The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 26

Julia

Andrew found me in the parlor later that evening. There was something about the room that drew me back each day—a quiet sense of history lingering in the patterned wallpaper and mismatched furniture. With no formal office, it was a convenient space to work after Sam was asleep.

“What’s all this?”

I would have tried to hide the sheets of paper laid out on the carpet in front of me, but there was no way to do it quickly without rousing his suspicion. “Just playing around with the designs.”

He stood over me as I sat cross-legged on the floor and peered at the papers. Each of the sheets held a rough, hand-drawn sketch of a section of the grounds. I had nowhere near the talent of Irene, but the purpose of these quick sketches wasn’t aesthetic.

“You pierce my heart,” he read from the paper in front of me.

I sighed, realizing I wouldn’t be able to put off this conversation any longer. “Gladiolus. I’m trying to map out the designs with the meanings in the florilegium. I thought there might be some kind of pattern in here.”

He lowered himself to the floor next to me and inspected the papers. “Have you found anything?”

“Not yet.”

His knee brushed against mine as he angled forward and rested his chin in his hand. I swallowed back the hitch in my breath, annoyed at my body’s ridiculous reaction. But the longer he studied the drawings, the harder it was for me to keep my heart from tumbling in my chest like a cement truck.

“I thought she might have taken inspiration for the meanings from the gardens, but there’s not much rhyme or reason to it from what I’ve mapped out. From what I can tell of the drawings, the garden designs follow a more traditional pattern in keeping with the style of the times. But I know she used the meanings to communicate. Margaret said as much.”

“What do you mean?”

“A few weeks ago, I showed her an image of Astrantia. She told me it meant courage. I didn’t understand what she meant at the time.” I opened the florilegium to the drawing of the delicate, starburst-like flower. “That’s the meaning Irene gave it.”

“Margaret has never once said anything about this.”

“I don’t think she remembered much about it until the restoration. But I can’t shake the feeling Irene tried to use the florilegium to leave messages for Margaret.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What kind of messages?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But there’s something unusual about the last entries. I know Irene was accused of some awful things, but what if she didn’t do it? What if it was all a misunderstanding?”

I showed him the strange final drawings in the florilegium, explaining my theory about the daisy and the messages. Andrew took it all in in his quiet way, occasionally nodding along but giving no signs or clues he believed me.

“That’s a lot to extrapolate from some eighty-five-year-old drawings.”

“If I show Margaret the florilegium, it might trigger some memories. Or, at the very least, it might bring her some closure.”

I braced myself for his admonishments and warnings that it wouldn’t work. He had been clear from the start that protecting Margaret was the only rule at Havenworth.

“I’m not sure this would be enough for Margaret either. The people who love the most fiercely are often the ones who feel betrayal the deepest.”

“Shouldn’t she have the right to decide that for herself?”

He rose to his feet, not giving me an answer.

I stifled the urge to apologize. I hadn’t meant to upset him, but it wasn’t right to keep things from her. She was old and sick, not fragile. “Andrew, wait—”

“No, it’s okay,” he said calmly, holding out his hand for me. “I’m not upset. Or at least not with you. I just think I could handle this conversation better with a drink.”

I slipped my hand into his, letting him pull me to my feet. Something electric and urgent prickled over the skin of my palm. He held on to my hand a second longer than necessary, and I wondered if he felt it too.

“Do you like whiskey? Margaret’s always been partial to it, and I’m afraid we don’t keep much else in the house.”

“That sounds like exactly what I need right now.”

He led me to a large wood cabinet along the far wall that housed a few bottles of good whiskey and some other liqueurs that looked like they hadn’t been touched in ages. He poured the amber liquid into two tumblers.

I held the glass to my nose, letting it adjust to the intense aroma before taking the first sip. The whiskey was rich and earthy, the flavor redolent of walking through a damp forest. The alcohol gave me the courage to try again to get through to him. “I know it’s not easy to see the people we love in pain. But if there’s anything I know, it’s that you can’t protect them from the world either.”

He stared at his untouched glass. “I don’t understand how dredging up old wounds will bring closure. We’ll likely never find out what happened to Irene.”

