The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 22

Julia

The crew arrived a week after Andrew finally signed off on the budget, unloading giant piles of soil and fertilizer from their trucks. The scent of fresh, healthy dirt buoyed my steps as I walked down the gravel path to greet them early that morning before the sun had risen to its full height. It was the scent of possibility.

Much of my work was solitary. Hunting through archives and old design plans, performing alchemy to render them into something real. It was a talent I’d honed for years. The physical part of the work—shoveling dirt and digging up old weeds—took collaboration. Some of it required specializations outside my wheelhouse, including expert masons to reconstruct elaborate features like the garden folly. I had no problems admitting I couldn’t do it alone, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t still in control. Everything being done at Havenworth was under my name. It had to be perfect.

Andrew was up early and had offered to feed Sam breakfast while I met with the crew to go over today’s plans. I hadn’t worked with this team before, but I knew them to be good by reputation. The primary goal today was to remove the invasive weeds and ivy, and to uproot the dead boxwoods from the hedge maze. I had estimated at least a week for that work to be completed. After that, we would lay down the soil and amendments, and then the new plants would arrive.

“It’s vital not to disturb any shrubs or trees that are still healthy,” I told the crew leader. “Leave the camellias and rhododendrons unscathed. No chemical weed killers. This all has to be done by hand.”

He was an older man with a short graying beard and weatherworn skin. “I’ll make sure they’re careful. They’re the best in the country, and they’ll treat every inch of this place like a newborn baby.”

I thanked him for his reassurance, grateful that he understood the importance of a job well done over one done quickly. Still, I spent the better part of an hour walking around, making sure everything was going exactly according to plan. The crew leader was right, though. His team was impeccable, and there was no reason I couldn’t sneak away for a quick breakfast.

Andrew and Sam were in the kitchen when I arrived, acting rather curiously. Sam was perched on the counter, cheeks bunched tight from a mischievous smile. Andrew was more stone-faced, but there was something odd about the way he stood with his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“What’s going on?” I glanced from one to the other, searching for a clue in their expressions.

“There’s been a change of plans this morning,” Andrew said.

Before I could ask what kind of change, Sam blurted out, “He got you a robot!”

“Well, not exactly a robot.” Andrew stepped to the side, revealing a sleek metal espresso maker. “But it’s proving to be as complicated as one.”

My jaw refused to close as I stared at the gleaming appliance, which looked completely out of place on the butcher-block countertop. “But you don’t even like coffee.”

The slightest hint of pink tinged his ears as he ran a hand along the back of his neck. “It’s rather repugnant, but I’m aware you enjoy it.”

The idea of real coffee—not the horrid instant stuff Andrew had been providing for the last month, but actual espresso—was so exciting I couldn’t help myself from throwing my arms around him. “Thank you!”

He stiffened, and I immediately regretted my impulsive action. Somewhere over the last few weeks, the animosity between us had given way to something verging on friendship, but we hadn’t yet crossed the threshold of physical affection. And yet, before I could pull away and stammer an apology, his arms encircled me. “I’m glad you approve.”

We broke apart, each of us as wooden as the branches of the wych elm near Havenworth’s front gate. Rather than interrogate the moment, I busied myself grinding the beans.

Andrew hadn’t skimped on good coffee either. The aroma was rich and earthy, enveloping me with a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d been missing for too long. I took a sip and let out an uninhibited sigh of delight.

“I finally have a few days off from work,” he said, with a self-congratulatory grin. “I was hoping you could give me a closer look at the work you’re doing in the gardens.”

My heart gave a tiny jolt. It wasn’t unusual for clients to want a deeper look at the work, but Andrew had been putting a purposeful distance between himself and the gardens. “Yeah, of course. The crews are mainly on cleanup duty today. Once we’ve cleared out the weeds, I’ll be able to get a better look at the stonework and assess what kinds of repairs are necessary. But you might find it interesting to see what’s happening.”

I wasn’t nervous about Andrew’s sudden interest in the gardens. I was confident enough in my work to show it off. But I couldn’t keep putting off telling him what I’d found in the florilegium. I couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing in the garden would feel complete if I didn’t uncover the truth hidden in those pages.

We strolled the entirety of the grounds that morning, starting with the front, where workers were dismantling the vestiges of the hedge maze. The giant mounds of new soil made him do a double take, but he didn’t complain. I explained exactly what would happen in each part of the garden. The plants. The color schemes. The feelings that each section of the garden should invoke.

“I admit, I don’t have the same vision for this kind of thing that you do, but I’m impressed with how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time,” he said when we finished walking through the back gardens. “My grandfather didn’t talk much about his time here, but I know he adored the gardens. I’m excited to see how they would have looked when he and Margaret were young.”

I glanced at Sam, who was entertaining himself with a snail he’d found crawling along the pathway. “Helen told me your grandfather was a child evacuee.”

Andrew nodded. “He came here as part of Operation Pied Piper during the first year of the war. Over a dozen children from London were sent to Havenworth, but all of them save for my grandfather returned to the city after a few months. He was here for almost six years and became part of the family.”

“Did he ever return to his real family?”

“Not until the war was over. It must have been a difficult choice to keep him here, but my great-grandmother was adamant he would be safer outside of London. And she was right.”

“How so?”

“Their home was destroyed by an incendiary bomb in 1941. My great-grandmother survived, but one of his older sisters was killed.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth. “That’s awful.”

