Best-Laid Plants

by Marty Wingate

You seek to defeat me, Delphinium Kestrel—you with the lapis flowers like spurred jewels marching skyward. You want sun, but not too hot; water, although not a swamp; soil neither heavy nor light. You are finicky to a fault, but you know your worth. And those stems—you demand that I tie you to a stake as if you were Jeanne d’Arc.

  Pru turned to share this poetic observation with Christopher to find he had fallen asleep with a book on his chest and reading glasses on his nose. She carefully removed both and set them next to the flashlight he had left on her nightstand. She reached across Christopher and switched off his reading lamp and then her own—grateful that Mr. Draycott had left the multitude of tiny lamps in the B&B on their own switches. She snuggled under the covers, nestling her backside up against Christopher, who instantly threw his arm round her and pulled her close.

  The pool—finished, cured, filled. We celebrated today with champagne and a swim—C with long, elegant strokes while the girl splashed at the edge and giggled with delight. BB

  Chapter 9

  “You had no trouble on your journey yesterday morning, Ms. Parke?” Mrs. Draycott asked as she set down a dish of Cynthia’s marmalade. “I understand you met Lizzy along the way. And did you catch sight of Mr. Tod?”

  Pru remembered the bushy tail slipping round the corner of the cottage. “Just barely—perhaps I’ll meet him today.”

  “Well, Mr. Pearse, it’s very good of you to offer to take a look at that pesky drain at the back. You’ll find Mr. Draycott’s toolbox in the shed next to the henhouse. Please let me know if there’s anything else you need. Now I’ll leave you two to your breakfast.”

  They both avoided the bay-leaf-infused marmalade.

  “You won’t become Mrs. Draycott’s odd-job man now, will you?” Pru asked.

  “I certainly don’t intend to. But I don’t mind helping out, and I’ll look forward to lunch with you at the pub.”

  —

  The cows and the bull stayed on their own side of the field, and Pru saw no sign of Lizzy Sprackling or Mr. Tod—in fact, she encountered no one on her journey to Glebe House and arrived to a vacant yard and silence. The little Honda—she assumed Coral’s car—was in residence, so the woman must be somewhere. After knocking at the gardener’s shed, Pru tried the door—unlocked and empty, but she was reluctant to overstep her bounds. Should she try the front door? Pru had an image of Mr. Bede dragging himself from his sickbed in order to answer. No, she’d wait.

  Scanning the yard, a clump of belladonna lilies blooming along the wall of the house caught her eye. In her excitement to get into the garden the previous morning, she hadn’t paid them any mind, but now went for a closer look. Emerging leafless from the gravel, the tall stems were topped with clusters of funnel-shaped, bright-pink fragrant flowers. Pru had grown up calling them naked ladies. She bent over for a closer look.

  That’s when she saw that the painted gate to the courtyard at the end of the path stood ajar. Pru took this as an invitation, and she wasn’t one to say no. She made her way down and, with an index finger, pushed the gate open a bit wider—just enough room to slip inside.

  But she could go no farther, because the French doors stood wide open and voices drifted out. No, wait—she heard only one voice, male. She strained to understand what was being said, knowing it was eavesdropping but listening anyway.

  The voice grew stronger. It was, Pru felt sure, Mr. Bede—it was how she heard his voice in her head—forceful, intense, even a bit gravelly. Perhaps she could just say hello—introduce herself?

  “I won’t be bullied!” he exclaimed. “I’m putting you on notice. You mark my words. Now, go on with you.” The last words were squeezed out, followed by a coughing fit, but not so loud a cough that she didn’t hear the front door of the house close and footsteps on the gravel.

  Pru dashed back to the corner just as Coral got there, and, bending down to the belladonna lilies, inhaled deeply.

  “I admire such a spectacle in autumn, don’t you?”

  “I’m so sorry to be late, Pru,” Coral said, leading them into the garden shed. She wore a different full-skirt dress from the day before, this one a paisley print in autumnal tones with a short, rust-colored cardigan and shoes to match. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I was on the phone to a shop in Stow and then Uncle Batty had someone with him, and I was just this moment able to get in to sort out his lunch before I was free.”