“Maybe not. But maybe that’s not what Margaret needs. Maybe it’s forgiveness. Irene was remorseful about what she was doing. I think the sketch was her way of apologizing to Margaret.”

“If she was truly remorseful, she would have turned herself in. Not run away.”

“A person doesn’t need to deserve forgiveness for you to give it.”

He was quiet for a long time. The yellow light of the chandelier cast a shadow over his face that made it difficult to read his expression. Finally, he took a sip of the whiskey before asking, “If you had the chance to forgive your sister, would you?”

The question siphoned the air from my lungs. It was the question I had been running from for the better part of the year. The one I couldn’t answer without dragging the darkest parts of my soul into the open. “I want to. But I’ve been too scared to let myself understand why I’m so angry.”

“You could start by talking about it.”

I laughed ruefully. “Is this your way of deflecting the conversation from Margaret?”

His arch smile disentangled my defenses like they were nothing more than pieces of string. “Perhaps a little. But I can sense the burden you’re carrying. It’s in your eyes, even when you try to hide it.”

My throat was painfully dry. I finished the whiskey and set the tumbler on the marble top of the liquor cabinet. “I’m angry at Rebecca for dying. I’m angry at her for not trying harder for Sam’s sake. I’m angry that I gave her every chance I could, and she threw it all back in my face.”

He refilled my glass. “Addictions are complicated. Relapsing doesn’t mean she wasn’t trying or that she didn’t care. Modern medicine can only do so much. There’s often unspoken trauma behind these kinds of things that is hard to address.”

I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes. “I think if I’m being honest, it’s not her I’m mad at. It’s myself. I’m so angry I couldn’t save her. I nearly lost everything trying to, but it didn’t work.”

Emotions hiccuped in my throat. He pulled me close, enveloping me in his arms. I melted into the comfort he offered, knowing I would regret it in the morning. I hated showing weakness. What if he couldn’t look me in the eye the next morning? How was I supposed to finish this job if my professionalism was in question? But he cupped the back of my head with a gentle touch, and every one of those worries faded like shadows in the night.

It would have been too easy to lose myself entirely in the firm muscles of his chest and the scent of his aftershave. I held on as long as it took for the hot tears to retreat. “I thought the whiskey was supposed to make these conversations easier,” I said, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand.

His hands still rested on my shoulders, not quite letting me go. “Not easier. Just less inhibited.”

He cocked his head to the side in an unexpected motion, frowning as he studied my face.

“What?” I swiped at my lower eyelids, even though I had no makeup on.

“Did you . . . cut your hair?”

The question surprised me enough I laughed earnestly. “Almost a week ago. Are you honestly telling me you just noticed now?”

A hint of pink colored his cheeks. “I’m not always the most perceptive with these kinds of things. You look lovely.”

I didn’t know if it was the compliment or the whiskey, but something changed in that moment. Like the magnet between us suddenly reversed poles, drawing us together with a force impossible to resist. His lips found mine, or maybe mine found his. I didn’t care. The feel of his tongue sent shock waves throughout my body. There was no gentleness to the kiss. Only urgency. Our lips hungered for each other like it was the only way we could breathe.

His hand was on the small of my back, pressing me close. I threaded my fingers through his hair, but it wasn’t close enough. My desire for him flamed an ember inside of me I thought had burned out long ago.

Just when it felt like we were about to lose all control, he broke the kiss. For the briefest moment, I worried he would confess his regret and push me away. But his hands stayed firmly around my waist, the tips of his fingers having found the bare skin beneath my shirt.

“That was unexpected,” I said, breathlessly.

“Not for me,” he admitted.

I looked up at him, too stunned for words.

He exhaled slowly, pulling together his well-hewn composure. “Good night, Julia.”

My heart ached in a way I couldn’t explain as I watched him walk out of the parlor.

There was no use trying to work any more that evening. My mind was too distracted by the lingering taste of his lips on mine. I gathered my papers and stuffed them into my laptop bag before making my way back to my room.

It was only when I laid my head on the pillow that I remembered Andrew never did answer my question about telling Margaret what I’d found in the florilegium.