“His father and two brothers all lost their lives on the battlefields of France. It was a tremendous hardship for my great-grandmother, but Margaret’s parents made sure to send them money every month. Even after my grandfather returned home, Margaret’s parents treated him like family. That’s a funny thing about Havenworth. It seems like everyone who sets foot on these grounds never truly leaves. It takes hold of you.”

“I can understand why.”

We didn’t say much after that. It was as though we had both said more than we meant to. It was dangerous to let myself get caught up in the fantasy of staying at Havenworth. Of thinking of it as a home where Sam and I could rebuild our lives. For us, Havenworth was only a job. One that would be over soon.

Helen was late again for dinner that evening, but this time, when she came into the kitchen, she brought with her a stack of books from the library and an excess of excitement.

She set the books on the counter while I was drying the last of the dishes in the rack. “I know what Irene did!”

Her announcement was so unexpected, I nearly dropped the plate. “What do you mean?”

“Nobody in their right mind would escape to Nazi Germany during the middle of a war just because someone heard they’d done something wrong. I figured there had to be some kind of evidence against her that would make her do that. And that’s exactly what I found.”

I dried my hands on the tea towel and examined the titles along the spines of the old books. “The answer is in old science textbooks?”

She rolled her eyes. “History-of-science textbooks. And yes. It’s all here. I swear.”

I crossed my arms and leaned my back against the counter. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“I couldn’t find any information about Irene Clarke when I searched either. But it did get me interested in the rest of Margaret’s family. Andrew’s always going on about how important it is to know our history. He made sure to tell me stories about our parents and grandparents growing up, but I’ve never really learned anything about Margaret’s family, which is strange, seeing as they’re kind of family by extension. So, I looked them up.”

“And?”

She grinned. “There’s lots of information about Margaret’s mother, who descended from a baron. But it’s her father who was really fascinating. Did you know he was the chair of the Committee for the Scientific Study of Air Defence during the war?”

“I didn’t even know there was such a committee,” I said.

“They were tasked by the military to develop antiaircraft technology. Their work was terribly important but not well known. There are loads of references to John Clarke’s role on the committee on the internet, but not much beyond that. But I did find some information in these old library books.” She flipped open one of the textbooks to a page she had marked with a torn piece of paper. “Read this.”

Perhaps the most important advancement by the Committee for the Scientific Study of Air Defence was the cavity magnetron—a small vacuum tube capable of generating radar microwaves that changed the outcome of the war. Prior to its development, the British air force had few advantages over the German Luftwaffe, who terrorized the country in a relentless series of attacks known as the Blitz. The invention of the cavity magnetron allowed for even more powerful radar technology light enough to be installed on aircraft. It was a vitally important scientific discovery, but one that would have little benefit if it could not be produced efficiently and in great enough numbers for use by the RAF. The problem, however, was that Britain’s factories did not have the capacity to mass-produce this very precise device, and were already overwhelmed by the construction of artillery and other war infrastructure.

Dr. John Clarke, the chair of the CSSAD, proposed a radical solution to this problem: Hand the technology over to the Americans. Clarke believed sharing the technology was the only way to ensure the mass scale-up of production. It was a risky proposal, considering the Americans had adopted a policy of isolationism and not yet entered the war. Many of his fellow committee members were opposed to the idea, but Clarke persisted.

On October 17, Clarke began Operation Josephine, carrying a prototype of the cavity magnetron and many of the country’s other most valuable secrets inside of a metal briefcase. The covert journey, however, was not an easy one. The morning Clarke was meant to board the train to Liverpool, where he would then take a steamship to New York, the briefcase was stolen . . .

I pressed my hand to my lips, taking in the heavy information. “Do you think Irene was the one who stole it?”

“Who else? Don’t you remember what Margaret said? How her sister betrayed the family? This must be what she meant. I’ve read everything I can about the mission, and they never found the stolen prototype. Look at the date.”

October 15, 1940. That was the day after the last entry in the florilegium. The entry where she asked for forgiveness. “But how would she have known about the prototype in the first place?”

“It’s possible her father would have let something slip about the nature of his work,” she said, clearly stringing the facts and assumptions together in her head with the thinnest of threads. “Selling secrets of national importance to the Germans was one of the crimes she was accused of. What other kind of secrets would an eighteen-year-old girl know?”

I had no good answer for that. But something about it didn’t sit right in my gut. Maybe it was because I had spent too much time getting to know Irene through her drawings. I didn’t want to believe she was capable of doing something so unforgivable.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. I looked over to see Andrew standing in the doorway. “What has the two of you so morose?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I was only due to cover a half shift today. Now what’s this about Margaret?”

Helen and I exchanged a guilty glance.

“I think I know what happened to her half sister, Irene,” Helen confessed. She relayed the same theory she had told me just a few moments earlier.

I expected Andrew’s reaction to be just as reticent as mine. Instead, he nodded along as though it all made perfect sense.

“We can’t be certain. Everything is just speculation. All we know is that she disappeared,” I said.

Helen and Andrew didn’t share many common features, but with their scrunched brows and slightly cocked heads, their expressions of pity were near identical.

“What other explanation could there possibly be?” Andrew asked gently. “The simplest answer is almost always the real one.”

I turned my head and stared at the spot on the wall where an old water leak had discolored the paint. Pity was the worst kind of judgment.

“I know you’re right. But . . .” I searched for the right words. “I don’t like what it means for Margaret. I think the entire reason she wants to renovate the gardens is to find forgiveness for Irene and find some peace. But how can you possibly forgive that?”

Helen sighed. “I don’t think you can.”