The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  She paused. Why did everyone expect her to choose between her wedding and her work? Why could she not find her own way? Pip poured her guilt and uncertainty into the dough and folded it over twice, pounding it with the heel of her hand for good measure.

  ‘At least my job at Zest is good.’ Pip took another gulp of wine.

  Megs walked around the island bench to stand beside Pip and stack the cutlery from the dishwasher into a drawer with quiet precision. Megs looked sceptical. She was eyeing the bucket of clams and the bunch of fresh parsley Pip had picked from the garden on her way into the house. Pip bet that Megs didn’t even realise they had parsley growing in their neglected cottage garden.

  ‘Pip,’ Megs said, ‘I get it. I wanted to pass my final surgical exams before we got married. Will was desperate to travel. Desperate. He’d lined up that residency in Germany, remember? He’d already passed six months earlier, but I still needed to finish. I didn’t want to have to come back and study.’

  ‘So Will waited until you passed your surgery exams,’ Pip reminded her. ‘But you and Will wanted the same thing. Jack’s more settled. He’s trying to buy out his parents and then he wants to start a family.’

  ‘Oh! Already?’ Megs started. ‘I mean, that’s great—if it’s what you want. Is it?’

  Pip didn’t know how much to reveal. ‘Of course I do. I mean, look at Chloé—I could just eat her. It’s just …’

  Megs caught her eye and nodded before finishing the sentence for her: ‘You want to put all that study to work.’ She put her hand over Pip’s, leaned in and said with a whisper, ‘I get it, Pip. You’re right. You need to finish before you do anything else. Otherwise it will break the flow and you’ll never finish.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Pip nodded, relieved her sister understood. So why couldn’t Jack?

  The way he talked about their future, it sounded like a romantic dream. Take over the vineyard. Have a baby. Easy. But what he wasn’t factoring in was that she had a doctorate to complete and then, she hoped, a job she loved. But that would all be closed to her if she had a baby and they bought Ashfield House. Jack had said he’d help—take the baby in the pram to work around the vineyard during the day. But how realistic was that if she was breastfeeding?

  She’d seen her female colleagues at the Institute for Marine and Antarctic Studies struggle, up all night with a baby, in at the lab during the day, juggling childcare pickups before heading home to cook and clean. It was like they had three jobs. It never stopped.

  Imogen had quipped to Pip as she held up a vase-sized takeaway coffee one morning, ‘Pip, we should be so proud of all our goddamn education. Now I get to do all the work my dad did plus all the work Mum did too when I get home.’ Pip had quietly thought Imogen should review her husband situation, but she was hardly going to rub salt into the wound. Will seemed to pull his weight, and they had Eva, of course. Still, she saw how shattered Megs was. And Megs was the most capable person Pip knew—how the hell was Pip supposed to handle it?

  Pip adored Jack. And she wanted it all too: house, career, family. She just didn’t have the energy to do anything else properly before her thesis was done. Up until the last week, Jack had agreed with her.

  Megs closed the dishwasher and turned to face Pip. ‘Have you told Jack how you feel?’

  ‘I’ve tried. He’s a little hurt I don’t want to go to Italy. I get it—it’s nuts! My fiancé has bought me a ticket to Tuscany and I can’t go. Who wouldn’t be mad? But I’ve been working on this data for three years. Three goddamn years. I need to rerun these tests then write up my thesis!’ She slumped against the kitchen bench, deflated. ‘It’s not that I’m ungrateful. It’s just that everything I’ve been working for is about to come to a standstill.’

  ‘I think you’re right: Tuscany might be too much this year. Just explain it to Jack—I’m sure he’ll get it.’

  That was the problem. She had explained. And he still didn’t get it.

  ‘I’ll try to talk it through with him again tonight. I’m sure we can work something out.’ She reached out and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. ‘Hey, thanks,’ she said. Opening a drawer, she located a rolling pin then began to roll out the dough. ‘Maybe it’s just my turning-thirty crisis?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Megs chuckled. ‘Speaking of crises, have you seen the beard Will’s got going on?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Pip, nodding. ‘What’s with that? You can’t have blond hipsters. The last Nordic god to have a beard was Thor, I think. Tell him it’s gotta go. What’s next—a man-bun?’

