The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 2

Julia

I woke with a throbbing headache and Sam’s hand pressed against my cheek, his face just inches from mine. It used to unsettle me when he did this—sneaking into my bed at night to watch me sleep. Sometimes he would poke at my eyelids or tug strands of my hair. But I understood why he did it. It was because I looked so much like my sister.

Sam looked like her, too.

It made it so much harder to hold on to all my anger when I saw her in Sam’s round cheeks and ocean-blue eyes.

I blinked a few times to adjust to the light streaming through the gap in the velvet curtains. The clock on the nightstand said seven o’clock. I confirmed on my phone that it was indeed a.m. We hadn’t just slept through dinner. We’d slept right through to the morning.

There was a notification for two missed texts on my phone. Both from my former boss.

Please call me.

It’s about the money.

I deleted the messages, vowing to block Ryan Hartwell’s number as soon as I could figure out how. I had already paid back every cent my sister had stolen from Hartwell & Sons after I’d foolishly brought her on as my assistant when she was trying to get back on her feet. But that hadn’t been enough. Rebecca’s mistakes had cost me my career and reputation, too.

“I’m hungry,” Sam muttered, distracting me from the raw ache in my chest.

“Me, too, buddy. Let’s get you dressed and brush your teeth; then we can find something to eat.”

Whatever inhibitions I had about sneaking around Havenworth were obliterated thanks to Sam. He ran ahead of me in the dark, narrow hall, opening three doors in a row before he found a bathroom. I sat on the narrow edge of the tub and scrubbed the brush up and down Sam’s teeth, letting the foamy bubbles spill down his chin in a familiar routine we’d developed over the last few months. The space was tiny compared to the rest of the house, as if it had been tacked on as an afterthought. There was no shower, only an ancient claw-foot bathtub tucked into one corner. Sage-colored penny tiles lined the wall around it, and the sloped roof angled sharply above the tub, leaving just enough room for an adult to sit upright on one side. Nothing in the room, from the exposed pipes to the pedestal sink, appeared to have been updated in the last hundred years.

I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of secrets were buried in the history of this place.

Sam spit a trail of minty foam into the sink. I turned on the tap to rinse it away. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

After a few minutes of wandering, we found the kitchen deep in Havenworth’s basement. The walls were painted a dull salmon color, making the shiny new appliances stand out even more. I hesitated when I saw Andrew at the stove, dressed down in a gray sweater and jeans that I instantly recognized as designer hiding behind a veneer of casualness. I hadn’t made the best impression yesterday. I hoped today would be a chance to start over.

“I’m hungry,” Sam repeated, tugging me forward and alerting Andrew to our presence.

“You’re awake,” Andrew said with a practiced politeness that held no warmth. His shoulders stiffened before he turned around.

“Jet lag got the better of us,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound quite as defensive as I felt. Sam let go of my hand and wandered toward the wooden table at the far end of the room.

Andrew cleared his throat, the awkwardness thickening the air between us. “Look, I’d like to apologize for yesterday.”

I blinked in confusion, uncertain I’d heard him right. “Oh, um. That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “I was called into the emergency department at the last minute yesterday, and it was a particularly stressful afternoon. My sister, Helen, was supposed to be here to greet you. Once I realized she had failed to show up, it was a bit of a scramble to get back here.”

Judging by the strain in his voice, “stressful” might have been an understatement. “That sounds like a lot to handle.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “It is. But as Margaret rather forcefully reminded me, it isn’t an excuse for rudeness.”

Apologizing wasn’t something that came easy to me anymore. I’d been burned too many times by exposing myself to that kind of vulnerability. Perhaps that was why Andrew’s straightforward apology caught me so off guard. “I know this job is important to you. It’s important to me, too.”

The kettle on the stove whistled, breaking the awkward silence between us.

Andrew shut off the burner. “Would you like some tea?”

Caffeine. The yearning overtook me as forcefully as a tidal wave. “I’m not much of a tea drinker, but I would love some coffee.”

He retrieved a small tin from the cupboard. “Is instant all right?”

I fought the urge to wince. “Sure.”

