The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 4

Irene

Father didn’t come home that evening—he had been working through the night increasingly often of late. He had always been overly committed to his work, but it had taken an extreme turn over the last few months, with him leaving before the rest of us woke for the day and returning well after we were asleep, if he came home at all. I couldn’t understand it at first. If anything, his activities at the university should have slowed down with so many students enlisting. But that was before he let slip he was now chairing the Committee for the Scientific Study of Air Defence—a secret committee working on defensive technologies for the military. I tried not to be resentful of his work, but it was difficult when it consumed so much of his time that he barely had any left for me.

Lady Montgomery’s presence at Havenworth had become equally scarce. She had once spent much of her time working alongside Father in his laboratory—an unusual pursuit for a woman of her standing, though it had never seemed to trouble her. My stepmother had always been far more comfortable with equations than with etiquette. But there was no place for her on the committee, so she had turned her attentions to the war effort at home, immersing herself in every other charitable endeavor and committee related to the war, and hosting displaced children with relentless determination.

The care of the children, however, largely fell to me, the only one in the household without other commitments. It was my duty to teach them, put them to bed, and ensure they wrote weekly letters home to their families. Yet, while my father and stepmother believed I was old enough for such responsibility, they still did not entrust me to make decisions about my own life.

When Father first told me we were moving to England not four months after Mother died, I was devastated. But he promised me we would be moving to a huge manor home with expansive gardens and a bedroom fit for a princess, where I would be welcomed and happier than I could ever imagine, with a new mother to dote on me. I’m not sure how it happened that I let myself believe my actual mother, resurrected from her grave, would be waiting for me, given I was far too old for such childish fantasies, but the idea sustained me during the long voyage across the Atlantic.

Nothing about my life had turned out as I’d been led to believe. Lady Montgomery had tried in her own way to be kind at first, but she hadn’t the first clue how to be a mother to me. I suppose I didn’t make it easy for her either. I resented the easy way she and my father got on in their rekindled romance. And it was rekindled. I hadn’t understood at the time that the haste of their marriage was because of the romantic intentions they’d shared in their youth. Lady Montgomery’s parents had forbidden her from marrying beneath her social class, but they had long since passed away by the time my father became widowed, giving him and my stepmother the freedom to finally be together as they had always wanted.

It wasn’t until the next evening after I’d received my acceptance letter from Goldings that I heard Father’s car pull up the drive just as we were finishing dinner. I raced to the front door and opened it before he had reached the front steps. His hair was unusually mussed as he stepped out of the vehicle, which only further emphasized the excessive gray strands that had appeared quite suddenly over the last year. His clothing, too, was rumpled and stained, as though he hadn’t changed in days.

“Father, hello,” I said as he walked past me, not appearing to register my presence at all. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Daddy!” Margaret streaked past me with her arms outstretched. He picked her up for a hug with an affection I’d never known from him.

“Margaret, my dear. What kind of adventures have you been up to today?”

“Charlie and I constructed a tiny raft from sticks we found in the forest.”

“How very clever of you.”

I waited for his attention to turn my way, clasping my hands tightly together behind my back to rein in my nerves. His smile was weary as he set her down. But instead of giving me his attention next, he strode past me as though I were not even there.

“Father, wait.” I picked up my stride to match his as he continued down the long hall toward his office, my heart pounding thunderously with excitement. “I received a letter yesterday. One I’ve been waiting for.”

“Could we discuss it later? I need to speak to your stepmother regarding an urgent matter to do with the war.”

“But it can’t wait.”

“I’m sorry, Irene.”

“Please, Father. The war can wait. Nothing has happened for months. We can’t put our entire lives on hold for something that isn’t real. That’s what I need you to understand. I’ve been accepted to the Goldings Institute of Fine Arts. In New York.”

He stopped walking, finally turning the full force of his attention to me. There was no kindness, no fatherly pride in his eyes. “What did you say?”

I sucked in a breath, trying to recall the speech I had rehearsed hundreds of times since the letter arrived. “The Goldings Institute of Fine Arts. They’ve accepted me.”

“You are not going to art school in America.”

“We agreed that once I turned nineteen, I could return to America as long as I was accepted to school. I’ll be nineteen in November and—”

“That was before the war. It’s no longer safe to travel.”

I threw my hands up in frustration. “What war? Everyone keeps fretting about something that’s happening thousands of miles away, but nothing ever happens.”

“War is not a game. Nor is it a silly inconvenience. We all have to make sacrifices.”

“Haven’t I made enough sacrifices? All I’ve done for the past year is follow orders and take care of the children. I want to study art in New York. It’s a wonderful opportunity and—”

“That’s enough,” he said, rubbing his forehead, exhaustion heavy in his voice. “It is not my intention to break a promise, but it would be a foolish risk to take.”

Just then, a group of the young Land Army girls flitted brazenly through the front door, as comfortable as though they owned the place. I held my breath as they streamed past us, giggling and chatting and utterly oblivious to the seriousness of the conversation I was having.

“There is nothing foolish about wanting an education,” I said as calmly as possible when the interlopers were finally out of earshot. “You of all people should understand that.”

Father shook his head. “Art school is not an education.”

“If I told you I wanted to study to be a scientist, you would let me go,” I said, my voice shaking with bitterness. “You would be proud.”