  “How is Mr. Bede?” And whom had he been threatening just now?

  “He is…” Coral nodded once or twice and then shook her head. “Yesterday afternoon, he asked about you. He’s getting interested in the garden again, and that’s so encouraging.”

  “I’m so looking forward to meeting him.”

  “And I hope that can be soon.” Coral crossed to the desk and ran her hand round the carved trim. “I was out the other afternoon on an errand when the fellows finished the hedges, and Uncle Batty took it upon himself to settle up with them. When I returned, he was here at his desk.” She turned to Pru and smiled—a true smile that made her nose wrinkle, her eyes twinkle, and her mouth curl up at the corners. “It was a wonderful sight—just as he’d always been. I half expected to see my mother looking over his shoulder at one of their garden plans and laughing. They had such fun together.” The smile faded. “But I’m afraid he’s paid the price since. He barely touched his dinner last night.”

  “Are you taking care of things alone?”

  “A bit of cleaning, meals, a few errands—such small matters when I have so much to make up for.” Coral took a quick breath and returned her face to its mildly pleasant expression. “Well now, since I cannot offer you coffee, what do you need for your work today? Conduct your research in here? Or venture out into the jungle?”

  “Out,” Pru decided. “I saw a bit of the gardens yesterday, but I’d love to explore the rest this morning.” They walked to the door.

  “Do you need anything from in here before you begin?” Coral asked, waving vaguely around to the contents of the room.

  “Well, I do still have the journals,” Pru said. She had on purpose not put the notebooks back in her bag, hoping to spend more time with them. She’d started in again that morning, sitting up in bed, and skipping back and forth through time with Batsford Bede, getting a sense of both the garden and the man.

  Leaf mold—one can never have enough. Have thought about putting out an appeal each autumn: Bring me your leaves, your fallen foliage, yearning to return to earth.

  While reading, Pru had come across a stray receipt or two for plant orders. She went to tuck them into the inside back pocket of the notebook along with a handful of other receipts she noticed stashed there, but became fascinated by what Mr. Bede had ordered, how many of each plant, and the incredibly low cost of specialty perennials thirty-odd years ago. She ended up dumping the contents of the pocket onto the bed and spending another half hour reading through each transaction.

  “Should I return them?” Pru now asked with little enthusiasm. “Perhaps Mr. Bede would prefer his notebooks to stay here?”

  “Not a bit of it. I told Uncle Batty you’d taken them, and he was delighted. ‘That’s just the place for them, Coral,’ he said. ‘Safe and sound. You tell her I said that—I said to hold tight.’ ” She shrugged. “He knows they would mean nothing to me.”

  Coral walked with Pru past the first turquoise gate—the one that led to the courtyard with its French doors to the house and its path out to the Long View. They also passed the front door and continued until they reached the gate on the far side. This was how Pru had emerged from the gardens the day before. Both gates led to the gardens, but in different ways—perhaps the courtyard was meant to be private, off-limits. Pru made a mental note of that. They pushed through the gate, and Coral went as far as a sunny corner of the stone path, where gray-green, swordlike leaves emerged from a blanket of ground elder.

  “Oh dear,” Coral said, half to herself. “Those irises will have to be dug out and replanted, won
’t they? Iris likes to be planted like a duck sits on water—half in, half out.”

  So, Pru thought, she does know something about gardening.

  “Did your mother teach you that—about the iris? Or Mr. Bede?”

  Coral’s head snapped up. “No,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks. “I don’t know where I picked that up.” She brushed imaginary dust off the front of her dress. “Well now, Pru, I’ll leave you to it once again. Shall we meet up midday tomorrow, and you can let me know how you’re getting on?”

  —

  Pru crossed the path at the top of the Thyme Walk and made her way through much of the rest of the landscape. In the Herb Garden, tall yew hedges created a sun trap, and beds radiated from the center, where stood one of Mr. Bede’s Italianate statues—a fellow in a toga atop a stone plinth. Perhaps he represented Pliny the Elder from ancient Rome, but it was difficult to tell as he had a missing nose and arm, and his toga had melted—that is, the limestone had worn away. At least his feet stood firm on their support. Pru wondered did Batsford Bede get a good deal on the job lot of Italianate stonework, seeing as how most were in such poor condition?