  They both laughed and the tension was diffused.

  Pip spread the silky sheets of pasta flat on the benchtop and started cutting rough narrow strips of fettuccine using a paring knife.

  The sing-song chime of a Skype call sounded on the sleek Mac perched at the end of the bench. Megs turned the laptop around to face them.

  Their mother’s smiling face and dark bob—almost identical to Megs’s—popped onto the screen. She was sitting at the desk in the office, and their father hovered behind. As usual, his top half was cut off, so all the girls could see of David was a rotund ‘cheese-and-wine gut’, as he liked to call it.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ chorused the sisters.

  ‘Hello, girls, nice to see you. Have you had a good week? Your father and I have been pickling all the green tomatoes this weekend. I’ll bring you some next time I visit. Now how is that sweet baby? In bed by now, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, Mum,’ said Megs. ‘All snuggled up and sound asleep. Chloé’s wonderful—doing all the normal baby things. Eating and sleeping!’

  ‘And what about you, dear? Are you sleeping?’ Mary was frowning. ‘Darlings, you’ve both got those black rings under your eyes again. Are you getting enough iron? And sleep? Pip, you’re not fretting too much about your thesis again, I hope. Get Jack to cook you a steak.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, I’m fine,’ Pip lied, then, to change the subject, said: ‘So I unpacked those big old pots—’

  ‘Do they all fit in the kitchen, darling?’ Mary interrupted.

  ‘Not quite, but I’m working on it. Jack’s building some more shelves. But anyway, there were these old French recipes and letters in one of the pots. The lid was jammed on—almost impossible to get off.’

  ‘Oh! I’ve never seen any recipes. David, have you?’

  A thick grey head of hair ducked into the corner of the screen and bobbed from side to side.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ said Pip. ‘Any idea where they could have come from?’

  ‘Hmm. Let me see.’ Mary frowned and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘The pots were a wedding gift from David’s great-aunt Margot, I think—you remember, Megs: we named you for her, though of course the name was shortened the minute you started preschool. Anyway, Margot was French. But I’m not sure if the pots came out here from France with her. I mean, could they have?’

  ‘They could have come from a flea market,’ David grunted.

  Mary continued: ‘Aunt Margot had some kind of family link to an old château in France. Near Châlus. She used to holiday there in the summer. Remember? We went there for lunch one day when we had that holiday in France. Megs was nine, so you must have been four, Pip.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I remember that place,’ said Megs, nodding. ‘An old castle with an overgrown garden around the back surrounded by a wall? Bit of a dump, really.’ Megs wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I don’t remember it at all,’ said Pip. ‘You think I’d remember a fancypants château.’

  ‘There were two turrets,’ Megs recalled ‘A big round one at the front with a staircase in it. At the top was a tiny room with a window. The maiden’s room, the owner Madame Boschaud called it. Surely you remember that? They said it was haunted. Maybe that château is where the pots are from. What was the name of the place?’

  ‘Château de Boschaud,’ said David.

  ‘That’s it.’ Megs clicked her fingers. ‘I remember now. We stopped in at that café in the town square
and had a croissant and Orangina. There were plaques about Richard the Lionheart. He carked it in the town somewhere. Some battle. Died of a stab wound.’ Megs cocked her head to one side and gave a cheeky smile: ‘Betcha I could’ve saved him.’

  Pip shook her head. ‘So back to the old letters. Can you find out where they came from, Mum?’

  ‘I’ll try, darling.’

  ‘Thanks. So how about you two? How’s work?’

  ‘Oh, lots of lovely juicy newborn babies this week in the clinic. Bonanza.’

  Pip looked over at her sister, who was furiously wiping streak marks off the stainless-steel bench.

  ‘And Dad?’

  The screen filled with his pink face. ‘Good, good, thanks, Pip. Bloody funding battles—nothing new. Up every night trying to get paperwork sorted. I guess it’s the same in your department. Heard anything?’

  ‘Oh, I should be okay,’ Pip lied again. She didn’t want to worry them. ‘Will there be enough pickles for me?’

  ‘Plenty. So how are your latest results looking?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Pip broke in. ‘Gotta go. The guys are back from fishing. Speak soon.’ She pressed the key to end the call.

