The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  As Jack stormed up the slope, Valentina looked at him. He could see her eyebrows raised in confusion, and then draw to a squint, her dark eyes flashing.

  Last night, after dinner, he’d walked her home to her permanent quarters on the other side of the villa. She had pulled the elastic out of her hair and her thick glossy black hair tumbled down her back and over her shoulders. She was mesmerising. She flicked her head to loosen it and he could smell the sweetness of her rose shampoo. Then she’d stepped towards him and kissed him. A cautious kiss—a follow-on from the very Italian dance of kissing on both cheeks. Then, she’d put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently against the wall and pressed herself into him. Jack had felt her silky hair soft against his neck as she’d shifted her slim hips, pressing in against his pelvis. He’d been somewhat surprised. Why now, after all these months? He was confused and a little drunk. Not a good combo. Still, he’d been turned on—it had been ages.

  Not like Pip. He couldn’t stand the thought of Pip in the arms of another man. Who was this Spanish chef? Was he a better lover? Did they have more in common?

  He trod on another red toadstool, feeling it squish flat beneath his boot.

  He sighed as he recalled how he’d lifted Valentina’s denim work shirt and placed his palm flat across the curve of her lower back, feeling her tremble. Smiling, Valentina had placed her hands on his cheeks and given him another tentative kiss that quickly turned into something far deeper and hungrier. Her black eyes danced with desire, inviting him to come inside. He’d wanted to. Jesus. She was smart. Funny. Sexy as hell. A complete stunner. They’d been flirting all vintage and, if he was honest, he’d been hoping they’d get together. But how was that ever going to work out? Her job was at Falgino. His was in Tasmania. But was that what he even wanted?

  As always, it wasn’t great timing with Pip. He’d thought she was just being polite when she’d said she would like to come visit him for a weekend. Acting like the old friends they were.

  But now it was all getting very complicated.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Pip standing still in the clearing, face twisted towards the light, and was surprised to see her turn and kick a rock against a tree when they made eye contact. Her tanned cheeks were still a little flushed.

  Valentina walked cautiously in front of him, buckets full of chestnuts and mushrooms, shoulders sagging. Conflicting waves of frustration, jealousy and lust pounded his heart. Perhaps tonight. Would he have taken up Valentina’s invitation and gone inside with her if he’d known about Pip and her fancy Spanish chef? Should he have?

  Chapter 26

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  Artemisia ran her hand over Andreas’s sketch of her entremet, taking deep breaths to slow her heart. She flipped through the pages, noting his skilled likenesses of herbs. She recognised some of the recipes she had been secretly giving him when she stopped by his spice stall in the marketplace. Sorrel verjuice, pottage of old peas, poultry flavoured with cumin. She kept turning until she reached her favourite section—desserts. It was a miracle Artemisia had never had a case of the tooth worm. The rosemary mouthwash helped, of course. For one named after a herb so bitter it only made sense she had a taste for anything with the sugarcane.

  She found the recipe for tonight’s cherry pudding, noting the correct portions of stale white bread, butter, Bordeaux and cloves had been transcribed. When she flipped to the page of spiced plum mousse with honey she thought her knees might give way. There was no place to sit in the larder, so she steadied herself with one arm.

  Last week she had ventured beyond the wall—with the abbot’s permission—through the woodlands for part of the early morn to the ancient orchard of wild plums. She knew they were always in season coming into St John’s feast and would be a fine course for Lady Rose. The branches had never been tempered with shears and looked like the wide arms of a carnival strongman. She had half-filled the basket when she heard a horse snort and stomp at the ground. She turned to see Andreas dismount from his black gelding and tether it to a low bough.

  ‘You understood my letter, then,’ she said.

  He held her arms and pulled her close. ‘Of course. Our meetings are so rare I had my boy do the deliveries to the east. Here, let me help you finish with the plums.’ He removed his cloak and placed it on the ground and then gave the branch above a mighty pull. The ripe fruit tumbled onto the ground and he easily scooped it up and funnelled it into the basket. They did this a few more times until it was full. ‘Are you sure you can carry this? I can take it on my horse.’

  ‘And how will I explain that to Abbot Roald when I am out here on my own harvesting plums?’

