The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  She shivered with excitement as she straightened out the kinks in her apron with her left palm and allowed her hand to linger on her pocket. There was no place for wicked spirits today. She might smoke a few of the fronds of the fairy-like pink yarrow blossoms she’d placed at the bottom of her basket, releasing bitter, tangy scents from the sweetest cluster of buds.

  But first, there was work to be done. She bent down and twisted the iron key in the door and gave it a shove with her shoulder to push it open, being careful not to lose anything from the basket swinging on her elbow behind.

  She stepped into the larder and saw a pile of straw linen cloths stacked neatly on the shelf, a row of mid-sized copper pots and skillets and two boilers and strainers. Artemisia wiped dust from a gleaming pot with her elbow and stared at her dark reflection and intense brown eyes. In the low candlelight, her long, raven hair was almost the colour of pepper. She turned her head slowly from side to side as if she didn’t recognise this happy face. Her cheeks appeared as flushed as if she’d rubbed them with Abbot Bellamy’s favourite climbing red rose. She sniffed her tunic and turned up her nose at her earthy sweat.

  Pity she didn’t smell like a rose.

  Legs of dried ham and beef hung from the ceiling, and the scent of cinnamon, galangal, ginger and anise filled the room. Clumps of dried rosemary, thyme, lavender, bay and sage were tied with twine and dangled like feathery botanical bunting against one wall. A pyramid of a dozen green and yellow melons sat in the corner, ready to be sliced and offered to guests in the garden as they arrived.

  Artemisia placed her basket on the shelf and reached for the stash of parchment that recorded all the orders—the ones she always checked off against the abbot’s records at the insistence of Lord Boschaud. She blew some stray cumin seeds off them and sat on the biggest melon, bracing her boots against another, to check. As she shifted her haunches to balance, she recalled that almost ten moons ago she was sitting doing much the same dreary task when a man with dark dancing eyes and glowing southern skin had lurched backwards through the door carrying a large terracotta pot …

  ‘Oh, pardon,’ said the stranger as Artemisia stuffed the quill and parchment into her filthy apron pocket. ‘I was told there was no-one in here.’

  Artemisia nodded warily at him, then lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed—cloves, ginger, cinnamon and ground bay leaves. It was the regular order of ground sweet spice mix from Monsieur de Vitriaco. At least it had been, until the épicier died in an overturned cart two moons ago. She raised her head to examine this new delivery man.

  The man proffered his hand after wiping it on his pants. ‘Andreas de Vitriaco.’

  ‘De Vitriaco?’ Artemisia raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. I’m Vincenzo’s son.’

  ‘My condolences for the loss of your father.’

  She could see the resemblance now; Andreas was a slimmer version, but father and son shared the same smile, shining eyes and the thrilling scent of exotic lands.

  ‘He was a good man. I can see why he was a master of the guild.’ Artemisia always paid a fair price for her spices, and not a franc more. De Vitriaco spices came from the best merchants in Genoa and the épicier’s supply never ran short. He’d never substituted her spice order for a version that had lost its scent—the cloves were always pungent and round, bushels of bay thick and large-leafed, and the cinnamon came in lush folded rolls from the east. She hoped her supply wasn’t about to be severed.

  The man’s eyes darkened for a minute and he sighed. She could smell the faintest trace of rosewater on his shirt.

  Artemisia asked, ‘And you are—’

  ‘Late with deliveries.’ His eyes ran over Artemisia’s body before returning to her face. Then he smiled and it was brighter than all the candles in the larder. Artemisia didn’t know where to look so she tapped a melon with her toe before noticing her leather boots were full of holes. She dropped her foot and quickly hid it under her tunic.

  ‘Do you regularly keep your diary while sitting on melons in the larder?’ His voice was slightly mocking, but his eyes were kind.

  ‘Do you always make deliveries without knocking?’

