The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 3

Irene

I had just settled into my favorite spot beneath the Japanese camellia with my sketchbook when I caught our gardener unwittingly setting a curse on Havenworth Manor. The morning had been anything but peaceful, with a new group of Land Army girls bustling into the spare rooms of the house. Their excited chatter about the curving staircase and the portraits of long-dead relatives was wearing thin, and the prospect of sharing a bedroom with my half sister again was enough to push me to the edge. I was desperate for a bit of peace and quiet, but instead, I found myself rising to my feet and making my way toward Paul, our septuagenarian gardener, who was digging among the petunias in the annuals garden. “You can’t plant petunias here,” I said. “This is where the Queen Anne’s lace always sprouts.”

Paul adjusted the set of his cap and peered at me over the offensive purple bloom in his hands. His gruff demeanor and the gray scruff on his face did little to hide his short tolerance for my superstitions. “My shovel here says I can.”

“Don’t you understand what will happen if you do?”

“I understand that Lady Montgomery asked me to plant these petunias next to the front gate, and I don’t want to lose my job.”

“We both know Lady Montgomery has no business having any opinions on this garden.” Despite his better intentions, Paul’s lips twitched into a smile. He knew as well as I did my stepmother’s taste left much to be desired. “All plants have meaning. And if you plant one that means anger and bitterness next to the one that represents our safe haven, it’s as good as setting a curse on Havenworth Manor.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Next you’ll be telling me I can’t have the lavender with the roses in the cutting garden.”

A pairing that implied distrust of love. I couldn’t say I entirely disagreed with that meaning. “They’re both perennials. No planting required.”

He placed his hands on the handle of his shovel and rested his chin on top. “So you do listen to my lectures.”

“Every last word,” I admitted. “But you never seem to return the favor. How many times have I explained that the meaning of flowers is just as important as their care? You can’t ignore it.”

“There’s a war on, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re lucky to have flowers at all. Now go back to whatever trouble it is you were getting up to.”

I sighed. “How can I get myself into trouble when nothing interesting ever happens here?”

Paul nodded toward the wych elm, where Margaret was hanging upside down from a low-hanging branch, encouraging Charlie to do the same. The boy, still fearful of heights, remained rooted on the ground, wisely avoiding her taunts.

“Margaret Evelyn Clarke!” I shouted. “Get down from there before you break your neck.”

She ignored me, her skirt tangled around her face as she swung like a pendulum. Horrified as much by the display of impropriety as the possibility she would get hurt, I ran to grab her, but she jumped down before I reached the tree, giving me a frightful start.

Bits of leaves were caught in her unruly curls, and her dress was streaked with mud. She had always been wild, but since Lady Montgomery had taken it upon herself to provide her education, she had become outright feral.

“I thought you’d fallen,” I scolded.

Margaret rolled her eyes. “I know what I’m doing. It’s perfectly safe up there.” My half sister was only seven years old but had enough attitude for a century’s worth of delinquency.

“You need to be more careful. And you,” I said, turning to Charlie, “need to ignore her when she’s up to no good.”

Charlie cast a hesitant glance at Margaret, unsure. He was only one year younger than her, but the pair couldn’t have been more different. He was thin and nervous, and still barely spoke to me, even after living here for almost nine months. Margaret had been wary of all the evacuated children when they first arrived last fall, treating them like servants she could boss about. But when they all returned to their families, leaving only Charlie behind, Margaret had taken him under her wing, teaching him all sorts of ways to get in trouble.

Charlie didn’t respond to my instruction, but I sensed he was considering my words.

“Have you both finished your maths lessons?”

They nodded with so much enthusiasm I doubted they were being truthful, but I didn’t have the energy to argue further.

“Then go on. And stay out of trouble.”

They ran off toward the back garden, clearly intending to disobey me. But at least I finally had some peace. I settled down on my blanket once more and opened my sketchbook. I was determined to document every specimen within the extensive collections here.

Most of the camellias had long since finished their blooming seasons, but there were still a few lush flowers scattered across the ground, their petals browned and wilted. But one bloom had landed perfectly intact, still fresh from its descent. I picked it up and inhaled its scent before placing it next to me on the blanket.

Back in the early days, when Lady Montgomery had made an effort to speak with me, she’d told me that her great-grandfather, the baron of Havenworth, had traveled throughout Asia to amass the rare collection of camellias to impress her great-grandmother. From the way she told it, the gesture was more a display of ostentatiousness than grand romance, but that was because Lady Montgomery—despite her aristocratic upbringing—had no appreciation for courtship. Her wedding to my father had been a rushed affair in front of a magistrate with no guests other than her cousin Gwen to bear witness. I’d wanted desperately to be the flower girl waltzing down the aisle of a majestic church in a beautiful lace gown. Instead, I was forced to stand off to the side like a fly hovering where I didn’t belong, not realizing it was a portent of how my existence would be tolerated for the next eight years.

