The House of Hardie

by Anne Melville

  Such a service was a routine matter for Mr Hardie, and it had become equally customary for his son to accompany him. One day Gordon himself would be expected to give advice to the aristocratic patrons of The House of Hardie: this was a practical way in which to become familiar with their tastes. In addition, the work was more rapidly accomplished when his father could keep his hands and eyes free to inspect the bins and check the books whilst dictating his comments for Gordon to write down.

  Gordon had a particular reason for welcoming the opportunity to visit Castlemere. He waited until the marquess had come to the end of his instructions and was about to dismiss them.

  ‘If I might make so bold, my lord … I’ve been told that Castlemere possesses the finest medieval herb garden in the whole of England.’

  ‘The only one, I wouldn’t be surprised. Can’t say that I know much about it myself. Prefer the fruit of the vine to any foul-smelling tisane when it comes to keeping good health, don’t you know. Interested in that sort of thing, are you? Have a word with my head gardener, Curtis. He’ll tell you where to find it.’

  ‘I’m very much obliged to you.’ Gordon ignored his father’s frown. Any disapproval which Mr Hardie felt would be caused not by the thought that his son’s request was impertinent, but by the reminder that Gordon had not yet outgrown the enthusiasm for unusual plants which he had picked up, like an infectious disease, during his boyish escapade to the South Seas. But no criticisms would be expressed in the presence of either the marquess or his butler, who was ready now to escort them to the cellars.

  At half past three in the afternoon Gordon stepped out of the house for a short break in the fresh air. He blinked for a moment in the bright light, and then set off on his private errand. The herb garden, he was told, could be reached by the family directly from the west terrace of the great house, but Gordon was instructed to approach it from the other direction, by crossing the moat and passing through the walled garden in which soft fruit and vegetables were grown.

  Knowing that his time was short, he hurried along a path lined with espaliered pears and apples towards the twelve-foot-high stone wall on the further side, patterned with the fan-trained skeletons of peaches and apricots. He pushed open the arched door in the centre of the wall and then was forced to stop. Although he did his best to bring his hurrying pace to an immediate check, he almost knocked over the young woman who was sitting in the path with her back to him. For her part, she was so startled to feel a stranger brush against her shoulder that she jumped to her feet, clutching a box of paints in one hand and a watercolour pad in the other, but dropping her brush and spilling the jar of water she had been using.

  Gordon began to stammer his apologies while he was still bending down to retrieve what she had dropped. Only as he straightened himself did he see her face for the first time. Long corn-coloured hair, loosely tied back with a blue ribbon, framed a small face with the delicate pink and white complexion of a china doll. But there was nothing doll-like about her lively blue eyes, and her lips were curved and full of movement. So perfect was her beauty that for a moment he was struck dumb by it. But to remain silent would be impolite. ‘Please forgive me,’ he said humbly.

  The young woman’s startled expression melted into a smile. ‘It was foolish of me to sit so near the door and in the middle of the path,’ she said. ‘But the gardeners never come here except with me, so I was not expecting …’ She paused for the explanation which she had every right to demand.

  ‘I have a particular interest in old species of plants,’ Gordon told her. ‘His lordship was kind enough to give me permission to inspect the herb garden. But of course I don’t wish to intrude on your privacy. If you’ll allow me to fetch some water for you, I’ll leave you to continue your work.’

  ‘No need. It’s finished already.’ Now that he had explained his presence, a new warmth came into her smile and her voice was friendly: she held out her water-colour as though to prove that she was telling the truth.

  Gordon accepted the invitation to study it. Instead of the general garden view which he would have expected a young lady to attempt, she had depicted a group of crocuses in the bottom left-hand corner of the page, and above them had painted an enlarged and meticulously detailed representation of a single flower and its leaf.

  ‘But it’s not completely finished,’ he pointed out. ‘You haven’t signed it.’

  ‘This is not a painting to hang in an exhibition,’ she said, laughing. ‘There’s no need for a signature.’

