She tilted her head to one side as if to say, ‘Well?’
‘California’s my first guess, Florida second. Am I close?’
She sat down opposite him, folded her hands in her lap, returned the smile and then nodded. ‘Right first time,’ she said. ‘Sonoma County, north of San Francisco.’
‘Wine country. Know it well.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I had the good fortune to spend the best part of a summer there, about seven or eight years ago. A friend of mine, Gene De Martini—Gino, God rest his generous soul—owned a small winery close to Buena Vista on the east side of town. His kids run it now. I just love the place.’
‘I don’t know them personally, but I know the winery. They’re getting quite a reputation. They won a couple of medals recently and they just opened a tasting room.’
‘Good for them. I must drop them a line sometime.’
‘I’ll certainly look them up when I go back.’
‘Don’t you miss it? That beautiful weather—your friends?’
Jamie’s expression suddenly clouded and she looked away. For what seemed like a long time, he waited for her answer. At last she turned back to face him. She had regained her poise but Kingston knew that he had stirred up memories she preferred not to recall.
Trying to avoid his gaze, she lightly brushed a finger under one eyelid then looked up with a forced smile. ‘I think about it from time to time,’ she said, ‘but I haven’t been away long enough to be homesick. Besides, everything here is so new and this place is so demanding that I haven’t had much time to think about home.’ She offered a little smile. ‘Sooner or later, I’m sure I will, though.’
Kingston knew when a change of subject was called for. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and smiled. ‘So, Jamie, tell me how a nice young American woman came to acquire such a big chunk of Somerset?’
She picked up the teapot, pouring Kingston’s tea and then her own, as if buying time before answering his question. She slid the cup and saucer towards him, then a small glass dish with lemon slices. ‘I hope it’s strong enough for you,’ she said.
Kingston watched and waited as she stirred two teaspoons of sugar into her cup.
She settled into the armchair, resting the cup and saucer in her lap. ‘When we talked on the phone, I believe I told you that I’d inherited this place.’
‘Yes, you did.’ Kingston was consumed with curiosity to know more about her good fortune but with their acquaintanceship barely started he didn’t want to risk the slightest chance of appearing forward or nosy, traits not entirely foreign to him. He had been hoping that, given her own good time, she would tell him her story. That moment might be now.
‘It all started about six months ago,’ she said. For a second or so she looked away, staring out through the casement windows where the skies had darkened and the leaves were starting to swish against the panes. ‘I received a letter from a lawyer in Taunton—David Latimer. It was quite short, actually. Said that I’d been left the estate and all its assets and would I get in touch with him, which I did the next day. I thought it must be a horrible mistake or some kind of joke but right off, he confirmed that it wasn’t. When he told me the size of the estate—what it was all worth and how much money was involved—I nearly died. I couldn’t believe it.’ She paused then laughed. ‘I remember telling him jokingly that it came just in time because I was facing a fifteen-hundred-dollar repair job on my car.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Pretty soon, you’ll be able to go out and buy a Bentley, if you like.’
‘What an amazing story,’ said Kingston.
‘It certainly is. I still have to pinch myself sometimes to make sure I’m here—that it’s all happening.’
‘This was an aunt … an uncle?’
‘Neither. No one related to me, as far as I know. That’s what made it even more far-fetched.’ She took a sip of tea, holding the cup in both hands.
‘How extraordinary.’
‘I know. Isn’t it crazy? I still don’t know who the man is.’ She paused, a slight tilt to her head.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sorry. What I should have said is that I know who he is but I haven’t the foggiest idea why he named me as heir to this lot,’she said sweeping an arm round to take in the room.
For a moment Kingston held his cup poised in midair. ‘How curious. Who is this chap?—I should say, was, I suppose. ’
‘Captain Ryder—James Grenville Ryder. His ancestors built this place over two hundred years ago. Up till now, Ryders have always lived here. He was the last, though. The end of the line,’ she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice.
