The Serpentine Garden Path, Page 2

  “Yes, madam. Would you like to choose a gown to wear now?” she asked patiently.

  “They are all one and the same to me.” Susan dropped herself in her chair. Then she leaned forward excitedly. “I know. Fetch me the gown that is the colour of a lilac.” She named a flower she had just learned. “I would as soon attract a honeybee as a man.”

  As Mary helped her mistress into the sleeves of the gown, Susan continued her harangue. “You know, Mary. Sometimes I truly envy you.” Mary looked up from the innumerable hooks and eyes she was attaching and Susan noticed her astonished face. “Don’t look askance at me like that. I really do. I envy you your freedom.”

  “I work a lot harder than you are accustomed to, madam.”

  “Oh, I know that, but at least your work has a point to it. You do not spend your days stitching useless pieces of cloth, of which there are already more than enough in this world. And then once you have done your work, well, you can do whatever you like.”

  “But I am usually too tired to do anything else, madam.”

  “And you can marry for love, can you not? Almost anyone your heart could wish. You are not required to choose from a group of fat, lazy gentlemen, are you?”

  “I should like to wear fancy gowns and go out in society,” Mary suggested somewhat plaintively.

  “I wish with all my heart that we could trade places then, Mary.”

  “Come now. Your mother is waiting for you in the sitting room.”

  “I think I shall take my novel. Can you fetch it for me on the bedside table? Oh, I cannot tell you how bored I am!”

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, Dean was in the greenhouse comparing the list of Miss Kirke’s favourite flowers with the young plants he had grown from seed. Miss Kirke struck him as shallow and spoiled, reading novels, ruining her silk shoes in the wet grass, and passing time with simple garden workers like Andrew. It surprised him that she even knew his name! He should not have conversed so openly with her. It was foolish of him to have made that comment to her about the equality of man. If Miss Kirke repeated it to her father, it might prove an embarrassment to him. In future he would endeavour be more guarded in his conversations with her.

  Consulting her list, he chose the hardiest seedlings that were ready to be transplanted in the garden now that spring was well-established. He placed them on a tray and stepped outside. There she was a little way up the path, approaching a deer at the edge of the wilderness garden. Dean stood transfixed for a moment watching her. He had forgotten how lovely she looked—how her lovely chestnut locks escaped the pins confining them and curled about her slender white neck, how the dramatic billows of her gown accentuated her tiny waist so that she reminded him of a leggy seedling that could be broken by the buffeting of nature, how her appearance stirred in him the same curious desire to care and protect that his plants evoked.

  Her hand slowly stretched out to touch the forest creature, and the deer bolted at the rustle of her gown, galloping along the hedgerow and leaping gracefully over the ha-ha that delineated the border of the estate.

  Susan stamped her foot and cried, “Damn.”

  Dean could not help but laugh out loud at the incongruity of this angelic vision, cursing.

  She turned around quickly and gave him a scathing look.

  “Good job, madam,” he said. “I dinna think I have ever seen anyone approach a wild creature so closely before. But they are nae pets, you know. You canna get them to eat from your hands like a dog.”

  Susan smiled. “I suppose not. But I should like to have a pet. The only animals we have at the house are father’s foxhounds, and he will not abide them being treated as pets. At least not by anyone else but himself or the groom responsible for their care.”

  “Do you ride to the hunt?”

  “I think that I should like that better than anything, but my father and mother would most certainly not allow it. It is not a lady-like activity in their estimation.”

  He saw the gleam in her eye and said, “Well, I dinna ken that, but it can be no great sorrow to the poor fox.”

  “What were you doing in the greenhouse, Mr. Dean?”

  “Well, I was looking for the plants you had requested when I was distracted by the bewitching sight of a maiden and a deer.”

  “Did you decide where we should plant them?”

  “I thought we should place them near the side of the house, so you will not have far to walk to enjoy them.”

  “That is not a consideration. I enjoy a good walk. How about here?” She indicated a shrubbery under a shade tree.

  “These plants will not tolerate the lack of sunlight here,” he responded.

  “Then they are just like me, for I cannot abide the lack of sunlight.”

  “’Tis a shame that you live in such a climate as this.”

  “I do so agree. What I would not give to be transplanted with the garden to India or some such place.”

  “How about America? Should you like to be transplanted there?”

  “I believe that I would, at least in the more southern lands. I have heard good things spoken of the Carolinas.”

  She seemed to be genuinely interested in the garden, so he could not resist showing her more. “Perhaps you would like to see the exotics, madam. I could show you some plants that come from the Carolinas.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure, sir.” He carried the tray of seedlings and led her along the garden path back in the direction of the great house.

  They came to a wall at the north end of the house where there was a border garden. “Here we are now.”

  A few ordinary-looking plants were barely visible under a blanket of dried ferns. “Why are they covered over so that they cannot be seen?” she asked.

  “The tender young plants need to be protected in the winter. They are not used to the frosts we have here in England.”

  “But it is spring. Surely you can take off the ferns now.”