  ‘Except that it would allow me to know your name.’

  She flushed delightfully. ‘I’m Lucy Yates.’

  It took Gordon only a second to realize that she must be the sister of Archie Yates, whom he had met at The House of Hardie; so the Marquess of Ross would be her grandfather.

  Gordon knew that he ought to withdraw at once – but she was clearly waiting for him to complete the introductions.

  ‘My name is Gordon Hardie.’ He was anxious that there should be no misunderstanding about his status. ‘My father and I are here to advise your grandfather on his cellar.’

  Instead of dismissing him, Lucy held out her hand. She was still young, he realized, as he bent over it: society had not yet been given the opportunity to make her haughty.

  ‘Your subject is an unusual one,’ he commented.

  ‘This is the saffron crocus,’ Lucy told him. ‘You can recognize it by the long stigmas. It’s the stigmas which are dried to make saffron. To produce one ounce of saffron, more than four thousand flowers are needed.’

  ‘You know a great deal about it, Miss Yates.’ Gordon, as it happened, knew even more, but he was nevertheless sincere in his admiration.

  ‘My grandmother loved this garden. She died three years ago, but when I was quite young she taught me to recognize all the herbs and to know their uses. Nowadays saffron is only used in cooking, to add colour. But in the olden days it was a specific for jaundice, and prescribed in cases of measles to speed up the eruptive state. My grandmother kept a book of old receipts. I thought it would be interesting to interleave it with illustrations.’

  ‘Do you know how this crocus came to England?’ Gordon asked her. Almost certainly she – like himself as a boy – would have assumed that it was native to the country. As he had expected, she looked puzzled. ‘A pilgrim returning from the Holy Land in the reign of Edward II collected some seeds as he travelled through Asia Minor,’ he told her. ‘Had they been discovered, he would have been killed. So he hollowed out his pilgrim’s stave to make a secret place for them. He carried them to his home in Walden, where they grew and multiplied so successfully that it has been known as Saffron Walden ever since.’

  The effect of his story was all he could have wished. Lucy’s eyes widened with astonishment and regret.

  ‘How exciting it must have been to live in those times,’ she sighed. ‘If only such adventures were possible nowadays!’

  ‘They’re still waiting for anyone who looks for them,’ said Gordon. ‘I myself, as a boy, ran away to sea and found myself in the company of a man who had achieved just such a triumph – and he is still alive today.’

  ‘You ran away to sea!’ Lucy clapped her hands in excitement. ‘I thought such things only happened in Mudie’s novels. Do tell me how you were able to do it, and where you went.’

  Gordon would willingly have recounted the complete day-by-day history of his voyage in order to remain in her company. But the sound of the stable clock striking the hour made him pause. His father would be seriously displeased if he returned to the cellars and found no one waiting to assist him. Reluctantly, he excused himself.

  ‘Like Scheherazade!’ exclaimed Lucy. ‘You leave me just when I long to hear more. You must promise to return and continue your story.’

  ‘I hope … I wish …’ But Gordon, who a moment earlier had been made boastful by his wish to impress, was suddenly aware that he ought not to be talking to any young lady alone in this way, and especially no
t to the granddaughter of his patron. Fumbling for words, he apologized both for disturbing her and for leaving her, and backed away.

  ‘Was it interesting?’ asked his father, as he relit their lantern.

  ‘Was what interesting?’

  Mr Hardie looked at him sharply. ‘The herb garden. Wasn’t that what you were so anxious to see?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. Most unusual.’ Only then did Gordon realize that he had not noticed a single flower, with the exception of the saffron crocus which had provided such a perfect introduction to Lucy Yates’s interest. ‘I’d very much like the chance to inspect it in greater detail. At leisure. Perhaps, when you’ve prepared your suggestions for the coming-of-age gift, I could carry them here in person instead of entrusting them to the post, and then –’ The enthusiasm in his voice faded away, and he did not finish the suggestion. If he returned to Castlemere without warning, he could not expect a repetition of today’s encounter. Lucy Yates would be riding in the park, or paying a call, or playing the piano in the music room. And even were she once again to be found in the herb garden, she was not for him. Gordon shook his head vigorously, like a dog throwing off water, as he tried to free himself from the memory of that young, beautiful face. He opened his book and prepared to set down his father’s comments. For the remainder of his time in Castlemere, and during the journey back to Oxford, he did not allow himself to think of Lucy Yates again.

