The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  Pip raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, I overheard, darling.’ Mary gave Pip a severe look. ‘She must take the medicine. And she must rest. The daily counselling sessions will help—they’ll keep her on track when she is trying to fob us off.’ She shook her head and muttered to herself, ‘My own daughter? I screen people every week.’

  ‘Mum. Stop!’ Pip turned to face her mother with her hands on her hips. ‘You’re here now, that’s what counts. Megs is doing way better after just a week. She wants to get better.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ said Mary as she lifted the lid of the pot and scraped in the onion, tomatoes and fennel along with the pieces of fish.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and gave Pip a squeeze. ‘Thanks, my darling. I’m very proud of you.’

  Pip blinked away tears as she headed out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll just go check on Megs. See if she’s awake.’

  Pip walked up the stairs and knocked on the bedroom door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Megs was sitting up in bed watching something on her silver MacBook.

  ‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ Pip scolded. ‘Doctor’s orders, remember?’

  ‘So it turns out I’m a terrible patient!’

  ‘What are you watching?’

  ‘House of Cards.’

  ‘That’s a bit—’

  Megs interjected with a slight giggle: ‘Depressing? Turns out I’m not as screwed up as some people.’

  ‘You’re not screwed up. Rundown? Yes. Ill? Sure. There’s a big difference.’ Pip smiled. ‘Besides—’ she nodded at the computer screen ‘—they’re not real.’

  Megs laughed again, though it sounded a little wobbly.

  Pip climbed onto the bed beside her sister and pulled the woollen navy throw over her knees. ‘Dinner will be about an hour. Dad and Will are down at the rocks with Chloé.’

  Megs sat upright. ‘Did they take solid shoes?’ she demanded, her voice suddenly high and anxious. Almost immediately she subsided back onto the bed. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I?’

  ‘That’s okay. Chloé’s fine. And you, my big sister, are going to feel better once you get some decent rest.’ Was that just wishful thinking? ‘For once, you will take professional help.’

  ‘The drugs are good. Who knew?’ Megs coloured as she rested her head on Pip’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, Pip,’ she said softly.

  They sat there for a minute, watching the starting credits roll over images of Washington D.C. moving across the screen. Megs hit pause and turned to Pip. ‘Have you heard from Jack?’

  Pip shook her head, eyes still fixed on the screen. ‘Not since he sent the flowers.’

  ‘Will spoke to him last night.’

  Pip turned to face Megs. ‘And?’

  Megs sighed. ‘And he’s not coming home next week. He’s got some more work in Italy.’

  Pip felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. So that was why he hadn’t responded to her texts. He’d moved on. She hugged her knees to her chest.

  ‘You need to go, Pip.’

  Pip mumbled into her knees, ‘It’s too late. He’s with Valentina.’

  ‘What? No! He would have told Will, I’m sure.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ She shook her head and looked at her sister. ‘It’s hardly important right now.’

  ‘What do you mean, not important? You want to spend the rest of your life with this guy and that’s not important?’

  ‘This is a pointless conversation. I’m staying put.’

  ‘Great.’ Megs sighed. ‘You going to move in for the whole year?’

  ‘Sure! Why not?’

  ‘Because I have Will. He promised to look after me in sickness, remember? Despite that dirty hipster beard, he’s very conservative like that.’

  ‘Megs, honey, I’m not sure he sees your PND as a duty.’

  ‘Okay, but you know what I mean. We’ve got this. Together.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much,’ said Pip, a bit confused about where this conversation was going. Maybe it was the drugs talking?

  ‘Pip, you’ve been amazing this week. I have enough food to feed a space station for a year. You’ve come to the appointments with me. You made me a plan with Will and Mum. Hell, you’ve even written some lists. “Mental Health Goals”!’ Megs patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’m not sure how much more of you being the big sister I can take. Seriously! It’s like I’m living with Mother Teresa all of a sudden. The tipsy, carnivore version.’

  Pip laughed. ‘I like this bossy gig.’

  ‘It’s scary how good you are at it. But right now, you need to go pack your bags and book the next flight to Italy. You’ll kick yourself—I’ll kick you . . ’ Megs paused, clearly registering Pip’s hesitation. ‘Don’t think for a minute that I don’t want you here—I do. But this week has made me realise how deeply I love Will. He’s my bone marrow.’

  ‘How romantic,’ said Pip, deadpan.

  Megs ignored the comment. ‘I mean, who else are you going to find who loves mucking about in mud as much as you if not Jack?’ Megs gave Pip a big hug. ‘He loves you. How could he not?’

  It was Pip’s turn to get a little weepy, but this time they were warm, happy tears. She squeezed Megs back.

  ‘But what about you? And Chloé …’

  ‘Mum, Will and I have already worked it out.’ Megs was firm. ‘I’m feeling a lot better, but Mum’s staying on for a while with Dad.’ Megs paused as if she was trying to decide how much to reveal.

  Finally she said slowly, ‘You know, it was Jack who came up with a place for Mum and Dad to stay. His folks are overseas and he’s arranged for Mum and Dad to stay in their new cottage at Battery Point for a few months. He’s had the cellar stocked, the beds made, a cleaner sorted and a spare set of keys cut. They move in Monday.’