“I’m afraid we weren’t prepared with any children’s cereal,” he said as he pulled the lid off the tin and dumped a heaping spoonful into a mug. “We do have milk, and I’m sure I could whip up some porridge for Sam.”

“That’s okay. Sam likes to eat toast in the mornings. Peanut butter would be a bonus.”

“Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Despite my insistence we didn’t need anything fancy, Andrew proceeded to chop up some strawberries and add them to the plates he’d set out for us.

“We don’t have peanut butter, but we do have raspberry jam. Would that be acceptable? I promise you it’s quite delicious.”

I looked at Sam, wondering whether his hunger was enough to overcome his aversion to new foods. He stared back at Andrew with outright suspicion.

“How about you give it a try, and if you dislike it, you have permission to spit it back onto the plate, and I promise no one will yell at you.”

I wrapped my hands around the steaming mug and held my breath as Sam gingerly inspected the toast and took the tiniest nibble. Back home, I could get him to eat only plain white bread. The stuff Andrew served us was full of whole grains and seeds. Sam scrunched his eyebrows, considering the new flavors and textures. He took another bite.

Andrew pulled out the chair next to Sam and sat down, resting his forearms against his thighs. “Do you like it?”

Ever so slowly, Sam nodded.

“I knew it,” Andrew said triumphantly. “I’ll have the boy eating beans on toast next.”

I sipped my coffee and forced a smile despite the bitter burn on my tongue. It should have made me happy to see even a hint of progress in Sam’s eating habits, no matter who got the credit for it. “I was hoping to speak with Lady Margaret about her vision for the garden today,” I said.

Andrew shook his head, and something that almost resembled a smile flashed upon his lips.

I frowned in confusion. “What?”

“Don’t let her hear you call her ‘Lady.’ She abhors those kinds of traditions. You’re better off referring to her simply as Margaret. Or even Maggie.”

It was clear this man held great affection for his godmother, and despite our first encounter, he seemed to like Sam, too.

“Either way, it’s important to know what she’s envisioning for the gardens and what she’s hoping to achieve. The sooner I know that, the sooner I can get started on the design plans.”

“The vital thing is for the job to be done perfectly. We’re hoping to open the gardens to the public next year to generate some additional revenue for the estate.”

“Few things can be called perfect when it comes to a garden,” I said. “It’s a living thing that grows and changes with the seasons.”

“Be that as it may, Margaret is absolutely insistent it be done exactly as it was in the summer of 1940.”

It was the same request he’d explained over the phone when we’d discussed the job a few months ago, and still just as odd. Most clients had only vague ideas of what they wanted in a restoration that amounted to a nostalgia-driven return of its former grandeur. I usually discovered most of them valued their own ideas and preferences over the prestige of history. Which was why it was so unusual that Margaret had pinpointed such a specific slice of time she wanted restored. “Why 1940?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Margaret’s always been a bit enigmatic, even to those who know her best.”

“Was she even alive back then?”

“She was just a little girl when the war broke out, not much older than Sam. She doesn’t like to talk about that period in her life, but I expect she remembers it vividly. She’s always had a rather exceptional memory.” He smiled to himself, as though disappearing briefly into some distant thought. “Despite her wealth, her life hasn’t been easy. She developed pneumonia when she was seven years old. It nearly killed her and severely weakened her heart. She spent much of her teenage years in and out of hospitals.”

“Wow. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Defying expectations is something Margaret has always excelled at. Did you know she was one of the first women in the country to lecture in physics at Cambridge?”

I shook my head. The more I learned about Margaret Clarke, the more fascinating I found her. From my initial exchanges with Andrew, I knew that Havenworth was her family home, where she’d lived almost the entirety of her life. She was the driving force behind the garden restoration, but she was also the one who had allowed it to degenerate to this level.

“So why now? If she was such a rebel in her time, why does she suddenly care what others think about the gardens?”

From the way his expression darkened, I suspected this was a question he had asked her many times himself. “I don’t really know. She’s never given me a reason, but something changed last year, after her health took a turn for the worse. She’s been on a mission since then to take care of all her loose ends. Whatever the reason is, it’s clearly important to her.”

“Would it be all right if I asked her about it?”