“Yes, I would have been proud. But I still would not let you go to America. It’s not safe. There are German U-boats trolling the waters, just as eager to down a passenger ship as a naval vessel.”

“You did it. You went to America for three entire months!” At the start of the war, he’d been called away by the government for a special mission. I’d begged to go with him, but he’d refused to take me along.

“And it was not without danger. You have no idea how close we came to being hit by a torpedo.” There was a tremble in his voice. I had never heard my father sound afraid before. “It was a risk I took because I’m doing my part to end this war. Not for some lark. You are eighteen years old. It’s time for you to grow up and take some responsibility.”

My cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. “How am I supposed to grow up when you keep me locked up in this prison with no escape?”

“You think Havenworth is a prison? Do you have no understanding of how fortunate you are? You want for nothing. I have provided you with a home, stability, all the clothes, books, and art supplies one could ever need.”

Clothes and trinkets. As if those could replace everything I lost when Father forced me to move halfway across the world so he could marry Lady Montgomery.

“I want to go to art school and learn to draw properly. I want to have conversations with people who aren’t seven-year-old children or servants. I want to make my own decisions about my life.”

“You want to leave.”

“I don’t belong here.”

I waited for him to correct me. To tell me I was being ridiculous. That of course I belonged in this family. But he just stared at me like I was an equation he couldn’t solve. Each second of silence drove the invisible wedge between us deeper, until there was no way to ever reach across the chasm that separated us.

“I’ve given my answer. We are not discussing this any further.” He stormed off down the hall, leaving me alone with only the tattered remains of my broken dreams.

I didn’t see Father again for the rest of the week. On the nights he was home, he kept his study door locked. Margaret wouldn’t speak to me, either, though I wasn’t certain whether she was angrier about my desire to leave or the fact I had strictly forbidden her from playing in the folly.

Havenworth had never felt lonelier.

A week after our last conversation, he finally sat down to breakfast with the family. I’d been waiting for another opportunity to confront him once more about the letter from Goldings. Now that he’d had some time to think it through, surely he could understand that it was a wonderful opportunity that I couldn’t afford to pass up.

I waited until he had finished his coffee before I dared broach the delicate subject. “Father,” I said as confidently as I could.

His intent gaze lingered on the newspaper a few seconds before he set it down and turned his attention my way. New frown lines had etched into the dull skin on his forehead. “Yes, Irene?”

I wish the sound of his voice didn’t fill my chest with so much ache, but it was the first time he’d spoken to me in a week. “I wanted to ask if you’ve reconsidered your decision.”

He raised his eyebrows, and my faint vestiges of hope began to splinter.

“Regarding Goldings,” I added.

He picked up the newspaper once more, dismissing my request without a word.

“Please,” I urged. “There are still steamships traveling out of Liverpool for New York. I could—”

“You are not leaving Havenworth,” Father roared so loud that I fell back in my seat.

A chill spread through the dining room. Even Margaret and Charlie froze in their seats, quiet as church mice. I pressed my lips together, knowing the only sound my throat was capable of was a sob and not daring to let my father see me cry. Not when I was trying so hard to convince him to treat me like an adult.

It was my stepmother who finally broke the silence. “I’ve invited some of your father’s colleagues and their families over for dinner this weekend,” she said primly, as though Father hadn’t just exploded in the middle of breakfast. “Uncle Edward and your father have been working so hard on the committee. Plus, your cousin Michael has some leave from the RAF. It will be a lovely opportunity to see him again.”

My frustrations finally boiled over. I set down my fork, my appetite soured long before. As much as I craved excitement, the thought of an evening in the company of people with whom I shared no common ground was unbearable. Why was it that the only thing we celebrated anymore was the war? Neither my father nor stepmother had even acknowledged my acceptance into a prestigious art school, even if they had no intention of letting me attend.

“What’s the matter, Irene?” my stepmother asked. “You’ve barely eaten.”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just not hungry.”

Father sighed, his patience fraying. “I know you’re upset, but that’s no excuse for acting like a spoiled brat.”

His words felt like a slap, stealing the air from my lungs.

No one said a word as I walked out of the dining room. I didn’t belong here. Havenworth had never been a home for me; I was merely a reminder of my father’s past regrets. So why wouldn’t he just let me go?

I locked myself in my room. Not three seconds later, Margaret knocked softly at the door. “Irene?”

I ignored her. She tried again and again, rapping her small wrist against the door until I thought I might scream. Finally, she stopped. But she wasn’t giving up. A slip of paper appeared under my door.

I saw no writing or markings of any kind. Just a blank page.

Despite my frustration, I reached for a pencil from my vanity drawer and shaded over the paper. Gradually, faint lines emerged, forming words against the graphite.

You’re not a spoiled brat. Just a regular brat.

I laughed despite my anger. Margaret always knew how to disarm me, no matter my mood. One of the older evacuees had taught her to etch secret messages into paper with the tip of an inkless pen or the point of a safety pin or whatever reasonably sharp object she could find. For the better part of a month last year, the children were obsessively passing invisible notes to each other when they ought to have been learning.

I unlocked my door, and immediately a pair of fierce, tiny arms wrapped around my waist, a face burrowing into my stomach.

“I’m sorry Daddy was mean,” Margaret whispered.

“Thank you, but it will all work out. He just needs some time to come around.”

She squeezed me tighter. Whether it was to comfort me or her own way of keeping me from leaving, I didn’t know and didn’t care.