“Oh, not yet,” Andrew said, beckoning her to follow him out of the terminal. “Graham thought a few days in London might acclimate you, and he’s arranged for some time at the library in the New Globe so you can gather your ideas. You’ll also consult with the head of the Chelsea Physic Garden, and it seems that I am to be your minder.” He stopped when he noticed that Sorrel was still standing where he’d found her.
“What is it, Sorrel?” he asked. Her name rolled around in his mouth before it tumbled out. Good God, Sorrel thought. Henry Higgins.
“I don’t need a minder, thanks and I assumed we’d go straight out to Wiltshire. I don’t have all that much time if I’m to get the garden in,” she said.
“Yes, well, you’ll find that Graham and Stella Kirkwood make plans that, however surprising at the outset, usually work for the best.” Andrew suspected that such a plan had already happened to him. He fished in his pocket for the keys. “Shall we?” he asked.
Sorrel followed his broad back to the car, an odd, lumpy dark maroon thing that looked as if it had been parked there unmolested at the curb since the Beatles broke up. He threw open the trunk and placed the suitcase in among Wellington boots, a plaid blanket, several worn leashes, a leaning pile of books, and a box of dog treats.
“Come on then,” he said as he opened the wrong door for Sorrel. Of course, she reminded herself, it wasn’t the wrong door, just the English one. The inside smelled of gorse and heather, wild rosemary and leather, and Sorrel missed her gardens so far away.
The ridiculous car started up with a growl that made the Nursery truck sound like a kitten. And from the moment Andrew pulled away, Sorrel knew that he’d gone to the Patience Sparrow School of Driving, international branch.
“Nimble little thing,” she said, fumbling for her seat belt.
“Indeed, she’s a 1971, Austin motor, in fine nick, really.”
“Really,” Sorrel said. There was rust flaking on her door, and the wing mirror was held on with silver duct tape. With every gear change the car shuddered and thumped. She didn’t think even Patience would take a roundabout at the speed with which Andrew whizzed past a taxi.
“So, you’ll stay in Gray and Stella’s house in Chelsea while you settle and then on Thursday we’ll drive to the pile.”
“The pile?” Sorrel asked.
“Kirkwood Hall,” Andrew said. “It’ll either become your favorite place in all England or a muddy nightmare, depending on your mood and the weather.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Sorry,” Andrew said (without an ounce of sorry), looking at Sorrel. The car swerved alarmingly. “Stella and Gray are the kindest people I know. You will be happy with them; they will insist on that.”
“Eyes on the road, Andrew,” said Sorrel and was instantly homesick.
THE HOUSE IN Chelsea where Sorrel would spend the next days was smaller than her own Ivy House, which sat tall and white above the harbor. But like the Sparrow Sisters’ home, this two-hundred-year-old brick cottage was both a historic spot and a real haven. Sorrel could see that from the yellowing children’s collages framed along the hall, the piles of cricket bats and field-hockey sticks that leaned against the mud room wall, the drift of books and lists and keys that filled the wooden bowl by the door. A deflated rugby ball, well-handled brown leather flecked with mud, sat at the foot of the stairs. Echoes of family life were as clear as in Ivy House. But here, instead of the salty breezes that drifted in from the Atlantic in Granite Point, the air was heavy with the lush green scent of ancient churchyards and mossy cobbled lanes. Here, in a chic little village at the heart of London, the Kirkwood family had lived for generations at the very banks of the Thames. Wandering through the rooms of the house on Cheyne Row while Andrew built up the fire and set the kettle, Sorrel understood the kind of comfort this house held too. Later, she’d discover all four bedrooms, a low-ceilinged kitchen dominated by a red Aga, three “reception rooms,” as they were called, and a surprisingly large back garden. It was a charming and cozy home in the middle of a sophisticated city. Sorrel knew Fiona Hathaway, of course, her crisp accent, the happy jumble of children and adults that filled the rectory after services, but she now saw exactly how she’d spent her early years in London. It didn’t surprise Sorrel that Fiona came from such a solid unit; she had built just that kind of nest in Granite Point.
Andrew took a call from his sister, and Sorrel could hear his grumbly rumble reassuring her that Sorrel had survived the flight and the drive. This left Sorrel to poke around, running her fingers along the old swayback sofa, warming her hands before the tiny fireplace and scouting the shelves and shelves of books in the study. Photos crowded nearly every flat surface. Some were of the Hathaway “colonists” and their lives in America: the church John oversaw, sailboats, Fiona’s garden. Others ranged from Graham and Fiona as children—all white, smocked dresses, Peter Pan collars, and short pants—to elegant, festive pictures of people in wide-brimmed hats and morning coats. It all felt terribly, terribly formal, upper-crusty, and English. Sorrel thought of Nettie and how much she would love this world.
Andrew brought the tea in on a tray and sat opposite Sorrel as he poured.
“I forgot to thank you for the pickup,” Sorrel said. “Do you need to head back to work, now?”
“Ha,” Andrew laughed, although to Sorrel it sounded more like “Har.” He put his fingers to his neck. “I’m on sabbatical,” he said.
“You’re a teacher,” Sorrel said.
“Oh, no, I’m a priest,” Andrew said and fiddled with the teapot.
“Ah,” said Sorrel with nothing left to add.
“Anglican,” said Andrew. “Church of England, sort of like your Episcopalians.”
“That’s a relief,” said Sorrel. “I mean it’s good, nice, helpful.”
Sorrel didn’t know whether it was a relief that Andrew wasn’t a Catholic priest or that he was a minister, like Fiona Hathaway’s husband at home. A civilian is how she thought of it. There was no relief in how silly she sounded.
“Well, I try to be. Helpful, that is,” Andrew said.
“Do you have your own church?” Sorrel asked.
“Not exactly. I was a rector at Christ Church, just round the corner until”—Andrew stopped—“until recently.” He offered the plate of cookies to Sorrel. “Biscuit?”
She took one and had to admit after a bite that she might have to take some back to Claire Redmond at Baker’s Way Bakers.
“Christ Church is a special place,” Andrew continued. “I wasn’t giving it my best of late.”