Hattie was delighted with the beauty of the countryside; here and there between the tall trees and the shrubs—willows, bracken, brambles, and bog myrtle—little clumps of periwinkles, wild pinks, and marshmallows grew above the riverbank. All along the edge of the road foxgloves and primroses stood tall, with wild buttercups and white daisies scattered all around. She was hardly more than a child the last time she and her parents visited Aunt Bronwyn in Bath.
Aunt Bronwyn had been born in the United States, but years ago she married in England, where she remained even after her husband’s death, on the estate inherited from her English grandfather. She was regarded a bit odd by the other Abbotts, who disliked the English for their snobbery. “Nonsense!” Aunt Bronwyn liked to exclaim to enliven the discussion. For centuries, the city of Bath had been populated by a great many wealthy foreign princes and other foreigners, who came to gamble and take the waters of the healing spring, so they took no notice of Aunt Bronwyn. The local people thought her foolish because she moved into the old cloister in the orchard, too close to the river, and the structure in disrepair. Aunt Bronwyn was too busy to waste time on teas and dinners, and in Bath they left her in peace. No effort was made to invite her, though they were pleasant enough when she met them on the street or in a shop.
Hattie and her father loved his old aunt, but Hattie’s mother found Aunt Bronwyn’s eccentricities quite unnerving during their visit years before. They found her beloved Irish terriers asleep in their bed and when Mrs. Abbott tried to force them off with her umbrella, the dogs made ugly growls at her. Mrs. Abbott urged them to stay at a hotel or they would get no sleep as there were cattle lowing and dogs barking all night.
Indigo was amazed at how damp and green the air smelled in England. Water, water everywhere, it seemed—in little ponds and lakes along the river. Through the slit in the cage cover she whispered to the parrot: Aunt Bronwyn seemed very nice, just the kind of person who would not mind a parrot out of his cage. She promised to let him out as soon as they arrived.
“Welcome! Welcome!” Aunt Bronwyn exclaimed again; she was so delighted they were able to stop with her even for a short visit. Indigo shook Aunt Bronwyn’s hand but was too shy to speak until she saw the parrot’s beak reach between the bars after Aunt Bronwyn’s forefinger, then she exclaimed, “Watch out!” just in time to save Aunt Bronwyn’s finger. Indigo showed her the half-moon scar on her own finger, the mark of the hooked beak.
They would have a wonderful time together. She had so much she wanted to show them—the new excavations of the Roman temple at the hot springs and a stone circle west of town about to be restored were only two of the outings Aunt Bronwyn had planned. The excavation was yielding a great many interesting artifacts of considerable antiquity.
“I’d like very much to see that,” Edward said, turning from the coach window, his expression alert.
Hattie was relieved to see Edward perk up, because he seemed rather preoccupied throughout their ocean crossing. She knew he would have preferred to go directly to Italy, but now the promise of the excavations with old Roman artifacts made their stop in Bath worthwhile.
Edward had visited England before, but he still was amazed at the grand old oaks and elms amidst lush meadows and fields of flowers on the alluvial terraces of the rivers. Susan with her Scottish gardener, troops of workers, and Colin’s money might labor for years, but Long Island would never appear as lush, green, and wooded as southwest England.
Here the moist air filtered the sunlight to create a lovely green-blue glow that transformed everything. Edward recalled how lovely Bath was, enclosed on three sides by the meandering Avon. Years before when he visited Bath, he had not bothered with the parks or formal gardens where ladies and their maids strolled under parasols, followed by little dogs. His interest had been in the private clubs where gambling went on as it had since before the reign of Queen Anne. At the time, he believed he had developed a mathematical equation to predict winning hands in twenty-one, but quickly realized his error.
Today the Avon’s water appeared almost sluggish, due no doubt to the construction of weirs, built since medieval times to control flooding. Now the Avon at Bath was no longer a free-running river but a series of ponded lengths that overflowed at their downstream ends.