  Andreas picked up a plum and took a bite. Crimson juice squirted onto his pale shirt.

  Artemisia stepped towards him with her pocket rag. ‘Here, let me wipe it.’ She changed her mind at the last minute and instead leaned against him for a slow deep kiss. Andreas tasted of summer and she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. She fumbled with his shirt ties as he shimmied up the sides of her tunic. She felt him leaning against her, pushing her against the smooth trunk of the plum tree. Suddenly he let her tunic drop back and stepped away. Artemisia froze, praying he wouldn’t stop.

  Slowly, he retrieved his cloak from beside the basket and smoothed it out over the grass. He was careful to remove any twigs and sharp rocks underneath. Then he took Artemisia’s hand and led her to the cloak and lay down beside her. He ran his fingers up the side of her leg, tugging the tunic up to her hip as he went. She rolled onto her back and he pushed the linen high enough to reveal her breasts.

  ‘Now these are the wild plums I’ve been looking for.’ He laughed and kissed her again. She could feel the sun against her skin and arched her back to soak it up. She’d need to be having a triple dose of her wormwood, pomegranate, rue and juniper brew to hold off a pregnancy that evening and every morn this week. Perhaps the next. She closed her eyes and drank in the smell of rosewater as his hands explored her body.

  Afterwards, Andreas lay stroking her plait with one hand while propped up on his other elbow.

  ‘I’ve worked out a way we can be married.’

  ‘How? Abbot Roald will never allow it. A master of a guild and a cook? Not likely.’

  Andreas smiled and said, ‘Emmeline can run the kitchen, can’t she? You won’t be missed.’

  Artemisia laughed and whacked him on the shoulder playfully. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘I’m serious. I’m going to ask Lord Boschaud for your hand at the feast. He’s hardly going to refuse after a bellyful of food and finest ale. Especially on his wedding day. Abbot Roald will be unable to object if the lord himself gives you to me. Neither will the village burgher. I already have your betrothal gift made. I’ll give it to you when I deliver the spices. That will be our signal. I’ll ask Lord Boschaud for your hand during the boute-Hors. After they are served, I’ll meet you out by the walled garden, just behind the gate.’

  There was a brisk knock at the larder door and Artemisia was jolted from her reverie. She snapped the book closed and pressed it against her chest.

  ‘Excuse me, can I come in and get the sack of sugar, please?’ It was Jacobus. ‘Emmeline wants me to start sprinkling it over the desserts. Once now then again before we serve it. So it looks like snow.’

  ‘I hate the snow. I don’t know why anyone would want it on a special summer pudding.’

  She slipped the book back into her pocket. Fancy thinking that Abbot Roald would allow her to present an entremet without seeking his approval. Her face burned with shame. At least she had the illustration to remember it by.

  Chapter 27

  Tuscany, October 2014

  Pip was sitting up straight beside Bruno at a rustic chestnut table at Arrego’s Taverna, doing her best to avoid Jack. Arrego’s was a tiny stone inn—no bigger than a bedroom—carved into the side of the mountain with a terrace overlooking the valley. There were a handful of rickety w
ooden tables and benches out the front and a cluster of terracotta pots filled with pungent rosemary, thyme, and the vivid red pelargoniums that seemed to bloom in front of every building in Tuscany.

  The mushrooming party sat huddled around a corner table inside, hungrily breathing in the cooking smells from the kitchen hidden somewhere behind the lattice swinging door. The scent of tomatoes, roast chestnuts, roasting meats and a buttery polenta filled the tiny room. Jack stood up at the giant slab of rough-edged oak that formed the bar. At its side was a makeshift cheese and salumi cabinet with rustic wooden boards stacked beside it. The idea was that customers just helped themselves to thin slices of dried and cured meats, pickled vegetables, portions of hard and soft cheeses and a bowl of smoked almonds while waiting for the dish of the day.

  Behind the bar was a frightening black boar head with enormous tusks. It could do with a dust.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it. They’ve got Castlemaine XXXX on tap here,’ said Jack almost under his breath.

  The Italians looked blank. Pip said—perhaps a touch too harshly—‘What, even the Queenslanders won’t drink it so they have to export it?’