  “Aye. I have begun to uncover them gradually. Do you remark the soil, madam? I have planted them in a rich black turf mixed with some sand. They seem to thrive best in this.” He surveyed the border proudly. “Mark ye that it is a north-facing wall protecting the plants from the hottest sun of the midday.”

  “Do the exotics not like the heat, then?”

  “A few hours of sunlight in the morning and evening is what they like best, ye ken.”

  “Which are the ones that come from Carolina?” Susan asked.

  He bent down and began removing some of the ferns from a group of plants. “These are called Amorpha fruticosa. They have lovely purple flower spikes dusted with orange when they are in bloom.” He looked at them tenderly.

  “I have never studied Latin, sir. What is their English name?”

  He hesitated, but she had shown no modesty with regard to language, so he continued. “They are called Bastard Indigoes.” In spite of himself he felt his face redden, and Susan responded with a giggle.

  “What are some of the other flowers called?” she asked. “In English, please.”

  “There are lady’s slippers and side-saddle flowers, some leatherwood, and the Mayflower.”

  “What lovely names! Why do you give them Latin names as if you were some kind of scholar?”

  Dean blushed again. He felt for the first time that she was calling attention to his menial position. “Pardon my impertinence, madam.”

  Susan seemed a little embarrassed and quickly changed the subject. “Well, there seems to be a great deal of work that you must do to keep exotic plants alive in our cold, damp climate.”

  “’Tis true that they must be treated with special care and attention, but they reward one with such beauty and originality when they survive.”

  “Tell me, sir. Will the rebellion in the Americas make it more difficult for you to obtain these exotic plants?”

  She surprised him again with her intelligent questions. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his earlier assessment of her ch
aracter. “Aye, some of them. You are a most perceptive young lady! If your father knew how bright you are, he would dismiss me and hire you in my place.”

  “You flatter me too much. I am sure you must be mocking me.”

  “Not a bit of it. I am quite in earnest, I assure you.”

  Her face glowed in response to his praise; he wanted to continue conversing with her so that he could watch the animation that his words evoked. “There are plants here from other countries as well. There are Chinese plants and alpines and shrubs from the Falkland Islands…”

  “And what about plants that come from Scotland?” she asked, her head cocked like a bright bird.

  “Och. Never you mind, lassie.” He laid on his thickest Scottish burr for her amusement. “Scots will grow anywhere. They are of very hardy stock indeed.”

  They were both laughing when the maid arrived and announced that Susan’s mother had risen.

  “Before you go, madam, let me show you where I shall plant your flowers.” He led them around to the eastern wall of the house. “Here,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir, but just leave them. I wanted to plant them myself,” she said.

  He had not expected such an unusual suggestion. “But you havena the equipment you will need. Do you hae gloves?”

  “I’m not afraid to soil my hands.”

  “Madam, I shall turn the soil with my spade and then I shall leave a pair of gardening gloves and a trowel for you to use. You must plant them as soon as you are able.”

  Susan nodded and then left with Mary.

  For the rest of the morning as he dug her border, he could not stop thinking of her slender figure walking away from him along the garden path.

  Chapter 4

  Susan was more impatient than usual to get out in the garden the next day, yet she took great care to choose her most modest gown and her firmest walking shoes. She glanced at the parlour on her way to the front door. She did not want to have to face that despicable butler Sutton and suffer his critical and demeaning glare. Why did it matter in the least what he thought of her? The sun was out this morning and the garden was basking in its radiant light. The reds, yellows and oranges of freshly opening blossoms were brilliant against the green foliage.

  Susan walked to the side of the house that held her border and saw where Dean had turned the soil for her. There was the tray of seedlings, a trowel, and a pair of gardening gloves as he had promised. She put on the gloves. They were much too big for her tiny hands and she did not know how she would manage to manipulate the trowel wearing them. She crouched down and her billowing skirts formed a barrier that kept her from reaching any of the objects she needed to begin her work. Trying to tuck her skirts under her knees, she picked up the trowel and began digging a hole. She took one of the seedlings, dumped it out of its pot, and realized she had not dug the hole deep enough. As she bent forward, a stray lock of hair fell into her face and she tried to brush it away with the over-sized gardening gloves. As soon as she bent over to continue digging, the stray hair fell across her face again, and she tried to blow it away. Trying to ignore the annoying strand, she dug the hole deeper and plopped in the plant. It immediately leaned to one side. Her legs were beginning to ache from their unaccustomed position, and she stood up and sighed. She took off her gardening gloves, dropped them with the trowel, and refastened her unruly hair. Now she would need to put more dirt in the hole so that the seedling would stand up straight. She replaced her gloves, crouched down again, and readjusted her gown. Then picking up the trowel, she dug some dirt, and scooped it into the hole. She patted it firmly and admired the plant. Then she looked at the tray of seedlings still to be planted and groaned. She could not hold herself up on her haunches anymore and sat down on the dewy grass.

  Dean appeared at that moment. Susan felt sure he must have been watching from somewhere. It was humiliating, but she knew she would have to admit defeat.

  “Good morning,” he said, tipping his hat. “May I help you up, madam?”

  She accepted and he lifted her from the ground. He was so close she could smell his minty breath.

