The Garden of Promises and Lies

by Paula Brackston

  He looked up from his page. “Braid?”

  “That one, up there on the top shelf. Such lovely gold stitching on the blue background. I would very much like to see it.”

  “But of course,” he said, striding on silent shoes to the ladder which he deftly repositioned beneath the appropriate shelf.

  As he climbed, Xanthe stepped over to the counter and quickly scanned the pages of the appointments book. The flowing copperplate handwriting took some deciphering, but then she spotted the name she was looking for. Petronella Wilcox was due in the shop for a fitting the following afternoon.

  “The two-inch wide, or the three, Miss Westlake?”

  “Oh, the three, I think,” she replied with a smile, casually moving back to the center of the room.

  Mr. Pinkerton handed her the card of braid. Xanthe fancied he was viewing her with a little suspicion. Had he noticed her studying the appointments?

  “Yes, it’s very lovely,” she said, hoping to distract him with the promise of another sale. “I should like it stitched onto the navy velvet spencer. Would that be possible, do you suppose?”

  “But of course. The military look in a jacket is most becoming and highly popular after our country’s recent victories. A wise choice, if I may say so. We can see to it at your fitting tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh,” she pretended to stifle a yawn, “I am so very fatigued, I do think later in the day would be a much more sensible time. Might I alter my appointment to, say, two o’clock?”

  And so it was settled. Twenty minutes later Xanthe left the shop with a neatly wrapped bundle of clothing and a fitting booked for the next afternoon. One that she would make certain overran so that she would still be at the dressmakers, happily engaged in the harmless occupation of having a garment altered, at the exact time Petronella Wilcox was due to arrive.

  12

  “Liam, you are not seriously suggesting you go to the pub!” Xanthe spoke in a stage whisper as they stood at the foot of the stairs in the tearooms. The last of the customers were just finishing their cinnamon cakes and custard pastries. The smell of the delicious treats reminded Xanthe it was a long time since she had had anything to eat.

  “It makes sense. The local inn is where all the gossip is. I can buy a few pints of ale, loosen a few tongues.… I bet I’ll find out more about Fairfax and the Wilcoxes than you could any other way.”

  “I’m going to meet Petronella at Pinkerton’s tomorrow.”

  “And that’s great, but she’s not going to tell you sensitive stuff in your first conversation, is she? We need to find out exactly where Fairfax is living, how many staff he has, how well guarded the place is. And what sort of thing he’s made his money from, or at least, what he’s telling everyone he’s made it from. If he’s got rich through his time travels he’s still going to have a legit cover for his wealth, isn’t he? And what’s his plan once he’s married into the Wilcox family?”

  “The man is obsessively ambitious. Always has been. Which is why he wants the Spinners book.”

  “Exactly. So the more we know, the better. Don’t worry, I’ll watch my words. And anyway, drinkers don’t notice details like that so much, not after a few pints. And if they do think I’m odd they won’t remember that tomorrow morning, will they?”

  “I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea.…”

  “Xanthe, you brought me here to help. Let me do this. Besides, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go,” he pointed out, smoothing down the front of his newly acquired chocolate brown jacket.

  His outfit was a huge improvement on the fancy dress it replaced, and there was no denying it suited him. The long jacket fitted perfectly, showing off his lean, strong build, cut away to accentuate his narrow hips. He wore a starched white cravat and black waistcoat with horn buttons. Even the dark brown breeches and long leather boots looked good on him. Although his hair was at last touching his collar it was still unfashionably short hair for the time, but even this did not undo the effect of the whole outfit; he looked convincingly Regency. Xanthe noticed that his new garb seemed to make him stand a little straighter and walk just a little prouder. He had also had a professional shave so that he both looked and smelled like a fine, well-groomed gentleman.

  “OK,” she said at last. “Just be careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said, turning to leave, placing his neat new hat firmly on his head. It was completely of the moment, its simple shape replacing the tricorn of a decade before, its crisp narrow brim quite flattering, particularly when worn at a slight angle.