  Every night for almost nine years Gordon Hardie had set aside an hour before he went to sleep in which to further his dream of a future in which he was an explorer and not a vintner: this was in addition to the time he spent, whenever he could spare it, assisting in the Oxford Botanic Garden. By now, his knowledge of botany – which neither his school nor his father had thought important – was scholarly as well as practical. He had acquired a shelf of second-hand books on the subject, and every night he committed to memory a page of text and illustration so that later, lying in bed, he could summon the information before his mind’s eye.

  Tonight’s subject was Abelia chinensis, of special interest to Gordon because it had been discovered in China, the country which he was determined to visit one day. As he studied its characteristics, he tried to imagine the feeling of Clarke Abel when he first set eyes on the delicate pink and white flowers, as pale and perfect as Lucy Yates’s complexion. If Gordon ever met her again, he could recount the story of Abel, who collected thousands of seeds and plants, only to lose almost all of them to shipwreck, fire or pirates; but who nevertheless saved enough to make his journey worth while. Then Gordon would say that he himself hoped to make such a journey one day. Her blue eyes would open wide and she would clasp her hands together with anxiety and excitement.

  Gordon closed the book and prepared himself for bed. As he lay in the darkness he set in motion the waking dream with which he brought every day to a close. He was in China, leading the way along a mountain path. Mules and coolies plodded behind him, whilst far ahead the snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas soared above the clouds. In a moment – but he was always asleep before the moment arrived – he would round a bend and see in front of him some flower or shrub or climbing plant that no Englishman had ever seen before. Or even – ever since Sir Desmond had first mentioned it to him, this had become his greatest ambition – the lily which had been glimpsed once, many years ago, by a French missionary in a valley ten thousand feet high, and never found again.

  Tonight there was a difference in his waking dream. He was not alone at the head of the column. A woman was walking beside him, as adventurous and resolute as himself: the long blonde hair which blew around her shoulders identified his companion as Lucy Yates. Gordon closed his eyes and dismissed the dream from his mind. It was, of course, impossible.

  Chapter Seven

  Even Archie Yates, who had little interest in architecture, acknowledged the beauty of Magdalen Tower. Its solid stone walls, pierced parapet and delicate pinnacles stood sentinel at the end of the bridge – not so much guarding the city as welcoming any traveller from the east to the university. The tower was part of his own college: he both took it for granted and felt a possessive pride in it. Once every year, however, it ceased to be merely a landmark. For it was an old Oxford tradition that on May Morning the choristers who more usually provided the music in Magdalen chapel should greet the rising sun by carolling from the top of the college tower. Perhaps equally ancient was the custom that the Magdalen undergraduates should listen to the ceremony from the river at the foot of the tower, first stocking up their punts with picnic breakfasts of a largely liquid variety.

  Not often did Archie fail to take advantage of an opportunity to become drunk, but for once he had joined the sober minority. This was to be a respectable social occasion. He had invited Midge Hardie to listen to the singing with him.

  Naturally, her mother had to be invited as well, to act as chaperone; but as the last faint, pure notes of the choristers died away and Archie stood up in the punt and prepared to move it away from the congested area of the river, he noticed with satisfaction that Mrs Hardie – no doubt unused to five o’clock awakenings – had fallen asleep.