I worried things between Andrew and me would be awkward after our kiss. But he dismissed that fear the next morning, when I found him waiting in the kitchen with a perfect cup of espresso already prepared for me. He pulled me behind the pantry door after breakfast and kissed me again. Soon we were stealing moments together whenever we could. But they were just moments. His work schedule kept him too busy for any kind of serious conversation about what exactly was happening between us.

I tried not to let my mind or my heart race too far ahead. I liked Andrew. Maybe more than I was willing to admit to myself. He was smart and funny and handsome. Most importantly, he was kind to Sam. But there was no future for us. Once this job was over, Sam and I would fly back to Chicago and rebuild our lives. The restoration needed to come first, for Margaret’s sake and for mine.

On a sunny morning a week after our first kiss, Andrew came to find me while I was digging a hole for the white hydrangeas in the moon garden.

“Do you have a moment?”

My pulse quickened at the sight of him. He looked like a dashing hero from a Jane Austen novel as he leaned against the round stone gate. But there was a graveness in his voice that made me worry.

“Just as soon as I get this last one planted.”

There was nothing elegant about removing a five-gallon plant from the plastic pot. Still, I managed to loosen the roots without damage and carefully set the shrub in the ground. I forced myself not to rush as I filled the hole. This was a living, breathing thing, and it needed to be treated with care from the start if it was to flourish.

“Okay, all done. What did you need to talk about?”

“Actually, it was something I wanted to show you.”

I wiped the dirt from my knees and doffed my gloves before following him back to the house. He threaded his fingers through mine and led me to a room on the third floor in the far wing I hadn’t yet explored. It was smaller than I expected, with a simple white desk in the middle and walls of bookshelves.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation the other night,” he said. “What you said about your sister. How she’s still such a part of you, despite all that happened. It made me consider that Margaret’s parents might not have truly erased Irene either. I’ve spent the last few days searching.”

I sucked in my breath. “Did you find something?”

“Nothing of significance yet. This was Margaret’s mother’s office. I don’t come in here often, but I did a thorough inventory a few years back when I began helping Margaret with the estate management. Most of it are her notes and lab journals from when she assisted her husband with his work, but she also kept much of her correspondence. I found this.”

He handed me a letter written in deep navy ink on simple stationery. The paper itself was so old and crinkled, I worried it would break apart in my hands.

December 18, 1921

My dearest Mary,

Season’s greetings from America. I hope you are keeping well. I apologize for the scarcity of letters these past few years. My professorship has kept me rather busy. I’ve been working on a device that will better harness the energy of radio waves. I believe you would find it fascinating. There are a great many brilliant minds here but none who challenge my ideas quite the way you do. I miss our late-night conversations and debates. I wish I could tell you more about my work, but one cannot risk giving away too much information in this business.

I can tell you that I have recently become a father. Irene Rosalie Clarke was born three weeks ago. She is a tiny thing with a cry like a siren. Fortunately, she is healthy and does not demand too much attention. She is quite content to lie in her crib and watch the mobile for most of her waking hours.

I think of you often.

Love,

John

It took me a long moment to process what I had just read. “Heck of a way to talk about your newborn child. He doesn’t mention anything about his first wife either.”

“It’s odd. Margaret always said he was a wonderful father. But there’s little sign of it here.”

“Maybe he was different with her. There’s a twelve-year age gap between the girls. That’s a long time to grow and change, even for an adult.”

“Or maybe he wasn’t happy in his first marriage, and it reflected on his relationship with Irene.”

I suspected each of our theories was correct. For the most part, my parents had been decent with me. Our relationship only soured when I was old enough to realize things were radically different for Rebecca. I was the golden child, praised for the simplest achievements, while I only ever heard my parents criticize my sister. “Do you think there’s more information somewhere in here?”

He opened the top drawer, where dozens of letters were neatly wrapped with string. “If there is, it’s likely to be in here. I’ve only read through a handful of these so far. I can get through them quicker if you help.”

“What if we come across some things I’m not supposed to see?”

“I trust you’re capable of discretion.” He handed me a stack that was nearly six inches high. “Why don’t you start with these and we’ll see what we can find.”