  ‘Well …’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure!’ His tanned skin began to flush. ‘You see, it’s my first one. I’m the new épicier journeyman—I’ll be master by year’s end. I guarantee it.’ He winked. ‘I—’ He stopped, seemingly distracted by the bulge in Artemisia’s pocket. ‘So what were you writing? A letter to a lover?’ He tilted his head to the side and started to sing:

  She ruled in beauty o’er this heart of mine,

  A noble lady in a humble home,

  And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,

  ’Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine.

  Artemisia could feel her ears burn and she studied the shadows on the far wall to regain her composure. Why did he mock her with Petrarca?

  She straightened her back and looked him square in the eye. ‘Not that it concerns you. But recipes—and some accounts,’ she said with a hint of pride.

  Andreas’s eyes flickered with interest and unspoken questions before he reconfigured his face to a warm smile.

  ‘Where did a pretty maid like you learn to write?’

  Artemisia let her new, strange feeling of curiosity and hope float away under the oak door as her lungs deflated. To this unusual man she was nothing but a servant. A chattel.

  ‘I’m the cook,’ she muttered under her breath. Why did this dark stranger make her yearn for something more?

  Artemisia smiled. If only she’d known what an auspicious day it was all those moons ago. She leaned against the thick wooden shelf and ran her fingers over the end column until she got to the line she was looking for—Rivesaltes. Her smile vanished. Her records were correct. Someone had changed the wine order again and was pilfering the extra barrels on the side.

  It was easy to do on a day when there were so many carts entering the château. With a chill, she realised who was responsible. It could only be him. It would be his word against hers. Who would Lord Boschaud believe? And when should she tell him?

  Chapter 8

  Tasmania, April 2014

  ‘What the hell, Pip?’ Jack’s voice strained as he hoisted himself behind the wheel and slammed the door to his rusty white twin-cab. The tired engine spluttered a few times before turning over.

  Pip felt dizzy as she looked down for somewhere to put her feet. The floor beneath her in the dusty cabin was scattered with bits of fencing wire, pruning shears, scattered receipts and business cards, an old red Swiss Army knife and a half-dozen metal water bottles. She kicked it all aside with her right foot to make some room. Why couldn’t he clean up his ute?

  ‘Look, I’m sorry—I don’t mean to sound harsh.’ Jack’s voice softened a fraction as his dark blue eyes narrowed with frustration. ‘But when were you planning to tell me?’

  ‘I wasn’t avoiding it.’ Pip half turned to face him as her voice rose. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you,’ she pleaded. ‘But you got so excited and then you booked the tickets without checking with me first. And …’ She took a deep breath as her voice broke and her eyes pricked with tears. ‘And I was excited too. I am excited for you. For us.’

  She hesitated for just a heartbeat.

  ‘You …’ she blurted out between sobs. ‘You haven’t been listening.’ Pip brushed away the tears with the back of her hand and she could taste the saltiness as it spread over her lips.

  The engine revved as Jack pumped the accelerator a little too hard. He crunched the gears and set off down the driveway.

  ‘You know I’ve been trying to work out how I can fit it all in before my funding hits zero. Why are you making such a big deal about this trip? There’ll be plenty more.’

  ‘Because it’s important. So are you even planning to come to Lucca? Did you ever plan to come meet me when I’m working in Tuscany? We could do some harvesting together. When I’m helping out with the winemaking you can take off on your
long hikes—head to Lucca or something. Go check out the food. Or work. Whatever you want.’ Jack’s voice sounded unsteady. She’d never seen him cry.

  ‘It’s just that I was really looking forward to hanging out together. I was thinking we’d go for hikes in the mountains, get smashed in the villages, eat our bodyweight in mozzarella. Maybe some Italian lovin’ too—you know? Just the two of us. See what we are away from here.’ Jack was pleading with her now.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.’

  He shrugged and glanced at her. ‘I see the pressure. You do a bloody good job of trying to hide it.’ He gave a slow, dry chuckle. ‘That’s always been you—bigger goals than the rest of us put together. I love that about you.’ He paused. ‘But you need to let me in too. Will you?’

  Pip flushed, unprepared for Jack’s stripped-back emotion. It was as if they were sandpapering each other—trying to smooth it over—but instead leaving each other rough, raw and exposed.

