The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  Megs was skinny but tough—a sleek ebony thoroughbred compared to Pip’s sturdy stockhorse—but these days she seemed barely strong enough to lift Chloé. Recovery from the caesarean section probably didn’t help. Their mother, Mary—midwife and maternal nurse—had begged Megs to take some more leave last time she was over visiting from Victoria.

  Megs had replied, deadpan: ‘Mum, I’m a trauma surgeon. I spend half my time in emergency. Will’s the surgeon in charge. I think we’ve got this.’

  Pip had made the mistake of asking Megs last week if she was getting enough sleep.

  Her sister’s response had been sharp: ‘Bloody hell. Not you too! Mum asked me the same thing. Nobody is asking Will if he’s okay, how he’s managing with work and the baby.’

  It wasn’t like Megs to swear. Pip knew better than to push her, but it did seem like she was missing the point. After all, it wasn’t Will who’d had the C-section, and he wasn’t breastfeeding. He was amazing, doing bathtime, nappy changes and seriously daggy dad-cooing, from what Pip had seen, but still …

  Pip needed to pop in and visit Megs more often, she decided. Mind the baby so her sister could go for a gentle walk. Or just go out for a coffee. Did Megs drink coffee these days—or was it on the banned substances list? Megs needed sunshine. Sunshine, food and rest. They couldn’t be banned, surely?

  ‘Pip! Are you listening to me?’ Megs snapped her fingers in front of Pip’s face. ‘Tune in.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ Pip smiled.

  ‘I just think if you want to finish your thesis before the wedding, you have to prioritise.’ Megs touched Pip’s arm and spoke softly. ‘Hey, I know you’re anxious about this buyout. It’s a massive decision. That pressure would give me sleepless nights.’ She gave a wan laugh. ‘And that’s saying something!’

  Pip squeezed her sister’s hand, moved that Megs admitted to being ever so slightly human.

  ‘But what’s this now about you both going to Italy?’ asked Megs, snapping back to her stern voice.

  ‘Jack wants to see how they make wine in Tuscany. See if we can apply it here.’ Pip was too embarrassed to admit Jack had booked the flights without first checking whether it fitted with her shifting research schedule. Lately, it felt like Pip always had to wedge her life around Jack’s plans—as if her doctorate was some kind of hobby.

  ‘And you can help with that how exactly?’

  Pip forced herself to keep smiling so hard that her jaw started to ache. ‘It’s a big commitment. We have to be sure.’ She shook her head. She wasn’t sure of anything.

  Except Jack.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Pip asked, to change the subject. Megs and Will ticked off goals like ordinary people did items on a shopping list—uncertainty just didn’t exist in their world. There was no point trying to explain her dilemma; Megs wouldn’t understand.

  She glanced at Megs, feeling churlish, then immediately regretted her bad temper. Her sister looked shattered. Her skin was as pale and translucent as a scallop, her skinny jeans sagged at the back. Someone could probably carbon date Megs at the moment by counting the black rings around her eyes. Pip would make something delicious for Megs. Maybe she could even talk her into having a little rest in the spare room after lunch? She’d put a fresh set of crisp white sheets on the bed just last night, before she ended up sleeping in them—but she didn’t want to think about that just now. It was a silly moving-in tiff, that was all.

  Pip would insist Megs had an hour’s rest today. It was sweet of her to come and help Pip unpack and sort the cottage, but as she scanned the room she saw there were only the pots, a few bags of clothes, three chardonnay boxes of spreadsheets and notes and the snorkelling gear on the front verandah. She would just get these lovely copper pots sorted and then she could fix them all Jack’s favourite lunch—a toasted corned beef, cheese and green tomato pickle sandwich. Pip lifted a hefty saucing pot out of the box, but the lid was wedged on tight. She needed to get the lid off to stack the last tiny pot inside.

  ‘Pass me a knife please, Megs.’ She propped the pot between her legs to hold it firm and tried to lever the lid with a butter knife, but the blade bent into a right angle.

  Pip laughed. ‘We’ve got a stubborn one here. Can you please get me a screwdriver from Jack’s toolbox, in the corner over there?’

  Megs fetched the screwdriver and handed it to Pip with a slight frown. ‘Be careful you don’t poke a hole in your hand.’