With a sigh, I pushed that memory out of my mind and selected the blush-colored pencil from my tin, wishing I had more colors to choose from. The camellia’s pale pink petals were almost obscene in their abundance as they fanned out in perfect geometry, making them a lofty challenge to capture. I greatly preferred my Faber-Castell coloring pencils, but Father had tossed them away the day after Britain declared war, saying it was unpatriotic to use anything produced by the enemy, no matter how superior it might be. My reminder that, as an American, Germany was not my enemy earned me a slap on the cheek. It was the first and only time he had ever laid a hand on me. The next morning I found a box of decidedly English coloring pencils on my vanity. I wasn’t sure whether it was meant as an apology or a lesson in the superiority of British manufacturing, but it didn’t matter. I would use whatever tools I could get.

The hours passed in a blur as I filled in the colors and shadows, until finally I had a near-perfect replica. With deep satisfaction, I wrote the words Camellia japonica below. Blooms February through May. All the scientific details I’d read in the botanical encyclopedias I’d found in Havenworth’s library. At the bottom of the page, I added in practiced cursive the most important part of all: Longing and desire.

Of all the flowers, none better represented me than the beautiful camellia with its bittersweet meaning. Longing for something more, something better, was the only constant in my life. I wanted excitement and adventure, not the quiet, simple life that Havenworth offered. I wanted to travel the world and visit museums and galleries and gardens. I wanted to be the one making the choices about my future.

It was my mother who taught me the language of flowers. Back in Boston, she had worked as a florist, crafting arrangements for all the significant moments in people’s lives. I had spent countless hours watching her at work—pink tulips for well-wishes, marigolds and geraniums to express sorrow, orange blossoms and roses for love. Each bouquet carried a special meaning for the recipient. Perhaps she hadn’t possessed any true magic, but I liked to imagine she had.

Margaret’s voice calling my name pulled me from my sketchbook. With a heavy sigh, I put down my pencil and rose to my feet. I didn’t like being disturbed once I had fallen into the rhythm of sketching, but there was something endearing about how determined she was to draw my attention.

I followed the sound of her eager voice to the wisteria-covered back entrance of the house.

I set my hands on my hips. “What is it?”

Margaret waved a large letter in front of her face. “Post came for you. It’s from America.”

My heart jolted against my ribs. “Give that to me.”

I reached for the envelope, but she held it just out of reach. “It says it’s from Goldens.” She drew out the last syllable in a taunting singsong.

“Goldings,” I corrected, my heart beating like a sped-up clock. Goldings Institute of Fine Arts. The school I had dreamed of attending for as long as I could remember. “Hand it over.”

Instead of complying, she held the letter tightly against her chest. “Why did they send you a letter? You’re not going to leave Havenworth, are you?”

A pang of guilt shot through my chest. Havenworth wasn’t my home, but Margaret was too young to understand that. It belonged to her family, not mine, and my presence had been a thorn in everyone’s side from the moment I had arrived here eight years ago. I placed my hands on her shoulders and leaned down to meet her gaze. “Of course I need to leave. I’m eighteen years old.”

“But this is our home. Who will take care of me if you go?”

I pulled her into an embrace so she wouldn’t see the pained expression that came over me. Margaret almost never let her illness affect her, but these rare moments of fear reminded me of how young she still was. “You are going to be just fine without me. One day you will understand. I promise.”

“I won’t understand!” She leveled a fierce glare at me. “And I’ll never forgive you if you leave.”

“Margaret, please—”

“No!” She took off at a run down the gravel path, the letter containing my only hope of escape still clutched in her grimy hands.

I chased after her through the laburnum tunnel with its chain of delicate golden flowers cascading around me. When I emerged on the other side, Margaret was nowhere to be found. But there was only one place she would be.

The one place where she was not allowed to go.

Tucked behind the sprawling branches of an overgrown yew at the wild edge of the estate was a decrepit garden folly that had probably once resembled a miniature version of Havenworth but now sat abandoned and forgotten. No one in Lady Montgomery’s family remembered why it had been constructed, so I could only presume the structure was beyond ancient, like everything else in this country. And terribly unsafe.

The structure itself was only half erect, thanks to a lightning-scorched tree trunk that had crashed into the back half, leaving a pile of crumbling bricks to be claimed by the forest floor.