“You can try, but I can’t promise she’ll be any more forthcoming with you.”

He was probably right, but it was worth a shot. “I’ll also need access to any photographs and historic records of the gardens. Information about when they were first constructed and, most importantly, what Margaret’s vision is for the restoration.”

“Margaret doesn’t usually wake until nine or ten o’clock most days, and it will be too much for her to show you around the grounds. But I have a few hours before I need to be at the hospital.”

It took me an awkward second to realize he was offering himself as a guide. “That would be great.”

He smiled tightly, as uncertain of our newfound détente as I was. “Very well. I’ll meet you at the front doors in fifteen minutes.”

After we finished breakfast, Sam and I met Andrew on the front steps. The stress of the last twenty-four hours had taken its toll, and I was eager to get outside and focus on the reason I was here.

We started with the front gardens. The space was large—nearly a full acre—but not huge in comparison with many of the more prominent English estates I’d studied.

The sodden ground squelched beneath my boots, filling the air with a strangely dank and musty odor. The previous day’s rain had finally abated, leaving behind an overcast sky that still offered no hint of sun. I scanned the ground for any sign of shoots or stems. It was early spring. By now, the first hints of perennials ought to have broken through the earth, and the bulbs should have been on full display. “Do you know anything about what the gardens used to look like?”

“Margaret once mentioned the front gardens were for the adults. She preferred to play in the back, where things were wilder,” he said. “Beyond that, I don’t know.”

I tried to visualize the space as it should have been—lush and green and inviting. But I couldn’t shake the undercurrent of emptiness and decay from clouding my brain. The symmetrical hedge mazes signaled a more formal front garden, but I suspected the estate’s borders had once been filled with vibrant shrubs and perennials.

We followed the dirt path along the side of the house to the back gardens. Before we rounded the corner, Andrew hesitated. “The back gardens are in worse shape than the front.”

Despite his caution, I still gasped when I saw the grounds. Whereas the front gardens were barren and empty, the back was wild and abandoned. The architectural bones of what must have once been a magnificent garden were still visible beneath the mess of bramble and weeds. Just beyond an arched opening was a huge parterre encased in stone, the space filled with elegant pathways winding through the gardens. Instead of perfect symmetry, the west side was terribly damaged, with only the faintest traces remaining of what had once been there. Broken and missing pavers. A rusted iron arch. Even the ground that should have been perfectly flat was now filled with mounds of dirt. In the distance, I could see a collapsed greenhouse almost entirely overtaken by ivy and moss.

A space as magnificent as this should have been a gardener’s dream, but instead it reminded me of a picked-over carcass. Everything was in much worse shape than Andrew had alluded to over the phone.

I had known this would be a difficult job, but this was so much worse than I’d expected. The cleanup alone would cost thousands of dollars and require a crew if there was any hope of getting any planting started this summer.

Andrew crossed his arms, staring out at the wilderness. Despite wearing an ancient pair of black Wellingtons, he somehow managed to look strangely regal. “It’s quite a mess, isn’t it?”

“Messes don’t scare me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to tell me you’ve seen worse?”

I laughed. “You don’t strike me as the type of person who wants to be lied to.”

“No, I suppose I’m not,” he conceded with a wry smile.

Sam, bored by our conversation, wriggled his hand free from mine and ran ahead down the narrowed path toward the back of the estate.

I jogged after him, awkwardly navigating the overgrown path as I called for him to slow down. Luckily, the stone wall extended through this section of the garden, blocking Sam from traveling too far.

“That’s odd,” I muttered.

“What’s odd?” Andrew asked, catching up to us a few seconds later.

“This section of the wall is new,” I said. “Or at least newer than the rest of it.”

Andrew came up behind me. “Why do you say that?”

“Look at the brick. It’s larger than the other sections, and there’s significantly less moss growing here compared with the rest. And the path we were on looks like it used to go straight through, like there was an opening here at one time.” I ran my fingers along the rough edges. The newer section stretched out only a few feet in either direction, as if there had once been a door or opening of sorts that was now bricked over.