I offered a small smile, relieved that the awkwardness between us hadn’t shaken his trust. Carefully, I worked at the knot binding the collection of envelopes, knowing patience was required, given their age. These letters were all from Margaret’s father, the first sent from the battlefields of France during the Great War. He had served as a soldier in the British army. His tone was spare and direct, providing few details of the war, but it was clear Margaret’s parents were deeply in love.

Andrew peered up from the letter he was reading. “Did you find something?”

“Not exactly. But I think Margaret’s parents must have been in love, even when her father was married to someone else. He isn’t the most effusive person, but you can sense the longing in his words.”

I handed Andrew the letter. His jaw tightened as he read. “I doubt Margaret will have known that. She always talks about her parents like they were the epitome of propriety.”

“People do strange things for love.” I swallowed hard, knowing I was skirting the edge of a conversation I wasn’t ready for.

“Yes,” he said with no hint of discernible emotion. “I suppose they do.”

For the next hour, we pored over the ancient envelopes, searching for more evidence of Irene’s existence. The silent reading was easier than confronting the elephant in the room between us.

I was deep inside another of John’s letters when Andrew tapped my shoulder. “I’ve found something.”

June 18, 1940

Dear Mary,

In answer to your question, I do not know James Atherton well enough to comment on his character. I believe he is the nephew of George Atherton. James and Michael were schoolmates and developed a strong friendship that proved rather irksome. The pair were always in some kind of trouble with the headmaster. It would be uncharitable to place the blame entirely on James, but Michael was a model pupil outside of his influence. Nonetheless, the fact James enlisted so eagerly alongside Michael in the RAF is a notable sign of his character. While I would firmly discourage any kind of courtship with Deborah or Pamela, your stepdaughter’s peculiar ways of thinking and disregard for authority might indeed be a good match. At the very least, seeing her married off would be a relief.

Regards,

Your cousin Gwen

It was an awful way to speak about a young woman. Had Irene ever been welcomed at all into the family at Havenworth, or had she always been treated like an outsider? “This just suggests she was rebellious, not that she was capable of passing secrets to the enemy.”

“It suggests she didn’t conform to expectations. People like that are often vulnerable.”

“And sometimes they’re the people who have the most integrity and strength. They’re not always bad. Sometimes they’re just misunderstood.” Each tiny slice of information about Irene Clarke magnified the cracks in the story Margaret had been told about her. “But even if she did pass secrets to the Germans, it doesn’t mean she was evil. She might have been misled or confused. The only thing we do know is that she was remorseful before she disappeared.”

He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “Have you considered that the reason you’re so invested in proving Irene’s innocence is because you haven’t been able to do the same for your sister?”

Anger surged inside me, only to sputter out before I could utter any words in my defense.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

I let out a long breath. “You’re not wrong. No matter how much I wish you were. But I don’t think I’m wrong about Irene either. I know we’re going to find something if we keep looking. I can feel it in my gut.”

“Okay. Let’s keep searching.”

We did find something. It took almost another hour of reading through the letters Margaret’s mother had saved, but a letter from her husband in the winter of 1940 gave us all the answers we were looking for. Just not the ones I expected to find.

November 25, 1940,

My dearest Mary,

There is little I can share with you other than to say I have arrived safely in Boston, despite the setbacks. I still can scarcely believe my daughter capable of such duplicity and violence, but there is no room for doubt after the attack on the train outside of Euston station. I can only be grateful that you and the children were not on that train, and that we were spared our lives only by sheer luck. I’m afraid Irene’s actions are even worse than feared. She is considered a suspect in the murder of an MI5 agent. I cannot impress upon you enough that if you hear or know anything about Irene, you must report it to the authorities.

These are dark times, but I have faith my work will be successful, and we will soon see an end to this war.

Love,

John

I handed the letter to Andrew.

“Margaret can never know about this,” he whispered.

“But—”

“No.” His voice was firm now. “It was one thing to believe Irene passed on classified information during the war, but this is an accusation of murder. She tried to kill her own family. This will devastate Margaret. Promise me you won’t say anything to her about this.”

I swallowed back my protest, even though my gut was screaming that he was wrong. Margaret wanted closure. She wanted forgiveness. She couldn’t do that without the truth. But it wasn’t my place to interfere. “I won’t say anything.”