  “Liam…”

  “Yes?” He turned back to her, blue eyes sparkling beneath the brim of the hat.

  “You look … good,” she said, reaching out to touch his newly smooth cheek. “Suits you.”

  “Thanks,” he grinned, briefly putting his hand over hers.

  She watched him walk confidently through the tearooms, pausing to touch the brim of his hat and make a small bow to those ladies who acknowledged him as he passed. She needed to trust him. He was personable and resourceful. He would be fine.

  * * *

  Xanthe’s appointment at Pinkerton’s the following afternoon passed in a flurry of activity. Mr. Pinkerton himself oversaw the fitting, though it was the seamstress, Betty, who was tasked with the job of pinning and measuring and making minute adjustments to the dress that was to be altered that very day. Betty was a woman in her middle years, whose knees creaked as she knelt to pin a hem or when she rose again to check a cuff. Her spectacles were so thick Xanthe wondered she could see through them at all, and were evidence of many years spent stitching in low light. The working life of a seamstress, however illustrious her clientele, would have been limited by the quality of her vision. Betty’s time at Pinkerton’s was likely nearing its end. Once again, Xanthe was reminded of the harshness of existence in the past. For all its romance and glamour to those gazing back at it, the truth of living its reality was quite different for most people. While the lives of the upper classes were indeed often luxurious and decadent, nobody would wish to endure the existence of someone at the bottom of the social heap.

  “Oh yes, indeed.” Mr. Pinkerton was pleased with the results of the alterations and nodded approvingly at the way the skirts of the dress now swept to the floor from the tight gathers below the bust line. “An elegant silhouette, Miss Westlake, and the color suits you well, if I may venture to say so.”

  Xanthe turned slightly this way and that, enjoying the way the light muslin flowed to follow the movement. The fabric was the palest mint green, with darker green at the bodice and the capped sleeves, where a little deep pink embroidered braid had been sewn in for definition and contrast. It was a small detail but gave the dress more structure and interest. It was a far more girly dress than she would have worn in her own time. Or at least, she might have given it a bit more grit by adding chunky boots or an oversized man’s jacket. But in 1815, delicacy, femininity, softness, these were all desirable attributes in a woman. No hint of the masculine would have been allowed, with the exception of, perhaps, a short jacket, beautifully fitted, with military style trimmings as a tribute the country’s brave soldiers.

  “It’s lovely,” Xanthe said. “Betty, you have worked wonders in such a short time. I am so grateful.”

  The seamstress smiled back. “Just a little more taken in at the back, miss, and an inch let down at the hem. This design looks very fine on a tall young lady such as yourself.”

  The proprietor clapped his hands. “Come, come, Betty. Time races from us and we have yet to fit the redingote. This spell of warm weather may not continue. Miss Westlake will need a long coat should the chill return.” As Betty hurried to help Xanthe down from the stool on which she stood and lead her toward the screen at the rear of the fitting room the doorbell in the shop could be heard ringing. For a moment, Xanthe experienced a flashback to her own shop, with its clunky brass doorbell. She wondered how Flora would be coping without her. At least this time s
he had the comfort of knowing that her mother knew everything now, and that Harley would be watching over her.

  Mr. Pinkerton glided out to the shop, where his assistant could be heard greeting the new customers. Betty gasped.

  “Dear me, there’s Miss Wilcox arrived and us not yet finished. Mr. Pinkerton will be in a fret! We cannot keep her waiting.”

  “Don’t worry, I have plenty of time. Why don’t I change into my own clothes and go and wait in the shop while you attend to Miss Wilcox?”

  “What? And interrupt your own appointment?”

  “I would be happy to browse through the ribbons and shawls. There are so many to choose from and I have new outfits to match. It will be no hardship for me,” Xanthe assured her, turning so that Betty could help her out of the dress.

  Mr. Pinkerton appeared in the doorway. “Betty, make haste!”

  “Miss Westlake wishes to step into the shop a while and select ribbons…” Betty was too flustered to explain further, dashing away to hang up the dress.