  Pip lifted her gaze and tried to meet his eyes, but Jack was staring dead ahead, his jaw clenched. He looked like a Roman statue—beautiful yet expressionless. But when she leaned towards him she could see a trail of warm tears running down his cheek and glistening in the moonlight even as his eyes scanned the road in front, checking for wallabies and devils. The last thing they needed was for a scared animal to jump in front of the ute and cause an accident. Her ribs contracted in a surge of—of what? Love? Frustration? Guilt?

  When Jack eventually spoke, his voice was strained: ‘You have your research. Your PhD. Your teaching. The restaurant work at Zest. I come last at the end of a long list. You shouldn’t have to justify spending time with me. You shouldn’t need a reason to come to Europe.’

  ‘I don’t—I’m not,’ she stammered, treading carefully in this unfamiliar territory. She tried to swallow; her mouth felt so dry.

  ‘I …’ Jack paused and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sick of being slotted into the convenient after-hours of your life.’

  This was unfair. ‘That’s not true!’ she protested.

  ‘Please, Pip.’ He held up a hand. ‘Let me finish—I want to get past this and marry you. I want to be with you all the time. Not just an allocation. Why can’t we do this trip together?’

  He didn’t wait for Pip to answer.

  ‘Look, I get that you want to submit your PhD before you commit to anything. You have so much on your plate.’ Jack shot Pip a look of anguish. ‘I get it, Pip. But what I don’t get, ever, is whether you actually want to be with me. You know, for the long haul.’ He stopped speaking for a moment as he swerved to avoid a pothole. ‘What I mean is: why the wait? If you can’t come with me now—if you are uncertain—what’s the point of waiting?’

  They both took deep breaths as Jack waited for her to reply.

  Pip turned to face him and both hands hit her thighs to emphasise her point. ‘Jack, I’ve moved in. We’re engaged, for God’s sake. We will be doing everything together. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But …’ she exhaled. ‘You’re so caught up with trying to make Ashfield House work. And this stupid trip.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing! I understand. It’s everything to you. You just keep push, push, pushing and making plans. Telling me what’s best for us. But what about what I want?’

  She stopped herself. Pip’s words hung between them like a wall.

  She reached across to put a hand on his leg, but he flicked it away angrily.

  His rebuff made her chest constrict. She asked softly: ‘Why can’t I just finish what I’ve started before I take on any new projects? That’s all I’m asking for—a bit more time.’ It was her turn to plead.

  Jack exhaled raggedly. ‘I can’t do this anymore, Pip,’ he said, his voice like gravel. ‘I love you. I really do. I think you love me, but …’ He paused. ‘Who would know? You can’t measure it so it can’t be trusted, right? Is that it?’

  ‘That’s crazy.’ Her chest constricted even tighter. He sounded resolute and it scared her.

  ‘Is it? Well, are we going to Europe together or not? Am I enough of a reason to come to Europe?’

  ‘That’s not fair, Jack, of course I—’ Pip stopped. She wasn’t prepared for another ultimatum. It wasn’t fair. She needed time to think.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. You want to come but study comes first.’ He whacked the steering wheel with his palm. ‘So, no. I’m not enough.’ Jack clenched his jaw again and locked stormy eyes with Pip for a moment before shifting his gaze back to the road. His tone dropped to a cold whisper. ‘Pip, I want to buy Ashfield House now—I’ll miss the chance otherwise.’ He sighed. ‘That’s why I have to go to Italy now. It’s no junket. I need to know how I can make our wine stand out. We need to make better wine from the next vintage. It’s the only way I can make some proper money to service the insane mortgage. So of course I want to marry you now. Why wait if we are going to do it all anyway? I just don’t see the point. It’s you who’s uncertain.’

  ‘Jack! You’re not being fair. I’m just asking for you to wait a bit—six months, a year maybe—until I finish my PhD. Not forever.’ Pip paused. ‘Just so I can concentrate and get this project finished, then get some funding to put my research to work. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.’

  Jack was still. Unflinching. Pip had never seen him like this.