  He smiled at her. “You have a streak of dirt across your forehead,” he said.

  Susan wiped it with the gardening gloves.

  “No, stop. That is only making it worse.” He laughed.

  She blushed.

  “Here. Let me wipe it off.” He took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and gently cleaned the dirt from her forehead.

  Her heart was beating noisily in her ears. When he had finished, she said, “I think you have been well amused this morning watching me plant my flowers.”

  “No, not at all. I was just around the other side of the house looking after the exotics.”

  “Come, Mr. Dean. You know it is a sin to tell a lie.”

  He blushed. “Did you want to finish planting these?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “If you like, we could leave them to Andrew. He is back from visiting his mother.”

  “Oh.” It was a kind of compromise. “Yes,” she said. “That is a good idea.” She dropped her gardening gloves. “Now, you must show me what you were doing with the exotics.” She started walking along the path, and he followed.

  Susan saw that he had removed the dried ferns from the bed. “I see the sunshine has made you optimistic about their chances,” she said.

  Aye, spring has arrived at last.” He smiled again.

  She did not want him to leave her. “I should like to continue my gardening education this morning,” she said.

  “Once the flowers are all planted, there is naught to do but give them a wee bit of water now and then.”

  “Yes, of course, but what I mean is I would like you to continue showing me the garden and teaching me the names of flowers.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Shall we start with the wilderness?”

  Susan nodded. She looked forward to seeing that familiar part of the garden through his discerning eyes. She followed him along the gravel path, past the greenhouse, beyond the shrubbery, and down a path that led into a wilderness hollow. There they strolled over a blanket of bluebells while the warm sunlight filtered through the trees illuminating bright flashes of blue and green that danced across their path as the wind gently shifted the leaves. The soft rustling of foliage, the sweet scent of the bluebells and the warm spring breeze on her face cast a spell of silent reverie that was suddenly broken by the businesslike sound of a woodpecker. They both laughed.

  “I almost thought I was in a dream,” Susan said.

  “Yes, it is very peaceful here, is it not?”

  A few more steps and they abandoned the shade of the trees to return to the formal garden. Dean led Susan to an arched bridge over the canal.

  “From here we can observe almost all of the garden,” he said.

  “Yes, it is a lovely aspect.”

  “Do you see how the fresh yellow-green leaves of the weeping willows contrast with the darker green of the laurels and yews that have been placed on the earth banks behind them?”

  “They are very pretty.”

  “It was an artist’s eye that created that, and on the canvas of Mother Nature herself. Do you see the lime trees there with their shiny new leaves?”

  “Yes. The garden looks especially beautiful in the spring, does it not?”

  “I would agree, but each season has its particular beauty. Shortly, last year’s bulbs in the borders of the shrubbery clumps will add even more colour to the palette.”

  “Those trees over there already have some rosy blooms. What are they?”

  “Those are larches.”

  She sighed, not wanting their time together to end.

  “I must get back to work now, madam,” he said, as if her sigh were a signal to him. He tipped his hat and left her on the bridge, observing the garden with newly opened eyes.

  ***

  For some days after this conversation, Susan walked in search of her tutor each morning.
She passed many agreeable hours in his company and acquired more knowledge than she had ever learned from her old governess. Perhaps it was the handsomeness of her tutor that made her more attentive.

  This particular morning was no exception. In her search for the head gardener, she followed the serpentine path by the rectangle of lawn where she had first seen Dean and espied, not the head gardener, but the boy Andrew, barely strong enough to hold the scythe. When he saw her, he put it down and tipped his cap to her.

  She nodded. “How is your mother, Andrew?” she asked him.

  “Fair to middling, madam,” he responded.

  “Thank you for planting my little border shrubbery,” she said.

  “You are welcome, madam.”

  “Have you see Mr. Dean this morning?”

  “Yes, but I cannot say where he is now.”

  She walked past the seedlings that Dean had planted in the shade of a great elm on the morning when he had set aside his work to talk to her about the exotic plants of the Carolinas. She retraced their steps to the exotic garden, but he was not there. Then she decided to seek a secluded bower where she often used to sit alone daydreaming even before Dean came to the garden. Susan found the stone seat and sat down. Shivering as she felt the dampness of the stone through her thin silk gown, she remembered how the gardener had spread his coat on a bench for her and wished it were beneath her again. Suddenly, between trees, she caught sight of him pulling the dead blooms off flowering shrubs and placing them in a basket. She should have called out, but it was so pleasant to watch him in secret for a moment or two.

  She did not understand the sensation that coursed through her whenever she saw him, but she knew it was more pleasant than anything she had previously felt. She examined him closely, trying to ascertain what it was about his appearance that gave her such pleasure. Was it the loving way his eyes looked at the shrub? Was it the tender way his hands plucked off the dead flowers? Was it the strong limbs or the broad back of him? She shivered.

  Then he moved out of her view, and she shifted herself to a new part of the bench, feeling again the shocking chill of wet stone; a moment later, he was out of sight again. She was at the end of the bench and decided to come out of the enclosure to surprise him. At first, he seemed to be so engrossed in his work that he did not notice her.