  Xanthe spoke over the top of the screen. “I am happy to take a break. Standing for fittings can be a little tiring. Miss Wilcox is welcome to have her fitting now. I shall resume mine when she has finished.”

  The proprietor needed no second bidding to take up the idea and was soon ushering his important client into the changing room, just as Xanthe stepped out from behind the screen. The sight of the bride-to-be gave her a jolt of memory so vivid that for a few seconds she forgot what she was supposed to be saying or doing. Here was, as she had expected, the beautiful young woman she had seen in the walled garden of Corsham Hall in her vision. She was every bit as stunning now that she met her, face-to-face. She was slender, with pale, clear skin and wide blue eyes. Her fair hair was elaborately curled and pinned beneath the bonnet she was now removing. On seeing Xanthe she broke into a natural smile that would melt the stoniest of hearts. Xanthe wondered anew what was compelling this lovely creature to marry a man like Benedict Fairfax. Only on looking closer did she register the significant difference between the girl she had seen the first time and the one who stood before her now: There was a deep sadness emanating from her now. The smile, however lovely, masked a sorrow that was palpable. Gone was the girlish laughter that had been so spontaneous and so charming. It was clear to Xanthe, even in that short moment, that Petronella Wilcox was a painfully unhappy girl. The fact that she still managed to be thoughtful and kind was testament to her character.

  “But you must have your appointment,” she insisted after Xanthe had been introduced and the situation explained. “I cannot be the cause of your having to wait.”

  “I am here only for everyday things. How much more important is a wedding gown? I should so very much like to see it.”

  For a second, Petronella’s expression faltered, allowing a glimpse of her true feelings. She quickly mustered another polite smile, however. “Then you shall, for it is the very least I can do.”

  Betty reentered the room, the gown draped over her outstretched arms. Xanthe had to resist putting her hands to her ears, the singing of the lace was so strong. She fought panic at the idea that she would have to flee the room if its call got any louder, but, as if sensing that it now had her attention, the high notes softened to a manageable hum.

  She reached out tentatively and touched the pristine fabric. “Oh, it is gorgeous. May I see how it looks on you? I know it will suit you so very well. I would dearly love to see.”

  “Of course, come, Betty. Miss Westlake, you will need patience aplenty, for there are so many buttons!”

  Xanthe sat on a small pink cushioned chair while Petronella went behind the screen. She knew she only had a short time to strike up the sort of connection that would lead to a friendship. She had to hit on something that would cut through the polite small talk that could otherwise swallow up all conversation.

  “Will the wedding be held here in Bradford-on-Avon?” she asked.

  “Oh no, all the Wilcoxes wed at the chapel at Corsham Hall. Papa has such fond memories of his own wedding there, and with Mama having been lost to us so many years ago, I would not deny him that small pleasure,” she said.

  “I am sorry to hear your mother is no longer with us. I imagine you will miss her keenly on such an occasion.”

  “I am accustomed to her absence, and I have fond memories to sustain me. It is harder for my little sister, I believe, for of course Evangeline never knew her mother. And it will be arduous for Papa because he has never stopped loving her. Anyone who has known true love knows it cannot be replaced,” she said quietly.

  Xanthe bit her bottom lip, thinking hard, hoping to steer the chat onto more cheerful ground. Happily, Petronella did so herself.

  “But there,” she went on, “we have reason to be cheerful, for it is high summer, and Papa has agreed to my request to hold the wedding breakfast outside. Imagine! He told me, ‘Nell, my dearest, how can I refuse my little flower the chance to celebrate her special day among her beloved blooms?’ for he knows I am nowhere as happy as I am in my garden.”

  “I have heard,” Xanthe said brightly, “that the gardens at Corsham are delightful. Of course, many large houses have beautiful parks, but I believe your own garden has something a little different…?”

  “You have heard of my roses? Ha! Evangeline teases me for spending so much time in the rose garden. I have tried to explain to her how I find their scent and their delicate beauty both soothing and uplifting, but perhaps she is too young to understand.”