  Her worries about her thesis could be left for another day. At least they hadn’t asked about the wedding.

  Pip walked to the dining area carrying one of Megs’s elegant pale blue porcelain platters laden with the steaming pasta, filling the room with the scent of garlic and the ocean. Megs had set the table at one end for a cosy Sunday night dinner. The Danish lines of the furniture were offset with large white plates, balloon pinot glasses and a small jam jar filled with a handful of dainty blue love-in-a-mist that Pip had plucked from the overflowing cottage garden beds surrounding the house. The days of the sweet rambling garden beds dotted with old-fashioned blooms and roses were numbered: there was a landscaper coming next week to give Megs’s garden an austere minimalist overhaul to match the sleek lines of the renovated house. The love-in-a-mist would be ripped out and tossed into a skip, alongside the blushing Wedding Day roses, red geraniums, sunny orange and yellow dahlias and the tenacious pink salvias that all fought for airspace and sunshine with the native grasses and wayward bracken. Instead of beds of colour, the house would be surrounded by sleek black slate tiles, with a line of carefully sculpted box-hedge balls of varying sizes. Uniformity and minimalist chic was the brief from Megs. Pip thought it was a shame.

  Will, Jack and Megs were already sitting at the table—laughing and pouring wine—as Pip walked in with the food. She placed the platter in the centre of the table.

  ‘Red?’ Will asked as she started to dish up the pasta.

  ‘Thanks,’ Pip said, nodding.

  ‘This looks amazing, babe,’ Jack said. ‘Tell you what, you’re sure going to show those Italians a thing or two when we get to Lucca. We might have to eat out a heap in the name of research, but I reckon we won’t find any pasta that tops this.’ Will piped up: ‘Too right. Another wonder dish, thanks, Pip. We’ll miss these Sunday night catch-ups. I’ll be eating baked beans on toast while you’re gone.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair. Or true,’ Megs said as she filled her wineglass with mineral water. ‘You’ll be eating off the barbie: steak and salad. But you know there’s always an alternative—you can just man up and expand that repertoire. I mean, what the hell is that fancy industrial kitchen for? An award?’ Megs sounded harsh but Pip knew she was joking. Just.

  Pip blushed and stared at her plate. Megs shot her a sympathetic look. Her chest tightened a little.

  ‘What date do you leave?’ asked Will. ‘You still heading off after vintage?’

  ‘Yes, three more weeks and we’ll be done. We’d better pay for those tickets tomorrow. I can’t wait. We’re counting down the days now, aren’t we, Pip?’

  Pip looked up from her plate and met Megs’s eyes before glancing at Jack. She’d been savouring the silkiness of the pasta, just coated in olive oil with a warm kick of chilli and garlic. She took a deep breath of the fresh parsley while she swirled another mouthful of pasta on her fork, buying time. Jack had put down his fork and was staring at her. So were Megs and Will.

  They waited.

  Megs spoke first. ‘You mentioned needing to get your test results sorted before the funding stopped.’

  Pip gulped her red wine. ‘Um, yes,’ she agreed, grateful for her sister’s support. She looked at Jack and took a deep breath: ‘Like I’ve said, babe, I’m not sure if I can go right now. It’s not great timing. I have to collect more data. I can’t move forward with my thesis until I get this sorted. They won’t extend my grant money. It’s kinda now or never.’ She half laughed, still looking at Jack. He had tilted his head sideways. Pip could just make out a hint of hurt in his eyes. And shock.

  ‘More pasta, mate?’ Will to the rescue, as always.

  ‘Yeah, load her up, thanks,’ said Jack, now avoiding eye contact with Pip.

  ‘Love this pinot, mate. Is it one of yours? There’s no label—what are we drinking here?’

  ‘It’s last year’s so we haven’t labelled it yet. Was a warm one, so that’s why it’s a bit sweeter than normal. You can almost taste the sunshine, can’t you? Another year or so and it’s going to be a ripper. Best ever, I hope.’

  ‘I reckon,’ agreed Will. ‘About time.’

