest where the sun had already turned her skin golden. Her hair was up, the white stripe stark and striking against the black. After she left the garden with Graham, Sorrel had showered and, instead of slipping into her customary jeans and tee shirt, she had found herself grabbing something less “garden-ish.” She was beautiful.
“Poppy, I’m not angry at you, not now at any rate,” Sorrel said. “You did what you thought was kind, and I get that.”
“Well, bugger all,” Poppy said. “You couldn’t tell me—oh, I don’t know—last night?”
“You needed to stew, to have a time out before I forgave you,” Sorrel said. “Also, I needed to talk to Patience to be sure you hadn’t poisoned the man who seems to be the love of my life.”
“Oh my God! This is news! Who knows? Who can we tell?” Poppy cheered, “Oh, wait, we all know. You two are utterly transparent, which is something I can’t say about Dad.”
“Great,” Sorrel said. “I do love being the subject of gossip.”