The coach emerged from the trees, and suddenly on the hills above the river grand villas of gray and pale yellow limestone in the Georgian style could be seen. The old walled city of Bath, built on the Avon’s old floodplain, was hidden by great oak and linden trees until they were quite near. Then suddenly the coach clattered across a narrow stone bridge and they entered the narrow twisting streets of buildings crowded together. The foundations and walls of a number of the oldest buildings rested on large hand-hewn limestone blocks Edward recognized as Roman in origin.
Aunt Bronwyn explained they were taking the old road into the town to avoid what she called “ghastly faux colonnades” the city fathers added some years ago when they widened Bath Street.
Edward was a bit startled by Aunt Bronwyn’s remark since popular opinion regarded old Bath as among the most lovely cities in England. Down the side streets and alleys, Edward caught glimpses of the renovations ordered by Bath’s city fathers to replace old Bath Street, which was too narrow and twisted through a clutter of eighteenth-century structures, mostly tenements, crammed together willy-nilly.
Aunt Bronwyn sat back on the coach seat, her blue eyes shining with enthusiasm as she pointed out the site of the old town. The Romans built over the old Celtic settlement near three thermal springs, sacred to the ancient Celtic god Sulis. On gravel terraces of an ancient floodplain, hot springwater bubbled to the surface with medicinal and magical properties. The Romans, always wary of offending powerful local deities, prudently named their town Aquae Sulis. But the Romans could not permit Sulis to rule supreme any longer, so they built a temple with a great pool over the springs, dedicated to Sulis and to Minerva as well.
The coach slowed as it neared the center of old Bath, outside the Pump House Hotel, so they could see the location of the new excavations in the temple ruins at the spring. Of course they could not actually see the excavations, which were under way in the basement of the hotel, but piles of debris and large screens the archaeologists used to find artifacts in the debris blocked the narrow alley and a portion of Stall Street, so the coachman was obliged to squeeze the horses and coach past a stack of broken stones. A few fragments appeared to have been carved. Edward leaned half out the window to get a better look at a piece of stone carved with the petals of a flower.
Once they passed the baths and hotels, the municipal buildings of handsome pale yellow limestone—the post office and the railway station—came into view, followed by the ornate downtown buildings of new Bath. Aunt Bronwyn found the white and yellow limestone too bright—almost brazen.
Hattie and Edward confessed their “thoroughly American” admiration for the eighteenth-century buildings in downtown. Outside the shops, hanging baskets of geraniums, pinks, and petunias trailed cascades of bright blue lobelia.
Aunt Bronwyn dismissed modern Bath with the wave of her hand and did not look out the coach window again. She talked instead of the surrounding hills, where stands of ancient oaks were preserved since the time of the Celtic kings, only to be cut down now as earthmoving teams carved wide scars in the bellies of the hills overlooking the river. All around Bath, construction was under way for more mansions of gigantic misproportions built for business tycoons from London and Bristol. The threat to the remains of the ancient hill forts and stone circles at the summits of the hills along the river had pressed her into action years ago, even before her husband died. She shook her head. The people nowadays cared nothing about the old stones!
Edward and Hattie exchanged glances; he wanted to follow Mrs. Abbott’s advice to stay in a hotel rather than share the old Norman ruins with cattle and dogs. Hattie had loved the old cloister since she was Indigo’s age; Aunt Bronwyn’s feelings would have been t
erribly hurt if they went to a hotel. The last Irish terrier died some years ago; besides, it was too late to get a hotel—the summer rush of vacationers was on, and one could scarcely find space to move along the sidewalks outside the shops for all the visitors.
Bath’s glory days ended long ago with the laws that restricted gambling. Bath’s private clubs permitted gaming, so maharajas and foreign princes still were seen driving through the streets of Bath.
The coach approached an intersection where the left fork appeared to proceed along an old floodplain of the river while the right fork gradually ascended into the fashionable residential parkways up the hills. To Edward’s surprise, the coach turned left and then turned left again to double back toward the old town along the lush river bottom thick with elders and willows. Remnants of an old dry rock wall overgrown with mossy saxifrages and little ferns could be seen from time to time.
The narrow drive wound through the canopy of lindens and elders that filtered the sunlight to a golden green in a light cool breeze off the river. The old Norman abbey was taken down long ago; now only the old cloister with its walled gardens and the apple orchard remained. Ahead, tucked under great old live oaks and nearly concealed by hollies and hawthorns, was the old stone cloister that once sheltered Norman nuns.
