The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 12

Julia

I stayed up far too late poring over the florilegium. I’d taken a class on botanical illustration in college and been taught that the objective was to provide the most scientifically detailed renderings, highlighting anatomically unique characteristics against stark white backgrounds. Irene’s illustrations were different. Even with my lack of artistic ability, I could see the emphasis was on the plants’ beauty. The delicate curves of a calla lily, the perfect symmetry of a dahlia. On nearly every page of the thick book was a featured flower, interspersed with incredibly detailed sketches of the gardens. As a restoration gardener, this was an absolute gold mine.

But the most interesting part wasn’t the drawings themselves. The text below each illustration, written in impeccable cursive, included not only the basic information about the flowers, but also their meaning.

Iris.

Blooms late spring to early summer.

Wisdom, valor.

The language of flowers had been a craze that swept through the Victorian era, with secret codes and messages imbued in every posey and nosegay gifted among friends and lovers and sometimes even enemies. But the language of flowers had been almost entirely forgotten by the time Irene Clarke was alive.

How could someone with a passion for something as pure and innocent as flowers turn into a traitor against her country?

I set the florilegium down on the nightstand and picked up my phone, scouring the internet for any reference to Irene Clarke. There were endless news articles and posts about Margaret’s family. The media lauded her father’s role in developing radar technology instrumental in stopping the German air raids during World War II, and her mother was well known for her philanthropy. But no mention of Irene. It was as if she had never existed.

I had nearly fallen asleep by the time I found a single newspaper article referencing her disappearance.

James Atherton, age twenty-five, of London, and Irene Atherton (née Clarke), age eighteen, of Cambridge, have been formally charged with treason. The known fascist sympathizers stand accused of sending classified information to the Abwehr through coded messages hidden inside shipping cargo. It is believed the pair fled to Germany to evade arrest.

Could this be who Margaret had made her promise to all those years ago? A fascist sympathizer? It was no wonder her family had tried to cut all reminders of Irene’s existence from their lives.

I glanced down at Sam curled up next to me in the giant poster bed, his mouth parted as he slept, making him look so incredibly young. I couldn’t imagine excising Rebecca from our lives, no matter how much pain she’d caused our family. But Rebecca wasn’t a traitor. She was someone whose pain and struggles had been too powerful to overcome.

What had made Irene Clarke go down a path like that? From what I could see, Margaret had grown up wealthy and loved. Surely her half sister had, too. So why throw it away for something so vile? It was easier to find information on James Atherton. He was the son of a wealthy industrialist who was a known Nazi sympathizer. His mother had been an Austrian national whose loyalties remained with her homeland, though both of his parents died shortly before the war. James made a small fortune profiteering from selling contraband goods on the black market and passing secrets to the Abwehr before MI5 caught wind of his activities. Suspicions, however, quickly turned to Irene, his charming but ruthless wife, as the true mastermind of their network of traitors. According to one account, the pair escaped to Germany on one of their acquaintances’ merchant ships. MI5 caught James in 1967, when he attempted to return to England under an alias, and he spent his few remaining years in prison. Irene was never heard from again.

When I realized it was well after midnight, I forced myself to put my phone down and get some sleep. The jet lag was still messing with my internal clock, but now that I had a vision for the gardens, I needed to make some headway.

The next morning, Andrew and Helen were both in the kitchen when Sam and I made our way to breakfast. I could hear them arguing in hushed voices from down the hall.

“Why can’t I ask her about it? She’s my godmother just as much as yours.”

“The last thing she needs is a reminder of a past that is clearly painful for her.”

“Just because things are painful doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about them.”

They quieted as soon as I came into the room, the angry tone of their conversation still lingering in Helen’s crossed arms and Andrew’s scowl.

“Good morning,” I said tentatively. “We can come back if this is a bad time.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” Andrew said stiffly.

I wondered whether the man ever relaxed. “I have a tentative projection for the work, and I’d like to discuss the budget and timelines with you.”

He nodded. “We can discuss it after you’ve had breakfast. Meet me in the parlor when you’re done.”