  Bruno looked from Jack to Pip with narrowed eyes and shook his head in a warning at Valentina. Awkward tension stifled the mood in the miniscule room and Pip felt herself flush with embarrassment. It would be better if she and Jack just didn’t speak.

  She wished she hadn’t come to Italy.

  ‘Ha’, said Jack with mock cheer. ‘Well I know you’re not homesick, Pip.’

  ‘What’s the other beer?’ Pip tried to put on a jovial voice for Bruno and Valentina as she changed the subject, but it sounded brittle.

  ‘A local chestnut beer. Made in the next village.’

  ‘I’ll have that, thanks. Call it research for Dad.’

  ‘Righto. Posh local Italian brew coming up. Anyone else want an Australian classic?’

  Bruno knocked the table with his knuckle as he and Valentina shook their heads.

  Jack sighed. ‘Okay. Looks like a jug of the chestnut ale and I’ll order a red.’

  ‘Get the Chianti Classico,’ suggested Valentina.

  Jack returned with Chianti, beer and some small water glasses for the wine.

  Arrego, the ruddy-faced owner of the taverna, walked over to greet Bruno with a giant hug. Pip leaned back in her chair sipping the crisp chestnut beer, grateful she no longer needed to talk to Jack directly. Instead she listened to Arrego’s friendly banter blowing away the sour air.

  There was much back-slapping, kissing and bullet-speed Italian exchanged between the old men and Valentina as she joined the laughter. Arrego was the shape of a wine barrel and reminded Pip a little of her dad. She couldn’t help but smile.

  A cherubic waiter—Arrego’s son perhaps—brought over a plate of charcuterie. Bruno pointed: ‘Cignale—sorry, wild boar, pork and fennel salumi and some prosciutto with the pig fed on the chestnuts. Bellissimo.’ Pip was wondering how many variations there could be of cignale. The young waiter returned with a cheese platter and Bruno gestured to a rather revolting-looking cheese, stained purple and wrapped in a rotten brown leaf. It smelled slightly sweet and tangy—much better than it looked. ‘Pecorino,’ Bruno wheezed, then cut himself a huge chunk. ‘Soaked in the lees. Wrapped in vine leaves. Left in a barrel for twelve months. Arrego makes the best.’

  ‘Leftovers from the red grape pressings,’ whispered Jack behind her in an expressionless voice before she could ask what lees was. Pip felt his warm breath on the back of her neck and a waft of his familiar earthy scent as he walked behind her chair to seat himself beside Valentina. Even though Pip was disappointed in him, she still longed to rub her cheek on Jack’s chest and stay there, or push his shaggy curls back from those blue eyes and long lashes.

  Pip noticed Valentina shooting Jack a dark look. Her limbs and chest ached as she recognised the look of a miffed lover. The sooner Pip left for Paris, the better—it was obvious that Jack and Valentina were far better suited. They would make a handsome couple. Pip finished her beer and resolved to leave first thing tomorrow. Make a fresh start on her thesis. Try to repair her shattered heart.

  Tired and hungry from their foraging expedition, they tucked into the cheese and charcuterie with relish, washing it down with the sweet chestnut beer. Bruno and Valentina then moved on to a rich Brunello di Montalcino as Arrego came out of the kitchen with some steaming chestnut and lamb soup and more fresh focaccia.

  Pip had seconds. Then thirds.

  Arrego looked amused. Bruno said, ‘Good to see a woman who loves her food.’

  Pip looked across at Valentina, who was staring at her bowl, stirring her soup slowly. Every now and again she’d look up and give a half-smile, or a one-word comment to Arrego, but otherwise Valentina seemed lost in her own world.

  Bruno’s voice was growing louder, and Arrego had produced a collection of vinyl records. The rich tones of Italian opera started blasting across the room. Pip didn’t recognise the music but Bruno and Arrego started to sing along. Loudly.

  Arrego turned the music up so loud that between the singing and the record it was impossible to talk anymore. Instead, Pip leaned back in the chair and sipped the Chianti that Bruno had insisted she taste.

  Jack avoided eye contact like a petulant child.

  ‘“Sempre Libera”,’ said Bruno, almost to himself, waving his arms in a pretty impressive bout of air conducting. ‘La Stupenda. I saw her sing this in 1966,’ he continued with his eyes closed.