  Pip jemmied the screwdriver under the lid and twisted it from side to side. The screwdriver scraping metal sounded like empty scuba tanks scraping the edge of a dinghy as she hoisted them into the boat. She winced, clutched the handle and tugged.

  From under the lid came the scent of stale musty copper, but also the faintest trace of wood. Inside the dark pot rested a scroll of paper about the length of her hand tied with a piece of brown string. Reaching in, she gingerly lifted up the mysterious parcel. Sweet-smelling faded red-pink rose petals and a mummified piece of what looked a bit like wormwood—Artemisia—dropped out. It had obviously been pressed flat when it was still lush. But how long ago? Now the feathery fronds had lost their chlorophyll pigments, hardened and turned silver—like the delicate antique French lace she’d been eyeing off for her wedding dress.

  Gently, Pip held the plant frond up to the light. The fretwork in this single leaf was perfection, like the curve and swell of a clam shell. Each shape in nature was perfect in its oddity. She lifted the fragile leaf and inhaled the faint bitter woody scent with traces of liquorice—and a lot of dust—before gently placing it down on the wooden benchtop. Her mother had always grown wormwood in her garden at Mount Macedon because the pungent smell rubbed off onto the feathers of the chickens as they brushed past and kept them free of fleas and lice. Sometimes, Mary had even made the girls drink a tea made from wormwood when she suspected they had worms or a stomach ache. But mostly Mary picked handfuls of the silver foliage to catch the light in the glass vases she arranged around the living room.

  Pip picked up the scroll, untied the string and slowly rolled it out on the bench. There were a dozen pieces of faded brown paper—surely that couldn’t be parchment? It looked seriously old, whatever it was.

  ‘Here, Megs. Look at this.’ She held up the brown pages to the kitchen window one by one. Each piece was thick, but translucent. She could see the fibres threaded through it and it reminded her of looking at microalgae in Petri dishes through the microscope.

  ‘This looks like handmade paper. How beautiful. I wonder how old it is?’ She turned it over and studied the writing, crisp with ink. ‘It’s written in French.’

  In one smooth move, Megs reached behind the bench and into her handbag and threw Pip a set of surgical gloves. ‘Put these on so you don’t ruin the paper. We don’t want those pages falling apart.’

  ‘I can’t believe you carry spare sets of gloves. That’s so sad,’ said Pip as she snapped them on.

  Pip looked at the top page. ‘Hmm. I don’t think it’s a letter. More like some kind of list.’ She read the heading, written in an ornate script. The ink had faded and the writing was as curly as an endive but she could just make it out.

  ‘Eau de rose. That’s easy: rosewater. Pour faire ung lot de bon hypocras. I think that means to make a lot of good … something. Good hypocras. Whatever that is.’

  She scanned the rest: ‘Cinamonde, gingembre, garingal, vin de Beaune—that’s Burgundy, pinot. I think this is some kind of recipe, maybe for spiced wine. Maybe that’s what this hypocras is?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Megs walked around the bench to stand behind Pip and read, chin resting on her little sister’s shoulder. ‘We never did anything like that in French.’

  ‘I think it’s pretty fair to say you didn’t do anything in French.’

  ‘I got an A minus, actually. So yes, a bit of a glitch. Anyway, I work in surgery. People are mostly out cold. No need for French.’

  ‘And people wonder what’s wrong with doctors these d
ays.’ Pip laughed, shaking her head as she flicked through the pages. The next page had a heading: Marzapane. Marzipan? The following: Crespes. She was pretty sure that meant crepes when she read the opening line: Prenez de la fleur et déstrempez d’oeufs tant moyeux comme aubuns, osté le germe—

  ‘Actually, I think there’s some Latin in there. Or Italian. It’s a weird mix of French and Latin, I reckon.’

  ‘Here, let me see the Latin. I understand a bit.’

  Pip turned and raised her eyebrows at Megs. ‘Since when did you study Latin?’

  ‘Medicine. Anatomy.’

  ‘Well then clearly I know more than you; I know plants and animals. Zoology.’ She turned her attention back to the pages. ‘I have no idea where these came from,’ she said, holding them up to the light as if she were studying specimens. The paper lit up as if it were full of hairs. It felt robust, despite its obvious age.

