Today, though, all the records as well as the specimens were roped away in wooden chests. As the Periwinkle glided through the calm estuary water, Sir Desmond’s eyes were seeking out familiar landmarks whilst Gordon, beside him, wondered how best to broach the subject which had filled his mind for the past few days. In the end it seemed best to come straight out with it.
‘Sir Desmond. Should you have any new expedition in mind, I would very much like to serve with you again. If you would have me.’
Sir Desmond sighed. ‘I fear this may prove to be my last expedition,’ he said. ‘I’ve five years’ work here with the seeds we’ve brought back. Not just germinating them and growing them on true, but doing a little cross-pollinating and grafting to find out whether man can improve on nature. By the time all that’s under way, I may well be growing too old to leap in and out of small boats or wade across raging torrents up to my waist. Besides, I promised my wife … You’ll discover one day for yourself, my boy, that wives don’t always take kindly to being left alone for two or three years.’
‘Perhaps I could help you with your experiments for a year or two. And then organize an expedition of my own. To China, perhaps,’ Gordon added hopefully. His boyhood fascination with that country was as strong as ever.
‘China!’ Sir Desmond, who had explored so many parts of the world, had never been to China, but his sigh of regret recognized that he was unlikely now ever to make the journey. ‘You could look for Merlot’s lily in China.’
‘Merlot’s lily?’ For three years Gordon had listened spellbound to his master’s stories of exotic places and treasures, but this was a name new to him.
‘Merlot was a missionary who travelled in China and tried to get into Tibet – forbidden territory at the beginning of the century. Well, it still is, come to that. He wasn’t a botanist, unfortunately. Ten thousand feet up in the mountains he came across a valley filled with lilies. The queen of lilies, he said – the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. He wrote a letter of description home, with a drawing. Dug up a few of the bulbs to send as well. Presumably he did it while the lilies were still in flower, so it’s not surprising that they didn’t survive. What with the change from almost freezing conditions to the heat of the plains, and then a six-month journey back to Europe, they were shrivelled and rotten by the time they arrived. Merlot himself was caught by the Tibetans. They chopped off the heads of the villagers who’d shown him the way into the country, as a hint to anyone else who tried to give a foreigner a helping hand. The missionary himself was simply never heard of again.’
‘Did he say in his letter where he saw the lilies?’
‘No. You’ve put your finger on it. Something that could be the most beautiful flower in the world, and no one knows where to find it. So there you are. Go to China and bring back the Merlot lily. Except that then it would be the Hardie lily.’
He laughed as he spoke, but he was not joking. For his own part, Gordon was unable even to attempt a smile. His heart swelled to bursting point. It was as though he had suddenly and for the first time realized why he had been born. Falling in love, he thought, must be something like this. Perhaps one day he would meet a girl, whom he did not yet know to exist, and realize that he had been waiting for her all his life. She would give him no choice. There would be a compulsion to love her – just as the lily was now placing him under a compulsion to search for it.
‘My God!’ exclaimed Sir Desmond. ‘What have I done?’
Gordon blinked and looked at the older man, puzzled as to his meaning.
‘Irresponsible!’ growled the botanist. ‘I remember, on the voyage out, telling you that if you wanted to be an explorer you needed a goal, and that was true enough. Something else I should have emphasized. You need money as well.’
‘You mentioned once that the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew sponsors expeditions of this sort from time to time.’
‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ growled Sir Desmond. ‘I shall be lucky if the next case of cognac I order from The House of Hardie isn’t laced with poison. I can’t be blamed for your running away, but I don’t intend to be responsible for your failure to return to the bosom of your family.’
‘My father may have disowned me by now.’
‘That’s as may be. There’s only one way to find out. And if your mother’s still alive, chances are that she’ll persuade him to own you again.’
An unexpected surge of emotion flooded Gordon’s body; he swallowed the lump in his throat, alarmed by what he saw as a failure of imagination. Very often in the past two and a half years he had remembered with shame how he had waved a farewell to his mother with the casual gesture of a boy going off to school as usual. He had understood, and regretted, the alarm she must have felt when he failed to return at the end of the day, and the grief and anxiety which would persist even after she received his letter. But as time passed, and he knew himself to be healthy, he had forgotten that she would still be worried. And the thought had never occurred to him that she herself might become ill, or even die.
‘Any brothers?’ asked Sir Desmond.
Gordon shook his head. ‘A younger sister, that’s all.’