  Shrubby herbs had survived the neglect. Sages—variegated and the purple variety—and rosemary sprawled over the paving stones, and as Pru stepped over branches, she brushed the foliage, releasing its pungent scent. Oregano had reseeded and colonized every bed—three-foot-high stems now topped with browned seedheads. Corner beds were filled with lilac-purple flowers of the native betony still blooming bravely into autumn.

  She moved from one garden room to another, and even walked out to the abandoned glasshouses, now empty except for a light carpeting of weeds, ivy snaking its way up support posts, and the occasional broken pane of glass that had crashed to the ground. In some parts of the garden, she had to fight her way through, beating off rambunctious clematis and stepping over stems of spirea and viburnums that had thrown themselves across paths. But regardless of its condition, Pru delighted to recognize what she’d read about and seen photos of: the Snowdrop Path—a highlight in winter, the Acer Corner, Magnolia Mound.

  When Pru reached the Pool Garden, she paused at the top of three steps and sighed at its simple beauty. A circle in a square—the round water feature, about thirty feet across, edged in Cotswold stone, and surrounded by walls of yew. No more than four feet deep, she remembered—two aboveground, two below.

  The pool itself had not escaped infestation—duckweed now covered the surface of the water like a thin green blanket, but it did not lessen the visual impact and the sense of timelessness. Pru could almost hear the sounds of laughter and splashing—they bounced around the space, echoes from years ago.

  Corner beds edged in low boxwood were a tangle of growth punctuated by surprise—here she saw the willowleaf gentian, each arching stem lined with sky-blue flowers, and there, shooting thornless stems over the top of the hedge, a rose, blushed with the palest pink and still in bloom in October. Madame Alfred Carriere, Pru guessed, escaped from the White Garden on the other side. She could smell its sweet scent from where she stood.

  She sat on the edge of the pool, breathing in the combination of fragrant rose and rank water, and began writing in her own notebook—thoughts, observations, recommendations. After a while, she stripped off her linen shirt and marveled that she could wear only a cami top in October and still be warm. She stayed for more than an hour, until the heat and a few flies drove her off, and she left for the pub. It was a good start to her assessment of the renovations needed to bring the gardens at Glebe House back to their former glory. She needed to talk with someone who knew the place in its early days. Lizzy Sprackling, possibly—Lizzy remembered the garden being built. Oliver had seen it at its zenith, or close to—perhaps she could persuade him to walk through with her.

  —

  Pru’s thoughts carried her to the Horse & Groom, where she took a moment to admire the pub owner’s sense of humor. The painted sign hanging above the door showed a man in a wedding suit holding a nosegay, while beside him stood a dappled mare wearing a white lace veil. Horse & Groom, indeed. She didn’t recall the sign from her visit three years earlier—must be a new addition.

  Tables, dotted round the lawn, had already filled with customers happy to drink their pints and glasses of wine outdoors on a sunny day in October. She didn’t spot Christopher, and so she pulled open the wooden door and stepped inside, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the reduced light before she moved farther.

  When they had, she saw Christopher and Cyn at the bar. They stood close, and Cynthia had the palms of her hands on his chest, leaning up into his face and talking intently. Christopher didn’t speak, but had put his hands on her elbows.

  Pru gulped down a couple of breaths in an attempt to keep from slipping into melodrama and marching over to declare, “Take your hands off my husband!” So intent was she on keeping herself in check, she didn’t notice the door open behind her.

  “ ’Allo, ’allo,” a voice beside her said softly. “The clientele at the Horse & Groom certainly has changed since my last visit—and for the better, I’d say.”

  Pru tore her eyes away from the scene at the bar long enough to glance beside her and see a man with thinning ginger hair gelled and arranged in short spikes that didn’t quite suit his age—mid sixties? He sported one small gold loop earring and wide-bottomed denims just a bit too tight around his middle.

  She gave him a quick look and a distant smile, saying, “Hello,” before shifting her gaze to Christopher and Cyn, neither of whom had taken notice.