  She placed the pile of soft, muddy-coloured parchment on the bench and rolled it up again, securing it with the string once more. ‘They’ve had these pots forever but they’ve obviously never opened them. Otherwise Mum would know about these notes, wouldn’t she?’ Pip went to a wooden wine box in the corner of the living room and picked through bottles of preservatives, measuring jugs, mesh bags, sieves and probes until she found a new thousand-millilitre specimen jar. ‘Anyway, this’ll keep them nice and clean until we work out what they are.’

  From a bedroom down the hallway, the baby started a desperate cry.

  ‘I’ll get her,’ said Pip as she put the notes into the jar and then whacked her shirt to remove the dust.

  ‘No! Let Eva get her—you’re filthy. What if she’s asthmatic? Or has dust mite allergies?’

  The crying subsided and two minutes later Eva walked into the room jiggling a placated Chloé, who was swaddled in a pale pink cashmere blanket. Pip ripped her dusty work shirt off so she was just in a white singlet, washed her hands and rushed to lift the baby from the nanny. ‘Come here, Chloé. Let Aunty Pip have a snuggle.’ She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet yeasty smell as she tucked Chloé’s head in under her chin. She could feel the feathery hair against her cheek and chuckled at the disproportionate slurping as the baby vigorously sucked her own fist. ‘Is she hungry? She’s making a racket here.’

  ‘Her fist? Pull it out. I don’t want her developing an overbite. I might borrow a towel and have a quick shower so I can give her a feed. Eva, would you mind warming a top-up bottle in a saucepan on the stove for me? Use a small one, please, not those crazy things.’ She gestured to the old pots with a frown.

  ‘I have a microwave. We also embrace technology in this cottage, you know!’

  ‘No microwaves,’ Megs ordered. ‘Distributes the heat unevenly so it could burn her mouth.’

  ‘Sor-ry!’ Pip said with an eye roll at Eva. Eva gave her a shy smile in return as she headed into the kitchen.

  Pip kissed the top of Chloé’s head and idly rubbed her cheek against the baby’s hair, placing a finger where the fine charcoal hair whorled at the base of the crown. Chloé wriggled like a slug in her swaddling. She took a deep breath and rocked back and forth, trying to swallow the feeling that something was askew. It had been Jack who insisted they set a date for the wedding. Pip wasn’t sure what the rush was. Everyone knew they would get hitched sooner or later. But then he’d booked these tickets to Tuscany without consulting her. Pip understood his sense of urgency. He was excited and Pip was desperate to go with him—who wouldn’t be? But Imogen had been adamant that Pip would get no further extensions.

  What was Pip going to do? How could she support Jack and finish her PhD?

  Pip consoled herself with a squeeze of little Chloé’s sausage calf. Next year was so uncertain. Her research was critical; it was too easy for most people to dismiss patterns of the ocean. Who cared about benthic invertebrates—they were never going to be front-page news, right? But Pip did. She cared deeply about the creatures and seabeds no-one could see. If she quit studying now without proving things needed to change, what kind of channel would she leave for delicious babies like Chloé? So why did Jack make out she was the one who was being difficult? That she was dragging the chain, somehow.

  Right now, all she knew was she loved Jack like crazy but their plans were a bit at odds. Perhaps she should make some changes to her workload to meet the date of the wedding? That was what marriage was about, wasn’t it? Compromise.

  The scent of the rose petals and Artemisia filled the living room and lingered in her nostrils, the deep sweet tones of treacle and aniseed with an earthy, bitter kicker.

  Pip turned around and opened her eyes to see Jack leaning against the doorframe, his shoulders almost filling the space. Head cocked to one side, dark curls tumbling across his forehead, curious blue eyes and an unmistakable grin from ear to ear. How long had he been standing there?

  Chapter 2

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  Andreas was grateful for the warming scent of rosewater against his skin this chilly morning. He tugged hard on the reins to slow his cart as he neared the wrought-iron gates marking the entrance. They were wide open as carts from the village would be rolling past all hours today. The hunched gatekeeper stepped closer to get a look at the face in the low dawn light. ‘In you go,’ said the old man, nodding in recognition as the young épicier removed his hood.

  Andreas smiled, nodded and shook the reins to urge his handsome pair of black warmbloods on. He was in a hurry this morning as he wanted to unload with enough time left over to hand over his gift. They mustn’t get caught.