‘So you should be all right. Not a woman’s business, wine. Your father won’t want to break a family tradition if he can help it. A word of advice, then. You’ve got a natural talent. To be a plant-hunter, I mean. But you’re – how old is it now? Seventeen? So. Take whatever training your father has in mind to give you. Go to France if you can, see the vines growing and all the processes of making the wine. One of these days you may be able to bring two talents together, breed a new variety of grape. But don’t turn up your nose at the business of keeping accounts and getting to know your customers. One of these days, when The House of Hardie is yours, and thriving well enough to finance an expedition of your own, you may find you can put a manager in for a few years. But first of all you must have at your own fingertips everything you’ll want him to do. Take your training.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a loud, repeated shout. Many times during the past two and a half years Gordon had listened as the orders for the mainsail to be lowered and furled were relayed upwards, and had felt the abrupt change from the wind’s full power to a more delicate, gliding propulsion. He had leaned against the rail, as he was leaning now, studying the coastline of a tropical island and wondering what treasures were hidden in the interior. Here the water was grey instead of a bright, clear blue, and instead of palm trees fingering the sunshine he could see only the misty outlines of cranes. After such an absence, the life that lay ahead of him was almost as hard to envisage as the life of the islanders who paddled their canoes out to the Periwinkle and led her to safe anchorage. The journey to Oxford would be the beginning of a different kind of exploration; but Sir Desmond had reminded him that this too could have a worthwhile goal.
Twenty-four hours later, on the first Sunday of October 1877, Gordon Hardie strode along Oxford’s High Street and came to a halt opposite the bow windows of The House of Hardie, with their small panes of bottle green glass. The premises would of course be unoccupied at this hour: he could stare at them without any danger of being seen and recognized. He would find his father and mother and sister, he hoped, at their home in Holywell. How would they greet him? As the prodigal son returning, to be welcomed and feasted, or as someone who had behaved heartlessly, disappointing their hopes – someone who could not be forgiven? His guess was that his mother would cry and Midge, his sister, would tease, and his father would be at first severe, but willing to be placated by promises of future good behaviour.
So what promises could reasonably be made? Gordon tried to pierce the thick glass with his imagination, to see himself bending over ledgers, or rising to be polite to the son of a duke, who would one day be a duke – and a profitable customer – himself. It was not a prospect which gave him much pleasure. But any undertakings given to his father would be valueless if they were not performed with whole-hearted d
iligence. He would make another promise, this time to himself – a promise whose fulfilment would provide a reward for good behaviour. In ten years’ time his father would be only fifty years old; still well able to manage the business himself without his son’s help. There would be no more running away; on this occasion Gordon would ask with good warning for leave of absence. But as long as he was free to make plans in his head for some new expedition, he would be able to endure the slavery of business without complaint. Until October 1887, he would devote himself to the affairs of The House of Hardie. But only until then.
Part One
An Oxford Romance
Chapter One
1885
Eight years after Gordon Hardie’s return from his escapade in the South Seas, another young man arrived in the High and gazed at the bow windows of The House of Hardie. It was the first day of the Michaelmas term in 1885: the first day of Archie Yates’s new life as an Oxford undergraduate. His grandfather, the Marquess of Ross, had travelled with him from the great house of Castlemere in order to settle his grandson in. As Archie – tall and athletic, fair-haired and handsome and self-confident – waited for the footman to set the steps of the carriage so that the marquess could dismount outside the vintner’s establishment, he felt no doubts about his reception. His grandfather’s name and wealth would ensure his own welcome.
If Mr John Hardie had any sense, he would be on the premises in person today. Although his main business was done in Pall Mall, in London, it was in Oxford that his firm had first opened its doors early in the eighteenth century. More to the point, in this first week of the university year, a new generation of potential customers was arriving in the city for the first time, and the nature of their welcome might well determine where they placed their patronage for the next fifty years. Archie was only nineteen, but he was sophisticated enough to know that he represented a prize for any tradesman. During his three or four years at Oxford he would be treated generously in the expectation that he would then be a customer for life. Within the past hour accounts had been opened for him with a bookseller and a tailor. Now it was time to arrange that a constant flow of wine should be available for the entertainment of his friends. Archie followed his grandfather through the door.
‘Morning.’ The marquess’s greeting was brusque: it was his usual way of speaking. Archie, who had been brought up in his grandfather’s house, was able to interpret the tone of his voice, recognizing with interest that the vintner was being addressed not as a mere tradesman, but almost as an intimate. The marquess adopted very much the same tone when he was discussing the season’s shooting on the Castlemere estate with his head gamekeeper, a man for whom he had respect. It was a voice which recognized specialized knowledge and acknowledged a long and loyal connection. ‘My grandson, Archie. Rachel’s boy, don’t you know.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Yates.’ The vintner’s handshake was strong and his voice was equally firm; it was clear that he needed no more adequate introduction. ‘I remember seeing you shortly after your mother’s tragic death, when you and your sister first went to live at Castlemere.’
‘Lucy’s here with us today,’ said the marquess. ‘Sent her off with her governess to look at some of the colleges while Archie and I get down to business. He’ll have his own account with you, but you can come down on me for it while he’s up.’
‘You’re at The House, I take it, Mr Yates?’ said Mr Hardie, pulling a ledger towards him. Archie was about to answer, but his grandfather spoke first.
‘No. That’s all very well for the tufts.’ The marquess himself, and his three sons, had been to Christ Church, the natural choice for those of noble birth. ‘But my son-in-law’s a military man, don’t you know. Has his own ideas.’