  Jack spoke slowly: ‘No, perhaps not. But if you aren’t willing to marry me now, you may never be. We both know it’s over, Pip. Let’s not kick the carcass. I’m done with waiting.’

  He took a deep breath before tapping his right index finger on the steering wheel and shaking his head. ‘Always waiting. Always an excuse, Pip. First, you couldn’t move in until the fieldwork was done. Now we can’t marry until the thesis is submitted. Then there will be work for a couple of years before we can have a kid. But what if you get a promotion? Or some post-doc funding?’

  Pip hadn’t realised she had been holding her breath until she was forced to heave in air through her nose. She gasped and with it came tears. Surely Jack didn’t mean this? He couldn’t! She felt frozen with shock.

  ‘We’re done. I can’t do this anymore.’ Jack’s voice was icy.

  Pip barely trusted herself to breathe—his words were like a hammer smashing an oyster shell.

  ‘Jack, please. Can we talk about this? It’s crazy.’ She wanted to reach out and touch him, rub her fingers along his forearm until she reached the long faint scar from a childhood break, where the soft hair didn’t grow. She wanted to press her head to his chest and feel his strong arms around her. Snuggle her head into his broad shoulder. He was speaking to someone else. Pip was certain of Jack’s love—yet here he was, shoving her away.

  But Jack shook his head. ‘I’m done talking in circles with you.’

  Pip began to shake. She didn’t want to hear this. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘I’m crazy about you, Pip. But it’s not enough. We keep having the same talk. The same fight. You even slept in the spare room last week, remember?’

  Remember? How could she forget?

  Pip had come home from her meeting with Imogen and spread her latest set of results over the dining room table as she tried to recalibrate her methodology. Jack had walked in just before dusk, kissed the back of her head and said, ‘Why don’t you have a break for bit? Come down for a swim. Or a walk. It’s unusually warm.’ He tugged at her arm playfully. ‘C’mon, Pip. It’ll do you good. How long have you been sitting there staring at numbers?’

  She’d snapped. ‘Aren’t you going to ask about my meeting today with Imogen?’

  Jack looked puzzled. ‘You already texted me about it. Said there was no more funding and you couldn’t get an extension.’

  Pip raised her eyebrow. ‘And you didn’t think that was worth calling me back?’

  Jacked shrugged. ‘It seemed pretty self-explanatory. Bit harsh if you ask me. I’m sure t
hey’ll give you one if you really want it.’ He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of beers. He walked back into the living room and passed one to Pip. ‘Beer?’ he said, as if offering lollies to a child.

  Pip’s ears started to burn and her voice came out sounding brittle. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’

  Jack looked confused. ‘Yes, I do. You’re just stressed. Come on, this holiday with me—’

  ‘Stop. Just stop,’ said Pip with one hand on her hip and the other held up, palm facing him. ‘Get it into your head that I cannot go anywhere until I get this thesis done.’

  ‘What, so no swim then? It’ll only take an hour. Then I’ll cook a delicious dinner for you. What do you want?’ Jack grinned.

  ‘I want you to stop trying to plan my schedule. That’s what I want, Jack. You go for your swim. I’ll finish what I’m doing here, thanks.’

  Jack, looking bewildered, shrugged before putting the spare beer back in the fridge. Then he walked out the front door without looking back.

  When he returned an hour later, Pip had put herself to bed early in the spare room. Her blood simmered with exhaustion, despair and rage.

  Jack didn’t try to join her, apologise, or cajole her back to their room.

  Nothing.

  Pip remembered it was she who’d extended the olive branch the next morning when the icy autumn morning air chilled her to the bone through the thin woollen blanket. She’d scampered across the hallway to snuggle up with Jack.

  And it seemed that now, as then, she would have to be the one to make amends. Jack was done talking. His eyes were firmly on the road. But as much as she longed to breach the wall between them, she knew that this time she couldn’t give in.

  They spent the next twenty minutes listening to late-night music on Hobart 96.1FM. Anything was better than silence. Ed Sheeran, Keith Urban and Adele crooned broken-hearted ballads the entire way home.