Andrew frowned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Most people wouldn’t. It’s my job to pick up on even the smallest details. At some point in the last half century, this section of the wall was repaired. So why not clean up the rest of the gardens?”

Andrew shrugged, clearly not finding this discovery as curious as I did.

“What’s on the other side?” I asked.

“Woodlands. Margaret’s family owned all the farmland surrounding the estate, but that was sold shortly after the war. They kept the forested area, however. Probably because there was no financial value in selling it.”

“Do you think she’s awake now? I’d really like to ask her some questions.”

Andrew frowned and checked his watch. “Yes, it’s about time I prepare her breakfast.”

We found Margaret in the orangery later that morning. She was sitting in a rocking chair, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows when we entered, oblivious to our presence. I tracked her gaze to see what had captured her so deeply. The gardens were no more beautiful from this vantage point.

Andrew cleared his throat. “Margaret, are you up for some company?”

She turned, a smile illuminating her face. “Of course. Please, sit down.” She motioned to the love seat across from her. Sam squished up close to me, as he always did. I handed him his favorite dinosaur-themed sticker book, which I’d stashed in my bag to keep him occupied. He eagerly flipped open to the late-Cretaceous page, where he’d been setting up a battle between the velociraptors and a triceratops.

“I’m afraid I need to get to work soon,” Andrew said, setting a cup of tea on the glass side table next to her. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course I will,” she responded with a huff. “You needn’t worry so much about me.”

It was obvious from his pained expression that worrying was the only thing he would be doing. He kissed her sweetly on the cheek and said, “Call me if you need anything.”

He looked at me with an unspoken plea. Take care of her.

I nodded, softening toward the man a little more.

With shaky hands, Margaret picked up her teacup and looked at Sam and me. “Did you enjoy your walk this morning?”

“Yes, thank you. Sam loved running through all that open space.”

“I did, too, when I was his age. I used to get into so much trouble with Andrew and Helen’s grandfather climbing trees and hiding in places where no one could find us.”

Although she was well into her nineties, it was easy to picture Margaret as a young girl. There was still a mischievous, girlish spark in her eyes.

“Would this be a good time to ask you some questions about your expectations for the restoration?”

“What is it you’d like to know?”

“Well . . .” I smiled down at Sam, who was whispering sound effects for each of the ferocious creatures, before turning back to Margaret. “I need to know what your vision for the gardens is. What do you want it to become?”

“That’s a simple enough answer. I want them to look exactly like they did when I was a child.”

It was the same inscrutable answer Andrew had given me earlier. “What do you remember of the gardens? The kinds of flowers or plants—”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I was never good with that kind of thing. Not like . . . well, I’m sure you can figure it out. You’re the professional.”

“I find it best to work off historical sources and records. Do you have photos or designs or anything you can give me so I can re-create it as accurately as possible?”

“I’m not sure we have anything like that. So many things were lost over the years. But you are welcome to look. You can ask Andrew or Helen to help you search the house.”

I fixed my smile in place, holding back any hint of the exasperation I felt. Most of the projects I worked on began with extensive records and documentation. In fact, it was usually the discovery of such records that prompted the desire for restoration in the first place—whether it was uncovering evidence that a renowned designer had originally created the gardens or simply a sense of nostalgia. “The garden is in a much worse state than I anticipated. There’s very little left of what once was here. Without historical records, the best we can hope for is a re-creation, not a restoration.”

Her thin eyebrows furrowed. “What is the difference?”

“Well, a restoration is a precise replica of an original garden. With a re-creation, we would take inspiration and cues from the era and style in which the gardens were designed to capture the feel of the original, but it wouldn’t be a true restoration.”

She shook her head so vehemently, wisps of gray hair slipped out from her bun. “No. It must be the exact garden that it was when I was a child. That’s why we hired you.”

Once again, I questioned how I was supposed to succeed if I didn’t know what they expected of me. I wasn’t going to get anywhere asking the same questions over and over. I needed to change my approach. I leaned forward, resting my arms on my thighs. “Margaret, what happened? It’s obvious the gardens were once magnificent. How did they get so . . .”

“So decrepit?”

I nodded, relieved that she appeared more amused than offended by the question. “Exactly.”