  Smoothly and gracefully Archie pressed the long wooden pole down into the river bed, using it both to propel and to steer the punt. Then, hand over hand, he tossed it neatly up into the air, ready for the next thrust. Not a single drop of water was allowed to splash his white flannels or trickle down towards the cuff of his striped blazer. He was showing off. Midge, sitting on cushions in the shallow boat, knew that as well as he did. She grinned at him teasingly; and Archie, delighted that she should prove as reluctant as himself to awaken her mother by speaking, grinned back.

  There was no need to travel far to find a peaceful spot for the picnic, for none of the other May Day revellers had moved away from the foot of the tower. Archie stuck his pole down into the mud near the bank of the Botanic Garden to act as a mooring post and, for safety’s sake, tied the other end of the punt to a weeping willow.

  ‘We could walk a little,’ he suggested to Midge, standing on the bank after he had made all secure and speaking quietly in order that Mrs Hardie should not be disturbed. ‘You must be cold, sitting still on the river for so long.’

  ‘We mustn’t go out of my mother’s sight.’ But even as she spoke, Midge was rising to her feet and holding out both hands towards his own so that he could help her on to the bank. Her spring was light and athletic and she needed no help in regaining her balance. Archie, nevertheless, continued to hold her hands for a few seconds until, with her mouth twitching in a smile, she disengaged them.

  Side by side they walked to and fro along a short section of the river bank, glancing towards Mrs Hardie each time they passed the punt, so that she should not be alarmed for long if she woke to find herself alone. The grass was wet with the early-morning dew, so Midge lifted the skirts of her Liberty gown an inch or two off the ground to keep it dry. The movement enabled Archie to see and approve of the smallness of her feet and ankles. But he knew better than to remark on them.

  ‘What made you choose to become a student here?’ he asked. ‘Since I first made your acquaintance, I’ve enquired amongst my friends and learned that there are more young women studying for examinations at Oxford than I’d realized. But most of them seem to be the daughters of clergymen, and –’

  ‘And you think that a vintner’s daughter shouldn’t presume to be of such company?’

  ‘Of course not. Nothing of the sort. Only perhaps that in your case it mightn’t be your father who pressed you to extend your studies. It must have been your own choice.’

  ‘Indeed it was.’

  ‘Then I repeat my question. Why?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be enough for me to say, when speaking to a scholar such as yourself, that the fascination of exploring history –’

  ‘You mustn’t tease me, Miss Hardie,’ protested Archie. ‘It’s unfair, when chivalry prevents me from teasing you back – even if I could find any ground on which to atta
ck. I’m sure Dr Mackenzie has made my lack of scholarship very clear to you. And in any case, you might more pleasantly have explored the subject without the stress of submitting yourself to examinations.’

  ‘The examinations are the important ingredient,’ Midge told him. ‘The only way in which I shall be able to prove that my education must be held in as much respect as yours.’

  ‘Prove it to whom? No gentleman is likely to pause before choosing a wife in order to enquire as to her marks in the Final Examinations.’

  ‘Not every young woman, Mr Yates, has the good fortune to be “chosen”.’

  The emphasis which his companion placed on this last word was puzzling to Archie, suggesting that she in some way disapproved of the normal system by which marriage was proposed and accepted. ‘Someone so attractive,’ he began, but was forced to bring both speech and perambulation to a halt when Midge stopped and turned to face him. Her dark eyes were still bright, but now it was with earnestness rather than teasing.

  ‘You didn’t think I was fishing for your compliments, I hope,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t thinking solely of myself then, but of all the young women … A gentleman as fortunate as yourself, Mr Yates, can have little idea how many girls sacrifice the years of their youth and beauty to take care of a parent and find themselves penniless and alone in the world when they are past the age to be attractive to anyone. I’m not talking of the rich or the poor, but of women who have enjoyed a comfortable upbringing and believed themselves secure. Almost the only position open to them is that of governess – and although they may succeed in finding employment, all too often they’re incapable of carrying out their duties satisfactorily, because their own education has been so inadequate.’

  ‘Dash it all, you’re surely not suggesting that the lecture halls of Oxford should be overrun by governesses.’