by Carola Dunn
The garden was protected from cold winds by walls on all four sides. In the middle, in the centre of a paved square, stood a classical statue, a winged figure of a burly, dishevelled man with a conch shell held to his lips: Boreas, the North Wind according to the pedestal. And surrounding the paving, along the walls, was a wide raised border ablaze with colour.
There were evergreens – Daisy recognized laurel and variegated holly – and plants with grey-green foliage. Flowering vines and shrubs hid the walls, yellow cascades of winter jasmine, white honeysuckle and wintersweet scenting the air, the coral blooms of Japanese quince. In front, vying with snowdrops and aconites, grew scylla and irises, crocuses, violets, multi-hued primroses, purple-blue anemones, lilac periwinkles, crimson cyclamen.
‘It’s beautiful!’ cried Daisy. ‘How I wish someone would invent an efficient way to take colour photographs. Even if I learn the name of every plant, words will never do it justice.’
The young gardener led her around, pointing out delicate Christmas and Lenten roses, daphne, orange Chinese lanterns, and fluffy yellow hazel catkins. She enjoyed his voice as much as the flower names.
‘Which part of Wales are you from?’ she asked.
‘Glamorgan, miss. Merthyr Tydfil.’
‘That’s in the south. You’re a long way from home.’
‘Oh yes, miss, and it’s dreatfully I miss it.’
‘You have left your family there?’
His story came pouring out. ‘My pa wass killed down the pit – the coal mine. Mam wouldn’t let us boys be miners. Fife brothers we are, scattered all ofer. Two’s in the Nafy; one’s a gentleman’s personal serfant in London. Rhys iss a schoolteacher,’ he said with shy pride, ‘and so’s one of my sisters. Married the other two are, at home in Merthyr.’
‘I expect you’re lonely here, being used to a big family.’
‘I wass walking out with a young woman.’ His face crumpled in misery. ‘Nearly engaged we wass, look you, but she ran off to London.’
‘Then she didn’t deserve you,’ said Daisy firmly as they turned the last corner, coming to the bed to the right of the entrance. Owen looked less than comforted. ‘Are these daffodils here, just coming up between the snowdrops?’ she asked to distract him, though she recognized the green shoots perfectly well.
He blinked hard, sniffed, and answered, ‘Yes, miss, and narcissus. They come out here earlier than anywheres.’
‘And that bush?’ She gestured at an unhappy-looking shrub in the middle of a bare patch of ground. ‘What’s that?’
‘Azalea, miss.’ He frowned, puzzled. ‘They bloom early in here, too, but . . . ’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s terrible it looks. And where’s the irises around it? Myself I planted them, the kind that’s flowering now, and hardly any hass come up.’ He stepped over the low kerb and picked his way carefully to the small bush. Most of its few remaining leaves were brown, except for one bronze-green sprig.
Daisy saw that the dark soil of the bare patch was broken by a few scattered iris shoots. ‘Perhaps a dog got in and dug them up and buried them again too deep,’ she proposed, though there was no sign of the earthworks usually left by an excavating canine.
‘The azalea iss dying.’ Owen Morgan turned, panic-stricken. ‘All the buds are dead. What’ll her ladyship say? Please, miss, I must find Mr. Bligh.’
‘Of course, Owen. I’ll just wait here until Mr. Goodman comes back.’
She wandered around, trying to work out whether it was worth taking photos when all the marvellous colours would be lost. The knot garden, however dull in fact, would turn out better on film, but Boreas deserved a picture, she decided.
Presumably he was supposed to be exhaling a gale from his conch, though hair, beard, and tunic were all streaming in the opposite direction and he actually faced north-east. Moving from side to side, she tried to work out the best angle for a shot. She was wondering whether to go and fetch her camera or wait for Mr. Goodman when Owen returned.
He brought with him a wheelbarrow, spade, and fork, and a bent, weatherbeaten ancient. Mr. Bligh wore a drooping tweed deerstalker of an indeterminate colour, breeches tied at the knees with string, and woolly gaiters in startling pink and blue stripes. He tipped his hat to Daisy, revealing a hairless scalp as weatherbeaten as his face, and brown eyes as bright and knowing as a sparrow’s.
‘Fine marnin’, miss,’ he remarked, and went to examine the patient.
Owen followed him, looking anxious. Daisy hoped he wasn’t going to be blamed for whatever disaster had overtaken the azalea and the irises. The poor boy was unhappy enough already.
‘She’s dead,’ said Mr. Bligh. ‘Dig’er out, lad, an’ we s’ll find summat else to put in afore her la’ship takes a fancy to come by. I s’ll take kindly, miss,’ he added unexpectedly to Daisy, ‘if ’ee’ll not tell her la’ship, being she don’t foller as you can’t lay down the law to plants like you can to people.’
‘I shan’t say a word,’ Daisy promised as Owen took the spade and started digging, watched by the old man propped against the wheelbarrow. Returning to the statue, she realized the sun was just right for the pose she wanted. ‘I’m going to fetch my camera,’ she said to the head gardener. ‘If Mr. Goodman comes, tell him I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
‘Right, miss. What is it, lad?’
‘There’s something in the way, Mr. Bligh. ’Bout a foot and a half down. Like a mass of roots it feels.’
‘Try the fork, but go at it easy like. Don’t want to do any more damage.’
Daisy left them to the new puzzle and sped back to the house. She had already put a fresh roll of film in the camera. Returning laden with equipment through the Long Hall, she met Ben Goodman on his way to rejoin her.
‘You won’t mind if I dash ahead?’ she said. ‘I have to hurry to catch the light.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll follow at my own pace.’
When she reached the Winter Garden, she was surprise to see that Owen had dug a trench right across the bare patch of soil. He and Mr. Bligh stood at one end, gazing down with fascinated revulsion.
‘Go on, have a look,’ urged Mr. Bligh.
Owen knelt in the dirt. Reaching down, he moved something at the bottom of the trench.
‘Oh God! Oh God!’ He flung himself backwards onto his heels, his arms across his face. ‘It’s her. It’s my Grace.’
Table of Contents
Cover
Author biography
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication page
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17