“Oh this is lovely!” Hattie exclaimed. Indigo clutched the parrot cage closer as the coach bumped over a little bridge. Indigo thought no other place could have more trees or be more green than Long Island, but here was a place that had more and bigger trees, and hills far greener. Edward thought the location a bit too close to the river for comfort but he made no comment. Just then the coach slowed to a stop in front of a stone wall and two great iron gates. The coachman climbed down to swing open the great iron gates, then strangely did not proceed but stood there. Edward leaned out the coach window for a look and was surprised to see a white bull blocking the driveway in front of the gate.
Indigo had seen cattle before—thin, wild-eyed, rangy creatures, but never such a fat beauty as this white bull; two white cows emerged from under the apple trees and more cattle followed until a small herd was gathered around the coach. Aunt Bronwyn climbed down and took a small pail from the coachman and began to hand-feed rolled oats to the cattle. Edward thought at once of Mrs. Abbott’s complaints about the old woman and her animals; it certainly was odd to delay travel-weary guests in order to pet the cattle. Hattie’s mother recalled that during their last visit, a door was not firmly latched and they had returned from shopping to find white cattle wandering in the front room. Quite at home, she added, proof that the old woman allowed them to roam at will when no visitors were present.
When Aunt Bronwyn got back into the coach, the cattle seemed to know the treat was over, and they slowly moved back to their grazing under the apple trees. But when the coach reached the front of the house, four more cows stood on the driveway near the front step. At the approach of the coach they stared hard at the horses but stood their ground; this meant a difference of only seven or eight feet farther to walk, but Edward felt impatient with the old woman.
The old stone walls of the cloister were handsome indeed and had been modified very little over the years. The windows were narrow and high; though it was early afternoon, small oil lamps flickered from their brass sconces in the walls. Indigo was delighted with the odd shadows cast on the bare stone walls.
In the library, Hattie noted the odd placement of the bookshelves, three feet above the floor. Aunt Bronwyn laughed and pointed out the high-water stains faintly visible on the gray stone wall a few inches short of the bottoms of the bookshelves. Edward vowed to himself “a hotel, only a hotel,” if they ever stopped there again.
Indigo slipped the cover off the parrot’s cage and lifted the cage.
“See,” she said, “you’re in England now.” The parrot looked around the room then began preening its feathers.
“He won’t comb his feathers with his beak unless he’s happy,” she said as she carefully set the cage on the window ledge, then neatly folded the cage cover.
The stone masonry of the old cloister did not tolerate casual renovation. Here and there were indications someone had walled in a doorway or failed an attempt to remove a stone partition wall. Long ago workmen on the old cloister complained that stones loosened and removed by day were found in their former locations the following day. Edward smiled at Aunt Bronwyn’s tale.
“So the fairies replaced the stones at night,” he said.
Aunt Bronwyn shook her head. The stones themselves had moved without any aid from brownies or fairies. Indigo’s eyes widened. Aunt Bronwyn nodded her head decisively.
Oh yes indeed. This is the land of the stones that dance and walk after midnight. Tomorrow she would take them to the giant stones at Stanton Drew.
While Edward and Hattie unpacked, Indigo sat on the stairs with Rainbow in his cage beside her to watch the coachman carry buckets of hot water from the big kitchen stove for their baths. The coachman’s wife brought an armful of clean towels and gave Indigo a little round cake of soap that smelled of roses. Rainbow became very excited and flapped his wings with loud squawks at the sound of water splashing as Indigo rinsed the soap from her hair.
The coachman’s wife baked a rabbit pie, served with fresh greens, baby carrots, and peas from the kitchen garden. Afterward, Hattie complained of fatigue; she and Edward went upstairs to rest while Aunt Bronwyn showed Indigo the baby calves.
The instant she moved toward the door behind Aunt Bronwyn, the parrot began to screech and frantically flap his wings in the cage. He was afraid she was abandoning him; she could tell.
“Don’t worry. You can come along.” She opened the cage door, then knelt with her right shoulder next to the open door.