He sent a sharp look to Helen before disappearing from the kitchen. Whatever conversation they had been having clearly wasn’t over.

Andrew was on the phone when I entered the parlor. The room was large, with green wallpaper and velvet-tufted couches that looked as old as Havenworth itself. A piano sat in one corner near a huge fireplace. It was the kind of space that immediately transported a person back in time.

I was about to retreat to the hallway to give him privacy, but he waved me inside, indicating with a finger he would be only a minute.

“You cannot keep asking me to cover these shifts. We need a proper replacement,” he said, the edges of his composure fraying. “I’ll be there shortly. Surely you can manage until then.”

He ended the call and rubbed his forehead before turning his attention my way.

“That sounded stressful,” I said.

“It’s part of the job. At least until we hire another doctor to take on some of the load. One of my colleagues left recently, and we’ve had a difficult time finding a replacement.”

An ache of sympathy welled in my chest when I remembered what Helen had said about why the hospital was short-staffed. He wasn’t just overworked, but heartbroken as well.

“If you would rather discuss the gardens at another time, it can wait,” I said, despite hoping otherwise. Delays meant unnecessary costs, and there was only a small window to get the work done before I needed to return to America so Sam could be enrolled in school. But more than that, no one knew how much time Margaret had left.

“It’s fine,” Andrew said to my relief.

I showed him my tablet, where I had the full estimate laid out in a spreadsheet. “The biggest up-front cost will be the soil amendment, which isn’t a surprise, given how long the gardens have been fallow. But the cleanup requirement is going to be larger than I initially expected. I’m suggesting we hire a crew who can do the work more quickly. Otherwise, we might not be able to get much planting done until next spring.”

The flat line of his lips grew harder. “This is a bit more than I was anticipating.”

“Havenworth sits on twelve acres of land. You have crumbling hardscaping that needs to be repaired, which means matching stone that was manufactured hundreds of years ago. And you asked for this to be done in an impossibly tight timeline. So, yes, it’s expensive. But that doesn’t mean I’m ripping you off or trying to cheat you in some way.” I pressed my lips together to stop myself from saying any more. Nothing good would come from losing my cool. Andrew knew nothing of the reason why I was fired from my position with Hartwell & Sons. Getting defensive would only raise suspicion.

“I never suggested you were,” Andrew responded calmly.

I took in a breath to calm myself. “I’m sorry for overreacting. It’s important to me that you know I take this job very seriously. I know how much it means to Margaret, and I want to do well by her.”

The chill between us thawed a few degrees. “It’s difficult not to worry about her. This entire business with the gardens is dredging up some painful memories when she’s already quite weak.”

“Her body might be weak, but her mind’s as sharp as a tack. You have to trust her to know what she’s doing.”

He sighed. “You’re right.”

I grinned despite myself. I hadn’t thought he was capable of admitting I was right about anything. “The price of the plants will likely change over the course of the work, but I’ll do my best to keep costs minimal. But the sooner we make headway, the better. Buying young plants early in the season will be less expensive than full mature ones. Now that I have the florilegium to work with, I’m going to start drawing up plans for the actual designs.”

“The book of drawings by her half sister who became a German spy during the war?”

I ignored the distaste dripping from his tongue. “It’s not just drawings. There’s information about their growing cycles, their origins, and even their meanings.”

“Flowers have meanings?”

“Some people believe so.”

“Do you?”

“Not in any intrinsic way, but flowers have always been powerfully symbolic in almost every culture. I’ve seen in my work how certain flowers can emotionally impact people. Even with Margaret, I can see how the garden is helping her remember things.”

“Have you shown this book to her yet?”

“Not yet, but I’d like to.”

“I think it’s best if we hold off for a little while. I’m afraid it could be too much stress for her heart.”

I understood Andrew’s reasons, but he hadn’t lost a sister the way Margaret and I had. Margaret’s parents had tried to erase Irene’s memory, and that decision had clearly haunted Margaret for the rest of her life. The same way reminders of Rebecca were everywhere, no matter how much I wished I could forget her. But it wasn’t my place to say anything. “Of course. I understand.”