‘You don’t know anything at all about him?’ asked Kingston, breaking off a piece of warm scone.
‘Very little. He came back here some time after the war. I’m not sure exactly when, but David Latimer seemed to think it was in the early sixties.’
‘More than forty years ago.’ Kingston looked up to the chandelier, calculating. ‘Must’ve been in his eighties when he died.’
Jamie nodded. ‘He had two brothers, both killed in World War II. Their names are on the memorial in the village. One was in the RAF.’
‘So Ryder lived here by himself?’
‘No. He had a live-in butler called Mainwaring who apparently looked after everything on the estate. The nice man who runs the wine shop in the village told me that Mainwaring was very close-mouthed about Ryder and Wickersham. Came in, bought what he wanted, paid cash and walked out. Hardly ever said a word. The lady in the newsagent’s said much the same thing. “Creepy old bugger”, she called him. Always wore a heavy black overcoat, even in the height of summer.’ She paused to finish her tea.
‘What happened to him?’
‘I think Latimer said that he just took off. Left the area. To tell the truth, I don’t recall.’
‘Did Ryder leave him anything?’
‘David did say that Mainwaring received a modest bequest, yes.’
Kingston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Did Ryder ever venture into the village?’
‘Not that I know of, which leads to speculation that he might have been an invalid.’
‘Hmm—that would certainly explain it.’
‘There was also an elderly cook and housekeeper, called Dorothy Parmenter, affectionately known as Dot. I kept her on, as a matter of fact. She’ll be cooking dinner tonight.’ She smiled. ‘I should warn you though, she’s not the easiest person to get along with.’
‘In what way?’
‘She’s very strait-laced. A widow. Doesn’t talk much. Sometimes I think our roles are reversed.’
‘I know the type.’
‘On the plus side, she’s a fabulous cook. And after she’s done with cleaning, you could literally eat off the floor.’
Jamie brushed a strand of hair from her eye and placed her cup back on the saucer. ‘That’s about the size of it,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Must have been quite a shock to the locals when they learned you were the new lady of the manor.’
Her eyes widened and she laughed out loud. ‘Are you kidding? They’ll be talking about it for years.’
Kingston was beginning to wonder whether he was coming off as being a little too inquisitive but since the young woman didn’t appear to be fazed by his questions he saw no reason not to satisfy his curiosity. He frowned. ‘If this Dot of yours worked for Ryder, surely she must know something about him?’
‘That’s what I thought. First thing I did after hiring her was to quiz her about Ryder. She told me that during the two years she worked for him, all her instructions had come from Mainwaring. She swore that in all that time she saw Ryder on no more than three or four occasions. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. Quite a few people choose to be reclusive. Particularly if they’ve got something to hide.’
She raised her eyebrows as if taking exception to his remark then broke into a smile. �
��You make it sound like he was up to no good.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m just saying that there could have been a physical reason for his wanting to avoid people. A disfiguring war injury, something like that.’
‘I suppose that could be a possibility.’ She hesitated, then frowned. ‘But surely Dot would have mentioned that?’
‘Perhaps his mind was gone. That happens a lot in war.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe Alzheimer’s.’
‘Could be, but he was sane enough to leave me all this. More than enough for the upkeep and expenses and a lot left over, too.’
‘It’s a mystery, all right.’
‘So now you have the whole picture.’ She slapped her hands on her knees. ‘You know all about me.’
It was clear that, as far as Jamie was concerned, that was the end of the subject. But he dared ask one more question.
‘What about your solicitor?’
‘David?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He assures me that he’s as much in the dark as I am. According to him, his office received the sealed will, signed by Ryder and a notary, about a year ago, to be opened only upon his death. Apparently the family solicitor passed away just prior to that and David’s office was assigned to handle the estate, so naturally he doesn’t know that much about Ryder. Everything was perfectly in order, though, the title papers, bank and securities information, all the documents—they all checked out.’
‘Obviously no Ryders in the dark recesses of your family, then?’