“I know you’re in there,” I called from the darkened, moss-coated entrance, which rose only as high as my waist. Tiny yellow cowslips sprouted up in front—a terrible sign given their deathly meaning. “Give me back my letter!”

Her response was a loud shushing, as if that could somehow hide their presence. Of course Charlie was with her.

I took another step through the heavy brush that surrounded the decrepit structure. Something sharp jabbed into my shin, piercing my skin.

When I looked down, a trickle of blood trailed down my leg. I pulled back the brush to reveal a small branch whittled at the end to a point that had been stuck in the ground right at the entrance. Not just one, I realized as I scanned the area, but almost half a dozen of these makeshift weapons had been hidden among the foliage. “What on earth?”

A collection of fist-size rocks had been piled just inside the entrance, as though waiting to be tossed at any intruders. Something had been scratched into the top of the entrance. Carefully, I leaned forward to inspect the words: Keep out.

My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, Margaret. What have you been doing here?”

It wasn’t a question I expected her to answer, but the silence that followed made me all but forget the reason I’d followed her here in the first place.

“Please come out so we can talk. I don’t want to have to come in there after you.”

“You couldn’t fit if you tried,” she shouted back, abandoning all pretense of hiding.

Gingerly, I crouched down into the dark space, which was too narrow for anyone but a seven-year-old child, and took one tiny step inside. My throat seized. I hated small, dark spaces. Father called it an irrational fear, but what was so irrational about it? At any moment the rest of these bricks could come crashing down, trapping me inside—just like I imagined my mother, clawing and fighting to escape after her casket was lowered into the earth. She couldn’t possibly be dead, not when she had promised she would never leave me. She must have battled against the heavy wood and suffocating layers of dirt, desperate to find her way back to me.

“Margaret, come out right now.” I tried to sound firm, but I managed only a wheeze. “Please.”

“Fine. We’re coming!”

With relief, I backed away, letting my half sister and her companion in mischief exit the perilous structure. The boy was just as bedraggled, with a fresh hole at his knee, and I couldn’t decide who to be more upset with. Margaret for stealing my letter, or Charlie, who had only two pairs of trousers to begin with.

I held my hand out expectantly. “My letter.”

She scowled fiercely as she handed it back.

“Thank you,” I said with the thinnest layer of calm, despite my racing heart. “But you know very well that the folly isn’t safe to play in.”

“We aren’t playing in there,” Margaret protested.

I set my hands on my hips, leveling my sternest look at her.

“We aren’t,” she whined. “This is our fortress.”

“We were setting up a trap for the Germans,” Charlie added with cloying earnestness. “We’re filling it with rocks and sticks.”

“There are no Germans here.” I inhaled slowly, trying to keep my patience. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. He’d absorbed the same irrational fears and paranoia that had taken hold of everyone since Chamberlain’s announcement of war nearly nine months ago. Panic had gripped the country, with people wearing gas masks and digging Anderson shelters in their yards. “We’re safe at Havenworth. That’s why your parents sent you here. So you wouldn’t have to think about things like that.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say. The boy’s lip trembled, and his brown eyes shone with tears. All the other children who’d been sent to Havenworth had returned to their homes when London proved just as uneventful as our sleepy country home. I’d never given much thought to why Charlie remained. Had his parents simply not wanted him to return?

“Well, if they do, we’ll be ready for them,” Margaret asserted.

“Come here.” I dropped to my knees, despite knowing my dress would end up just as mud stained as hers. I wrapped one arm around her, the other around Charlie, and pulled them in close. “No one is coming here to hurt you. Havenworth is safe. I promise you.”

“Then why would you leave?” Margaret asked in a quiet voice. “What if it’s not safe in America?”

“Oh, Margaret,” I sighed. “It’s just a letter. I don’t even know what it says. For all I know, they’ve written to tell me I have no business applying to their school.”

It was a truth I hadn’t wanted to admit, even to myself. I wasn’t formally trained or anything of the sort. I had sent my application nearly a year ago, complete with a portfolio of my three best drawings and a promise to God that I would never ask for anything else. I’d assumed my chance of attending the prestigious art school was over because of the war, but this unexpected delivery offered a renewed hope. A chance to escape Havenworth. A chance to find my own way in the world.

She nodded, absorbing my reassurance as gospel, before running off with Charlie to find somewhere better to play.

I waited until they were out of sight before looking at the letter once more. The rumpled envelope, slightly torn at the corner, was emblazoned with a postage stamp of Martha Washington and a bright-blue airmail sticker signifying its urgency.

I tore it open and scanned the neatly typed words.

Dear Miss Irene Rosalie Clarke,

This letter is to inform you that your application to Goldings Institute of Fine Arts has been accepted.