  “As we live in town we have only a small garden,” Xanthe said, imagining the little walled space in Marlborough but allowing Petronella to assume she was speaking of a London residence. “No grand parks or topiary for us. My mother and I have planted one or two roses, however, and we do enjoy them.”

  “Oh, what varieties have you there?”

  Knowing very little about gardening Xanthe decided there was no point in attempting to be some sort of expert. “Alas, I know only there is a cheerful yellow one with full and fragrant blooms and another with tiny double pink flowers that scrambles all over the wall.”

  “How charming! My favorite is an old white rose that was among the first in my garden. The head gardener at Corsham planted it when Papa was a boy and of course he took no interest so the name is lost in time. But what do names matter? It is the joy these flowers bring that makes them memorable.”

  “I could not agree more.” Xanthe took a breath and then plunged in with, “I wonder … I don’t suppose it would be possible … no, I cannot ask.”

  “What is it? Please tell me.”

  “I only thought, well, my brother, Liam, and myself, we are here for a few weeks only, visiting our aunt, but even now I miss our little garden. How I would love to spend just a short time among your wonderful roses. Might it be possible, do you think?”

  “But it is a splendid idea!”

  “You are not too busy? Your schedule too filled, with the wedding to prepare for…?”

  “The wedding will happen whether I am ready for it or not. The preparations are mostly left to others, in point of fact. I should be delighted to share my garden with someone who loves flowers as I do. You and your brother both must come. We shall have tea in the garden, so as not to waste a moment. Oh, I feel quite cheered by the thought!” And she looked, just briefly, as if the shadow of sadness had been lifted from her.

  Betty emerged from behind the screen. “There you are, Miss Wilcox. All buttoned up. If you would step out and onto the stool I will see to the hem once more, for I fear it does not yet fall as it should. Do you have your silk slippers with you?”

  She offered her hand and helped Petronella the few steps across the fitting room floor and onto the stool.

  The young woman held out her arms and looked at Xanthe.

  “Tell me,” she said, the sorrowful note returned to her voice, “will I be a bride to make my father proud?”

  “You will be the most beautiful bride in all of Wiltshire,” X
anthe assured her, and it was not a difficult promise to make. The gown, even in its unfinished, tacked and pinned state, was every bit as lovely as the bride, and together they were breathtaking. The lace of the bodice was so much brighter than the centuries-old version of it that Xanthe had found. Its every detail stood out crisply. The neckline was modest, quite high, and sweetheart shaped. The long sleeves of the altered Edwardian version were not there. Instead Petronella’s pale arms were bare, save for the lace and voile caps. The lengths of the skirt were of softest silk, so fine that it showed off the bride’s slim curves underneath it. Xanthe wished that the girl could look happier in it, for no amount of beautiful fabric and exquisite dressmaking could make a bride radiant if she was unhappy. She needed to be certain the visit was fixed, so she turned the conversation back to the garden. “You will have your homegrown flowers for the wedding; how lovely that will be,” she said.

  “Oh, it will be such a solace to me!” Petronella exclaimed. It was a strange choice of word, given the occasion, but the girl seemed not to care. Did everyone know she was an unwilling bride, Xanthe wondered? “I am to have lilies of the valley for their fragrance, with sprays of gypsophila for its delicacy and of course some of my beloved roses.”

  “I am so looking forward to seeing your garden for myself.”

  “Then come tomorrow. Oh, say you will! It is looking particularly fine just now, though too much more of this heat and some of the more tender plants may begin to wilt. Would two o’clock suit?”

  And so it was decided. Xanthe stayed on at Pinkerton’s after Petronella had left, so that by the end of the day she had one complete new outfit, all the small clothes she would need, a matching shawl, various ribbons, a workaday bonnet, a pair of shoes, and a short spencer jacket. The redingote and second-day dress would be ready for her by the end of the week, as would the lovely evening gown and two pairs of gloves.

  * * *

  The following afternoon the Wilcox landau carriage and four arrived at the tearooms to collect Petronella’s guests. She had insisted on sending it, knowing that their aunt had none of her own to lend them. Liam let out a low whistle at the sight of it.