  Pip had no idea who he was talking about. Jack grinned, eyes half-closed, listening to the music.

  ‘You know La Stupenda?’ persisted Bruno. ‘She’s Australian.’

  Jack looked at Pip and together they shook their heads.

  Pip said, ‘Who?’

  ‘Joan Sutherland—La Stupenda,’ said Bruno with a grin, pausing in his conducting to take a swig of his red.

  Of course! She was an idiot.

  Bruno leaned forward to top up his glass. Pointing first at Valentina then Pip, he asked: ‘You know this aria, “Sempre Libera”? It’s from La Traviata. Ah—it is a tale of heartbreak.’ He clasped his hand to his heart for dramatic effect.

  ‘It is Verdi’s finest opera—about Violetta Valéry, the fallen woman.’ Bruno took a sip and closed his eyes to listen.

  Jack raised his eyebrow at Pip before he nodded sadly at his red wine. Pip felt her cheeks and the back of her neck burn with shame. It was one damn night …

  Dame Joan Sutherland’s voice soared and trilled like a bird. Higher and higher.

  Nobody spoke.

  Bruno started to translate—just loud enough to make himself heard:

  Free and aimless I frolic

  From joy to joy,

  Flowing along the surface

  of life’s path as I please.

  As the day is born,

  Or as the day dies,

  Happily I turn to the new delights

  That make my spirit soar.

  The song reached a crescendo, Sutherland’s rich soprano filled the room and Jack stared at Valentina, who was quietly watching Bruno.

  Then he slowly made eye contact with Pip.

  Adrenaline flooded Pip’s veins. She absorbed the words of the aria, reflecting on her travel, her freedom. Her mistakes.

  She’d had her frolic in San Sebastián. Cooking grounded her. Pip felt stronger, more balanced. Who knew she’d learn so much about herself while soldering vegetables and dehydrating fruit?

  ‘Sempre Libera’ didn’t sound like the song of a fallen woman. It sounded like a musical call to arms. Pip needed to finish her PhD. She also wanted to work in Paris for a while—new delights—and she wanted Jack. Love.

  But she couldn’t have Jack. He’d made that very clear. It was time to let go.

  She clenched her fists under the table because the trilling La Stupenda was right. Pip needed to find a new way to make her spirit soar.

  She could start by helping to find some answers�
��balance—for her little corner of the D’Entrecasteaux Channel. That’d be enough, surely?

  Now she was going to finish her work and thesis in Paris and then she would look at life back home. It just wasn’t possible to find a way forward with Jack. He simply didn’t get her.

  She glanced at Valentina, who was running her dark eyes over Jack with an affectionate grin.

  Pip’s skin burned with a strange and prickly jealousy.

  Jack tilted his head and broke into a dazzling smile as he met Valentina’s eyes.

  Pip was far too late, anyway.

  Chapter 28

  Paris, March 2015

  Pip was glad the sun was out as she set out for her daily walk to work. She couldn’t think of a much better commute than to walk through one of the grandest gardens of all—Jardin des Plantes. After months of low-hanging grey skies and muted colours, today sunshine danced over the miscanthus grasses cut low, starting to shoot. Towering grey artichoke skeletons sparkled with dew. Layers of gentle green, cream and maroon hellebores cascaded between the large tufts of miscanthus, mulch and dark green groundcover that anchored the perennial beds. Double rows of plane trees—planted with military precision in long avenues—were starting to swell with new buds. In the gardens beyond were soft blankets of blue violets, golden primroses and dancing white snowdrops. It was impossible not to be cheerful.

  Pip turned left up Rue Cuvier and headed up past Allée Becquerel so she could do a lap of the wallaby enclosure before work. It was lovely to have a touch of home. The last she’d heard from Jack was a brief email the week before describing winter pruning methods in Tuscany and mentioning a possible trial site for grapes in Tasmania. There was some kind of gala fancy-dress feast that he was attending in May. All the vineyard crew were making a night of it before he went home. It was to be his farewell party—he’d made a great group of friends.

  Jack’s emails had been polite but distant since her visit to Tuscany five months ago. They hadn’t seen each other since. Pip suspected he had moved on, and it was probably high time for her to do the same. And when better to do that than spring?