“The war.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I was just a young girl then, but I remember so clearly how everything changed after that. My mother never cared much for the gardens and found them to be a terrible burden to maintain, especially during the war. She inherited Havenworth rather unexpectedly when her older brother passed away in 1926. She was much more interested in learning physics and maths than the finer points of running an estate, though she did her best.”

“She was a scientist as well?”

“She wanted to be. She was a bit of an eccentric for her time. One of the first women to study physics at Cambridge, but she wasn’t allowed to matriculate. It wasn’t easy for women to find their way into academia back then.”

I clasped my hands together on my thighs, fascinated by the glimpse into her history. “I can’t imagine it was for you either.”

She let out a small laugh as she shook her head. “No, it wasn’t. But my parents never discouraged me from whatever I set my sights on either. My father was a professor of physics at Cambridge, you see. My mother worked with him in his lab for a time, but there was no room for her in the top-secret work my father did for the government during the war. So she did what most upper-class women did at that time and threw herself into the war effort. Havenworth became a hub of activity. We took on evacuees, and Mother even allowed the Women’s Land Army to come and plant a victory garden. But then . . .” She pressed her lips together, inhaling a shaky breath.

“Margaret,” I said gently. “What is it?”

She didn’t respond. Instead, her gaze drifted to a stretch of land outside the window once more, her mind lost in thought.

“The Luftwaffe came,” she finally answered. “London was hit hardest, but few places in the country were spared completely. The bombs fell in Cambridge in the autumn of 1940. Mother and I evacuated to a smaller country home in Gloucestershire for the remainder of the war. We left just days before Havenworth was hit.”

I gasped. “That must have been terrifying.”

“We were fortunate no one was hurt. It missed the house and landed at the edge of the back of the estate. We used to play there all the time.” She gestured toward the area in the distance where she’d been staring earlier. “But much of the gardens were destroyed.”

Sam, who had been slowly creeping away from my side as Margaret and I spoke, picked up something from the glass coffee table. Before I could see what it was, he threw it against the table. “Sam!”

The object—a small red rubber ball, thankfully—bounced up so high it nearly hit the ceiling. With shockingly quick reflexes, Margaret reached out and snatched the ball before it could crash against the table once more.

“I’m so sorry,” I said with absolute mortification.

Margaret laughed. “It’s a ball. What else is the boy supposed to do with it?”

She motioned at Sam to come closer. He looked to me for permission. I nodded, and he crept to her side, settling next to her chair on his knees.

“Do you know what this is?”

He shook his head.

“It’s a game called jacks. I used to play it all the time when I was your age. Do you want to learn?” She spread out a handful of small silver jacks, then picked up the ball and let it drop against the table just as Sam had done seconds before. Before the ball landed, she swept her hand across the table, picking up one of the jacks. “I was the best jacks player in the entire county when I was young.”

She handed the ball to Sam. “Now it’s your turn to grab two.”

He repeated her movements, bouncing the ball and picking up the jacks.

“How many did you get?”

Sam opened his hand to show her the two silver stars in his palm.

Margaret let out a boisterous holler I wouldn’t have anticipated a woman as slight as her was capable of.

They spent the next few minutes playing, all but oblivious to my presence. Margaret seemed genuinely enamored with Sam’s interest in the game.

“My goodness, you’ve won,” Margaret said with delight, though I had no doubt she’d let him do so.

He beamed at her in response.

“Would you like to play again sometime?”

Sam looked at me once more for permission.

“Of course you can.”

“Yes, please,” he said eagerly to Margaret.

“Nothing would make me happier,” Margaret responded, leaning back in her chair. Her energy was flagging. We’d taken up too much of her time already, but I still didn’t have the answers I needed to move forward with any of the work she was asking of me.

“Margaret, if you don’t mind, I just have one more question. Why now? After all the years, why do you want the gardens to be restored?”

She turned away from me once more, but not before I caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Because I made a promise to someone I loved a long time ago. Someone who hurt me very badly, so I let anger get in the way of that promise. But I don’t have much time left in this world, and I don’t want to spend it with regret. Restoring this garden is the only way I know to find forgiveness.”