‘Not that I know of.’ She looked at him for a moment and grinned. ‘If there were, they would more likely be Riders of the Purple Sage!’
Kingston laughed. ‘Well, Jamie, I suppose if Latimer is satisfied that no Tom, Dick or Harry is going to come along in a year or so trying to prove he’s the rightful heir—then not to worry.’
‘That was one of my first questions. Latimer’s already ruled out the chance of that happening.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘enough about all that, let’s talk about why you’re here.’
During the next half hour, Jamie told Kingston what she had learned so far about Wickersham’s history and her plans for its rehabilitation.
Built in 1758 on the site of an old Benedictine priory, the house boasted twenty rooms on the ground floor alone, including a library and a billiards room. There was also a large well-stocked wine cellar (Kingston’s ears pricked up at this), and three cottages in the grounds plus ancillary outbuildings. Work on the house was already under way, the first job replacing sections of the original slate roof.
The gardens, she said, were another matter (there was that phrase again). From everything she knew, the original gardens flanking the house on the south and west covered approximately ten acres. Nowhere had she been able to find mention of the original—or any, for that matter—garden designers or landscape architects. Pulling out some sheets of paper from one of the books on the coffee table, Jamie read aloud from the notes she’d made at the library. ‘Here’s what I know about the gardens as they existed in the years before the war,’ she said, glancing up at Kingston. ‘As best as I can make out, there were at least eight separate and distinct gardens.’ She looked down at the paper again, running a finger down the list. ‘A walled vegetable garden, an Italian garden, a rose garden, a sunken water garden, an herb garden … to mention a few. Plus I found references to an orchard, a yew alley, lots of topiaries, a circular thatched summer house, a gatehouse, a grotto, a pleached lime walk, various and sundry trellises, arbours and pergolas, some built on big stone piers …’ She paused, studying the list. ‘Oh, and there was a brick potting house, several large greenhouses, a long grass walk and huge lawns that stepped down in three levels from the rear of the house.’ She looked up at Kingston.
‘Goodness gracious, they weren’t kidding when they said it could have rivalled the best—even Hidcote,’ he added. ‘I’m surprised it’s been such a well-preserved secret all these years.’
‘Probably because it was never open to the public.’
‘That could explain it.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Hidcote’s a garden, I take it?’
Kingston nodded. ‘It’s in Gloucestershire, in the Cotswolds. It’s considered one of, if not, the finest example of all English gardens and yet, curiously, it wasn’t created by an Englishman.’
‘Really?’
‘Would you be surprised if I told you it was an American?’
‘I would, yes.’
‘Well, indeed, it was—a Major Lawrence Johnston. His well-heeled mother bought him the estate just before World War I. There are more than twenty-five gardens within gardens covering the ten-acre site.’
‘I must look it up in the library.’
‘No book can do it justice. You must see it in person.’ He paused and took a sip of tepid tea, quickly putting down his cup. ‘You will, Jamie, because I’m going to take you there. The head gardener’s an acquaintance. We’ll also make a day trip to Sissinghurst. It’s another brilliant example of twentieth-century English gardening.’
‘I’d like that very much.’
Kingston raised a hand, briefly. ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have interrupted.’
Jamie went on to tell him about the other two people on her staff. One was Eric, a young chap from the village, a part-timer who did odd jobs, ran errands and helped Dot. The second was an elderly caretaker, China, who lived with his ailing wife in one of the cottages on the estate. He also did some light garden work.
‘I noticed, driving in, how nicely the yew hedges were clipped,’ Kingston commented.
‘Yes, he just did those. I was very pleased with them. China’s not getting any younger but I must say he’s a stickler for doing things right.’
‘Odd name?’