“Come on, little rainbow bird, sweet Rainbow, come on!” The parrot nervously shifted his feet on the perch and looked at Aunt Bronwyn, then at Indigo. Indigo sighed impatiently and started to stand up to go when the parrot climbed out of the cage and clung to the side before he climbed onto her shoulder.
“Good Rainbow! Good bird,” Indigo whispered as they followed the old cobbled drive to the dry rock wall of the orchard. All sorts of sparrows and small birds were chirping in the tops of trees above them; Rainbow listened but made no sound; he tightened his grip on her shoulder as Indigo knelt to search for dry pods under a clump of marshmallows.
The sun was low above the trees, and its golden light shifted to leaf green as they climbed the stile’s narrow stone steps up and over the old wall that enclosed the apple orchard. No gate was as good as a stile, Aunt Bronwyn explained; gates got left open. The cattle could push gates open, but cattle would not climb over a stile. As it was, the cattle found other clever ways to escape the orchard to browse the willows along the river. More than once the white cattle strayed down Bath Street before dawn, to taste the petunias and geraniums from the hanging planters while they splashed bright green manure outside the shops.
Aunt Bronwyn called the cattle in tones that might have been a song. The calls were lovely and made Indigo think of the old gardens and Grandma Fleet and Mama and Sister Salt. They sat on the steps of the stile in the green-golden light to wait for the cattle to come. Indigo smelled the river nearby and felt the cool air currents move around them. With her eyes closed she imagined for a moment that she was with Grandma Fleet and Sister. The parrot shifted his grip on her shoulder and watched curiously as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Indigo hated the big lump she felt in her throat.
Aunt Bronwyn did not see her face, but she seemed to sense Indigo’s sadness. She pointed up at the small green fruit on the branches overhead and began to tell Indigo about the white cattle.
The white cattle belonged to the moon—see the shape of the crescent moon in the cow’s horn? Indigo nodded. The sun was only partially visible now through the trees, but in the last shafts of light the cattle appeared to be shimmering white, almost silver, as they emerged from the apple trees. The bull in the lead approac
hed Aunt Bronwyn, who walked slowly to meet him.
At the rear of the herd Indigo saw the cream-colored calves frolicking together; the mother cows stared at Indigo with wide dark eyes, blowing air through their nostrils, wary of any danger she might pose to the calves. Aunt Bronwyn scratched the bull between the horns and spoke softly to him. Gradually the cows came forward to sniff Aunt Bronwyn’s shoe or her hat or the hem of her skirt. The calves raced about their mothers, tails held high over their backs, bucking and leaping on one another. They were fond of their mistress, and the bull moved protectively between Indigo and Aunt Bronwyn, who was petting the calves. Slowly Aunt Bronwyn worked her way back through the herd, petting or speaking to each cow. The young bulls watched from under the apple trees at a distance and Aunt Bronwyn went over to greet them as well. As the sun dropped behind the trees at the curve in the river, Aunt Bronwyn pointed at the sky to the southwest, where Indigo saw the thick white horn of the moon.
Hattie watched Aunt Bronwyn and the child with the parrot on her shoulder walk hand in hand up the drive to the house. Hattie’s heart felt so full of love for them at that instant tears sprang into her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away. Edward was upstairs with his notebooks. He seemed in much better spirits now that they were on their way. He had an appointment in London later that week at the Kew Gardens.
Hattie felt a bit melancholy. Surely it was travel fatigue and nothing more. At the height of the previous episode, she scarcely had the energy to walk from her bed to the commode. Right now, a walk in the garden might be just what she needed; she called out to them to wait. She strode across the lawn, testing her energy to reassure herself she was fit.
The sun was behind the hills, but the trees along the river were still bright in the twilight’s glow. She joined them and followed Aunt Bronwyn and the child with her parrot through a weathered brassbound gate in the high limestone wall off the south wing of the old cloister. Inside they found themselves surrounded on all sides by high stone walls overgrown with old grapevines knotted thick as fists. Stone walks crisscrossed the big enclosure that was divided by high walls into four gardens—Indigo was reminded of a big house without a roof. At the center was a round stone pool fed by water bubbling up from a spring.
Gardens in the Dunes Page 29