‘I shall be reading Modern History.’ Archie decided it was time to make his own contribution to the conversation. It was not in fact his intention to devote too much of his time to study. His choice of subject had been influenced only partly by his father’s views. History was reputed to be easier than Greats. Besides, almost the whole of his time at Eton had been devoted to the classics, and by now he had had enough of them. ‘Dr Mackenzie was recommended to us as a tutor, so I shall be at Magdalen.’
‘Dr Mackenzie, indeed.’ Mr Hardie’s dark eyes brightened with interest, and he seemed about to make some remark, but checked himself. ‘A very scholarly gentleman,’ he said instead, surprising Archie by his apparent familiarity with the historian’s name. ‘And now, my lord, Mr Yates, if you’d care to step through to the parlour, I’ve one or two wines waiting here that I’d like you to taste. A Tokay, for example, which has been very well thought of by my young gentlemen. And I hope, Mr Yates, that when you’re planning a party or a special dinner, you’ll remember that we’re always at your disposal to discuss what would best be suited to it. If I’m in London myself, my son will be happy to advise.’
‘Settled down now, has he, after that trouble he gave you?’ asked the marquess.
‘All forgotten, all forgotten. Just as well, I suppose, that he should get the wanderlust out of his system while he was still a boy.’
This exchange meant nothing to Archie, who allowed his attention to wander. They had been led into a room, more spacious than the small front shop, in which glasses and bottles were set out on a table covered with a plush cloth. A wide door, not completely closed, led to what appeared to be an office, and the sound of voices attracted Archie’s attention. He took a chair which would allow him to look through the opening.
It was not precisely a quarrel which was going on in the next room, but certainly an extremely vigorous argument. A single glance was enough to convince Archie that the young man and younger woman who faced each other over a desk must be brother and sister. No married couple, and no pair of office colleagues, would debate with quite this degree of liveliness. In any case, there was a physical resemblance to strengthen his guess. The young man must be John Hardie’s son. He had the same curly black hair and black eyes, although in the son’s case a strong aquiline nose gave him a more craggy and forceful appearance than his suaver father.
The young woman – she was perhaps a year or two older than Archie – was as dark-haired as her brother, and had some of the same strong features. But what seemed aggressive in Gordon Hardie’s profile was merely vivacious in hers. Her bright eyes were flashing with pleasure in the argument – and perhaps she had just won it, for now she threw back her head, laughing. Her mouth was wide, her teeth white and regular. It seemed to Archie that he had never seen such a delightful smile.
He wished that she would glance towards him, so that he might intercept her smile and return it. But instead she straightened herself, pressed a few straying locks of hair into place and turned away towards another door at the further end of the room – not walking in a sedate, ladylike manner, but almost skipping, as though the energy pulsing through her petite body could not be controlled. The far door closed behind her. Gordon Hardie came into the room in which the wines were to be tasted, and was introduced.
Archie’s mind was not on the matter in hand. His intention was to float through his Oxford career on a river of champagne, so he hardly bothered to listen as his grandfather, a glass of Madeira in his hand, talked of clarets and burgundies and discussed the prospects for the current year’s vintage. He was thinking about the girl.
Archie’s idea of beauty had been formed by a portrait of his mother, whom he did not otherwise remember; she had died at the birth of his sister Lucy, when Archie himself was barely three years old. It was because they were motherless, with a father who spent most of his time overseas in the army, that they had been brought up in their grandfather’s great house, Castlemere. The portrait of the marquess’s only daughter, their mother, held pride of place in the long gallery. It showed a tall, slender young woman – she was only twenty-two at the time of her death – with golden hair, rosy lips and a soft, fair complexion.
Lucy, almost certainly, had in
herited all these characteristics. At the age of sixteen she had not yet grown to her full height, but her hair was as golden, her waist as tiny and her skin as delicate as her mother’s. Her expression was livelier, but perhaps that only represented the difference between a living person and the calm beauty of a face painted on canvas. It was from his mother and sister that Archie had formed his ideal of perfect female beauty. How extraordinary it was, then, that he should find so attractive the small, dark, slightly dishevelled girl whom he had just glimpsed.
For a moment he felt overwhelmed with a desire to pursue her – or at least to make enquiries and discover how he might see her again. But common sense checked him. He had not come up to Oxford to waste time with girls. His life for the next three or four years would be a masculine one. Both in work and in games his companions would be old school friends or new college friends. He was never likely to see this particular young woman again. Supposing his guess to be accurate, she was the daughter of a wine merchant, moving in a social circle quite different from his own.
There was a moment in which this thought filled him with regret. But the moment did not last long. There were too many other new experiences to be savoured as his Oxford career began. Already his college rooms felt like home, although he had seen them for the first time only two hours earlier. He was anxious to return and take full possession of them. Besides, he had ordered lunch there for one o’clock.
The House of Hardie Page 2