She shook her head, glancing up to the ceiling as she did so. ‘You Brits and your nicknames. His real name is Stanley—Stanley Wedgwood. Anyway, getting back to the gardens,’ she said with a little sigh and a creasing of her brow, ‘you saw for yourself, driving in, just how far gone they are. And you saw only a little corner. Before dinner, we’ll go for a walk. Not too far, but enough to give you a better understanding of what you’re getting into.’ She paused, fixing him with her brown eyes and then smiling enigmatically. ‘That is, of course, if you accept my generous offer.’
Chapter Four
Their short walk around the perimeter of the house confirmed Jamie’s description. Much of it resembled what Kingston had seen earlier: thick stands of trees, so close together as to form a black wall; trunks, limbs and branches arching and writhing in a futile attempt to escape the strangling embrace of ivy, vines and creepers that lashed them together. It was as if the house were under siege, about to be swallowed up any day by this diabolical mass of plant life. As the light began to fade, the sight became even more menacing. For a while Jamie said nothing. Not that anything she might have said could further explain what they were looking at. After five minutes Kingston announced that he’d seen enough.
As they walked back to the house, his mind was occupied with two opposing thoughts: first and foremost, that this was without question a horticultural opportunity of a lifetime. In years to come, the gardens at Wickersham could become—as once they had been—on a par with the best. It could well be his chance to secure a place in the annals of world gardening. A chance that could also lead one day to his name being added to the list of preeminent English garden designers of the last four hundred years. Among the many was the seventeenth-century plantsman designer, John Tradescant; a hundred years later, the landscape genius of Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown. Then, in the nineteenth century, the feisty William Robinson, whose ideas of a naturalistic, ‘cottage garden’ style became the dominant influence of the time, and one that survives to this day in many English gardens. The last century emerged with a new brilliance and the enduring designs of Gertrude Jekyll, Sir Edwin Lutyens, Harold Peto, Lawrence Johnston and Vita Sackville-West. In more recent years, Graham S
tuart Thomas, Rosemary Verey, Christopher Lloyd and Penelope Hobhouse further inspired and influenced gardeners around the world.
But then there was the other side of the coin. Was he fully prepared to spend the next God knows how many months—even years—of his precious remaining time on earth dedicated to taming a jungle? He had no illusions about what it entailed and what he was going to have to sacrifice to see it through. Though their relationship was barely hours old, he had a good feeling about Jamie. She was forthright and sincere in her desire to restore the gardens and charming into the bargain. But would she be the same six months down the road? What effect would the colossal upheaval and financial drain have on her? Right now, she might think she was wealthy but did she really comprehend the kind of expenses she was going to be faced with? The upkeep of the estate and the enormous tax burden alone must be a daunting figure, but add to that the costs of refurbishing the house and a major garden restoration and the numbers would be staggering.
From his impression so far, Jamie didn’t seem the type to press him for a quick decision. Nevertheless it would be expected of him as a potential employee, and rightfully so, to give some indication of his thoughts and intent. She would realize, of course, that he couldn’t make a final decision until he knew what fee or salary she had in mind. He was already thinking that, if it was at all reasonable, he was prepared to conditionally accept her offer. He sighed. It was a huge decision.
Jamie picked up on the sigh. ‘Quite a mess, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly is,’replied Kingston.
At the front door of the house Jamie stopped and turned to him. ‘Tell me honestly. What were you thinking back there?’
‘I was thinking of Heligan,’ he fibbed.
‘Heligan?’
‘A garden and a house in Cornwall, not unlike yours, actually. Maybe a shade larger.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s a remarkable story. Just before World War I the gardens were abandoned and in the ensuing decades became completely buried. They would probably have been lost forever if not for two men, Tim Smit and John Nelson. By a stroke of luck, in the early nineties they were shown the land where the gardens once existed. There was a problem, though. It was all but inaccessible. The land had been literally consumed, buried by rampant growth and rotting with the decay of almost eighty years. From that moment they began a quest, not only to restore the gardens—as you’re doing—but also, as it turned out, to resurrect a lost way of life. It’s one of the most fascinating garden stories of all time.’
EG02 - The Lost Gardens Page 3