  ‘Oh, well, Dad’s a bit of a control freak. I’ve just got a few different ideas about what we do in the barrel and on the vine. Takes time to change but I’m getting there. Slowly.’ Jack topped up his red and took a big sniff before downing half the glass. ‘The official offer’s in.’ He shook his head. ‘Nicholas told Mum and Dad to take it. We have to make a decision before we go to Italy. Well, before I go to Italy, anyway.’

  Megs interrupted to ask: ‘Anyone for thirds? I’m going to have to run thirty kilometres tomorrow to lose these carbs. You’re killing me, Pip. I bought a lemon tart—used those blackberries you picked for the topping. See, I can do homemade! Better save some room.’

  Pip smiled, knowing she wasn’t fooling anyone.

  Chapter 7

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  Artemisia carried her basket with one hand and patted her apron pocket with the other as she turned her back on Andreas. It was time to get to work in the kitchen. She had no idea what lay within the cheesecloth and it took every ounce of her will not to turn around for one more glimpse of those sincere brown eyes and loose Genovese curls.

  She weaved her way around the carts, avoiding the twitchy tails and hooves of the warmbloods, sidestepping parcels of geese and ducks that were being carried inside by a team of men from the village. She inhaled the sweet scent of roasted meat as her mouth watered and stomach groaned. It would be nettle porée again today for the kitchen servants, but perhaps they would get to gnaw some bones and taste succulent scraps of leftover meat before Jacobus took it all to the hog pens. Hildegard was so poorly and Emmeline could do with a bit more flesh on her bones—especially as the young maid would soon take over the running of the kitchen.

  Artemisia stroked her pocket as she took a moment to consider the changes afoot. She had told no-one of her plans, preferring to keep them folded and tucked away deep in her heart until the right time.

  Instead, she had busied herself teaching sweet, docile Emmeline how to make the weekly orders for the meats, liquor and spices. For today’s wedding banquet Emmeline had been placed in charge of ordering the mustard sauces, vinegars and honey from the beekeeper at the bottom corner of the estate next to the chestnut woods. Artemisia had shown her how to mix the verjuice to extend it in summer when the old juice was too weak and the new juice too tart, and how to swap a crushed grape sauce for cherries or sloe berries with the season. When the lord and his stern marshal came back from a hunt, she’d shown the girl how to hang the hares and then stew them, or salt the sides of lamb and beef that came in from the fields. The girl had been taught to write well enough at the church school before she left to work in the fields wi
th her mother at the château harvesting vines, gathering berries and working the vegetable patch while her older brothers ploughed paddocks and felled trees. Then, last autumn, when Artemisia cut back the sage, thyme, catmint and rosemary out in the raised beds alongside Emmeline, she had invited the young maid to shadow her in the kitchen in preparation for the spring and summer of feasts. For this fine wedding for their master, the women shared the writing of the menus, the ordering, preparations and sauces—which in turn had given Artemisia time to focus on her gift for the bride and groom this last moon past.

  And now the day had come when she was to present it.

  Artemisia closed her eyes and leaned against the stone wall for a moment, feeling the heat through her thin linen tunic.

  As she opened her eyes, she recognised the branded stamp burned into the oak barrels unloaded along the wall—Rivesaltes. The wine merchant was nowhere to be seen and as she counted the barrels, she discovered there were two more than she had ordered. This had happened with the last spring harvest feast too and she tutted with annoyance. Artemisia had pulled the jovial merchant up on it last time and he’d insisted that he had delivered the full order for Château de Boschaud and not a drop more. Abbot Roald, the chaplain, had confirmed the order himself, he said.

  Artemisia tapped her pocket with frustration and strode to the large plain oak door to the larder to check her record of provisions. As she reached the door, and reached under her tunic for the large iron key strung around her neck with a leather ribbon, she looked down and noticed the large bunch of St John’s wort plucked from a nearby meadow on yesterday’s eve.

  She’d dipped it in a pot of water and left it outside the larder door resting on a terracotta lid. Tiny yellow petals shaped like stars glittered with dew, their centres like fine strands of saffron tipped with orbs of gold. The delicate leaves and stems were the brightest lime. Artemisia smiled—it was hard to believe such a fragile flower could ward off evil. But today was not a time to break the tradition; she needed as much goodwill as possible on this fine day for the wedding banquet.