  The cart moved past an oversized stone barn with square twin watchtowers on his left. He’d heard it said that during the last few bloody weeks of the final Crusades all the womenfolk and children of the surrounding estates took shelter within the thick walls of this barn—huddled in stinking heat as their village was torched and their brothers, husbands and sons were lined up, gutted or hanged. Today, the wooden doors were ajar and several monks in drab brown tunics swept armfuls of damp straw from the flagstone floors and stuffed it through a tiny window into the adjacent hog pens. The stale straw would stifle the scent of dung and filthy animals spreading beyond the barn area during the high heat of the day when the wedding guests arrived. Who wanted to smell dung on their way to the fanciest feast of the year, for battle-weary knight Lord Boschaud, owner of Château de Boschaud, and the fair Lady Rose, daughter of the Duke of Clinchy? It would hardly be a good omen. With a bit of luck, the monks might throw some armfuls of lavender and rosemary in. They would if Artemisia had anything to do with it. He shivered with cold and anticipation.

  Beyond the hogs, cages full of roosters, ducks and chickens shrieked to welcome the dawn. They were lucky; their kin would be hanging on hooks this morning, bled, ready to be threaded onto the rotisserie. His mouth watered.

  His musings were interrupted as the horses drew close to the château itself. The rising sun hit the granite walls and spread to each corner, making it look as though it had magically appeared in the vast gardens. He could feel the same sun warming his back and he halted the walk of his horses to enjoy the light unveiling the view in front of him. The château appeared far more workmanlike than most along the plateau and he supposed it was originally built to protect and defend Boschaud blood. It was a three-storey rectangular box flanked by two round turrets with the same slate conical roofs as those on the main part of the fort. Between the round turrets, tacked on as though it were an afterthought, was a tall square turret that ranged a little higher, and he could just make out the smallest of windows tucked under the eaves. He’d always wondered what this tiny room could be used for.

  He ran his eye once more over the strong lines of the château. It was plain, to be sure, but he wouldn’t complain if it were his.

  A pair of guard dogs lay sprawled on the wide stone forecourt, taking their fill of the sun before the day started. A blanket of green lawn stretched across to the far boundary hedge. Red an
d yellow poppies, feverfew, wispy grasses, wheat, dandelion and daisies glistened with dew and swayed in the faint morning breeze—bordered by a circular gravel road wide enough for two carts to pass. Beyond the strewe, a handful of monks were crouched low, chattering and swinging hoes to trim the grass from the flagstones leading to the front door. The giant linden tree in the middle of the field had also been given a decent prune. About time. Both lawn and tree had been starting to look scrappy and nobody wanted that on such an important day. Andreas whistled and tapped the small parcel concealed under his shirt. Yes indeed, he thought as he gently shook the reins, today was going to be perfect.

  Instead of following the wide path to the front door, Andreas peeled off onto a smaller delivery road that led past the south turret to the terrace outside the kitchen and cold store. He recognised the speciality wooden carts of his fellow village merchants. The oyer—the specialist goose roaster from the village—was unloading a dozen roast geese swaddled in linen. Once the yellow cloth was peeled away the skin would be golden, the flesh would be tender and succulent. The lingering scent of cloves and nutmeg meant the fowl were still warm, wrapped beneath the cloth. His mouth watered. He hadn’t a chance to down a bowl of green porée with a slice of ham for breakfast before he loaded up his delivery.

  Beside the oyer’s cart was the boulanger’s. Hundreds of small white pillowy rolls were layered in deep wicker baskets. Beside them were the less attractive trenchers—piles of stale dry flat bread used for serving food. All were being unloaded by a trio of nuggety lads. Andreas leaned over and picked up a roll, winking. ‘Merci.’ He laughed as a scowling face batted away his hand as it reached for a second roll.

  The rickety cart of the oubloyer stood six feet away. The kitchen had obviously ordered a cartload of thin pancakes from the village to accompany the soups. Andreas didn’t know why they bothered. Eating oublies was the equivalent of eating parchment. A waste of time. The tethered mule beside him seemed to agree, snorting and stamping his rear hoof in disgust. The tawny-headed oubloyer carried the crates one by one into the kitchen and dipped his head in a silent greeting as he passed. Everyone was far too busy unloading deliveries to stop for chit-chat.