  “Come here often?” the fellow asked, followed by a mock cringe. “Ooh, sorry—that’s an old one, isn’t it? Listen, if you’re on your own, could I buy you a drink? Wait now, better do this the proper way and introduce myself first. I’m Seamus—”

  “See here, old man, no harassing the customers!” Danny Sheridan stood behind the bar with a broad smile on his face.

  “Ah now,” Seamus called back, grinning. “Your father isn’t so old I can’t chat up a good-looking woman.”

  That exchange brought all eyes their way—even Dr. Cherrystone, across the room, lowered his newspaper and peered over his reading glasses. Pru wished for nothing more at that moment than to back out the door or to transform into a piece of furniture.

  “Excuse me,” she mumbled to Seamus, and made for the bar, where Cyn broke into a wide smile and rushed forward.

  “Pru!”

  “I can see I’ve lost this round,” Seamus called after Pru, “but I’m not beyond trying again.”

  Christopher glared at the man who took a stool at the empty end of the bar and didn’t seem to notice.

  Cyn covered Pru’s hands with her own as Pru clutched the straps of her bag with white knuckles. “Isn’t it lucky to see you both again?” Cynthia asked. “I know you’re in the village for Coral, but your stay at the Copper Beech means the world to Fabia. You should’ve heard her on our walk this morning—how she enjoys you both and about how helpful Christopher is. I’ve just been telling him.”

  “You’ve been talking about the drains?” Pru asked brightly.

  Christopher put his arm round Pru’s shoulders and tugged slightly, disengaging Cyn’s grasp on her.

  “I’m afraid the drains are an ongoing saga,” Christopher said. “What will you have?”

  “I’ll have a half of the Wye Valley Bitter, thanks.” Christopher turned away to order, leaving the women alone. Pru searched for a conversation topic. “Cynthia, your jam and marmalade are quite good—and such interesting flavors.”

  “I confess to be quite taken with jams and jellies and sauces and pickles,” Cynthia said with bountiful enthusiasm. “I’ve something special I’d love for you to try—I’ll drop it off to Fabia.”

  Pru hoped she wouldn’t have to try cilantro-laden treacle next. “Will you join us for lunch?” she asked. Christopher still had his back to them, so she sensed, rather than saw, him tense. True, she wasn’t sure if she could ta
ke an entire meal with the woman, but what could she do?

  “No, I must run—I’ve a one-thirty.” Cynthia put a hand on each of their arms and Pru steeled herself for a group hug, but she received only a squeeze. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

  As Pru watched the pub door close, she asked, “A one-thirty what?”

  “I have no idea.”

  —

  After a quick trip to the ladies’, Pru returned to find Christopher had secured their old settle and seated himself so that he could keep his eyes on the fellow sitting at the end of the bar. A slight frown hovered over his brow.

  “Did he say who he is?” Christopher asked her.

  A throwback to a 1970s British comedy? “He’s Seamus,” she said. “He’s Danny’s father.”

  Christopher made an unintelligible noise that Pru had no difficulty interpreting, and it made her smile.

  “What’s up with Cyn?” she asked.

  Christopher rubbed his face. “I don’t know what she wants from me.”

  Over the rim of her glass, Pru asked, “Don’t you?”

  He flashed a look at her. “No—well, that had better not be it, because she’ll be out of luck. Cyn says she wants to talk with me about something—that she could use my help. I’m not inclined to offer.”

  But he would. Helping was in his nature—there was no avoiding it. It was why he became a policeman. Perhaps Cynthia remembered that.

  Lost a fine Japanese Stewartia through no fault of its own. Heavy clay lurked below a loamy layer of soil, waiting its chance. Am determined to be more aware of hidden dangers. BB

  Chapter 10

  The third morning, Pru had a close encounter of the bovine kind.

  She began her journey from the B&B going over the brief conversation she’d had with Mrs. Draycott concerning Cynthia and her…field of employment. “It isn’t always possible to define a person’s contribution to life—some have an ever-shifting responsibility to the well-being of others, and they become what’s needed in the moment.” It had left Pru with the image of Cyn as a chameleon.