  Pip remained silent. She was covered with goose bumps and she pulled the blanket tighter around her. Jack had done all this from Tuscany? He hadn’t even contacted her. Adrenaline was flooding her veins, but she sat motionless. His kindness was overwhelming. Half of her wanted to go see him, thank him—the other half was terrified to leave Megs. What if … ? Megs’s black thoughts and self-harm daydreams had kept Pip awake into the early hours every night since she had been home. Tina, Mary and Will all said these were reasonably common symptoms of PND and that in time—with the right support—they would disappear. But how could they be so sure?

  ‘And the resignation letter?’ she asked.

  ‘Burned. I took three months’ leave and then I’ll look at going back part-time.’

  ‘Oh, well done. Best of both, hey? Just make sure your version of part-time is not eighty hours a week!’

  ‘Well, I won’t be doing anything until my shrink gives me the go-ahead.’ She looked sheepish. ‘It’s—it’s weird. I feel kind of relieved when I see her. Tina’s got my back. She’s worked in hospitals; she’s the only person who really gets how hard it can be.’

  Pip let that pass.

  Megs continued. ‘Tina went into private practice when she had her first kid; the hospital atmosphere was toxic. So competitive, so—so—’ She fished for the right words: ‘Blokey. Ruthless.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Pip realising—perhaps for the first time—how much pressure her sister was really under at work. Tina sounded like a great find, thought Pip as she bumped shoulders with Megs.

  ‘So, stop arguing with me. I have masses of support. We’ll Skype every day, I promise. You just have to brace yourself for a few teary calls.’

  ‘Like I’ve never done that to you!’

  ‘At least I have some happy drugs.’ Megs pointed at Pip sternly. ‘Go pack. This is the last time I’m putting you on a plane.’ She reached out and put her arm around Pip and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  Up close, Pip could see the colour was returning to Megs’s cheeks and her eyes looked white and clear. She was starting to look much more like her sister.

&nb
sp; ‘Thanks, Megs. I’ll go book the ticket right now.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ said Megs with a broad smile and a gentle push.

  Chapter 39

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  Artemisia closed the door to the larder to escape the clanging and banging and chatter ricocheting around the kitchen. She removed the wimple and took the hairpins from her hair to cool her head and wiped the sweat streaming from her brow and chest. Her linen undershirt and tunic stuck to her back and she hitched her skirts up and tucked them into her belt. She stretched her arms above her head as she considered the platters of marzipan sweetmeats they were preparing to be carried upstairs. The smell of sugar, almonds, cinnamon and cloves filled the room and she opened an eye to check the trays were still intact. Jacobus was known to sneak in under instruction from the kitchen servants. She could hardly chide the lad—there was so little sweetness in his life a little missing marzipan wouldn’t hurt anyone. She grinned. She enjoyed the rhythm of pounding the sweet dough and plumping it into tiny cushions the size of her thumb.

  Andreas had been helpful supplying the recipe for the nucato last week. He suggested it as an addition to the Issue de Table when she ran through the final orders for spices last week. Claimed it was an ancient lucky charm for his people in the south, over the Alps. An aphrodisiac, he whispered. Her heart was beating fast and she placed her hand on her chest to steady herself. She took a deep breath.

  Convinced the chatter had risen and reassured by the level of clanging, Artemisia slid down to the floor and heaved out a terracotta pot of sweet spice mix from behind another. As she lifted the lid, she was hit with the powerful blend of dried ground bay, cloves, ginger and cinnamon. Her hand dived into the pot and she retrieved the note Andreas had passed to her on his final delivery before the morn of the wedding:

  Dear Artemisia,

  Here is the nucato I suggested.

  Take honey, boiled and skimmed, with slightly crushed walnuts and spices (ginger, black pepper, cinnamon, cloves), boiled together: wet the palm of your hand with water and spread it out. Let it cool and serve in small pieces the size of a cherry. Or you may use almonds or filberts in place of walnuts.

  I am confident our betrothal will be accepted by Lord Boschaud. Let us meet by the gate, as planned.

  Your Andreas

  She pressed the note to her heart, filled with longing. The hair on her arms felt charged as she realised chatter in the kitchen had ceased. There was only the melodic bang of pots as they were emptied and washed. She slid the letter deep into the spice pot, replaced the lid and pushed it back into alignment as the door swung open and Abbot Roald’s shadow filled the frame.

  ‘Just checking the trays are all in order, Abbot Roald,’ she said as she untucked her skirts, hoping he didn’t notice as she remained in the shadows.

  ‘And are they?’ He sniffed the air and took a step into the small room.

  Artemisia used the back of her ankle to make sure the pot was in exact alignment. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well then, go instruct the maids to come and fetch them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She had to step sideways and press her back against the shelving to squeeze past his bulging stomach without touching it. As she was almost past, he leaned forwards—his belly spilling against hers, her back wedged hard and burning against a shelf.

  ‘No nonsense, Artemisia. No mistakes. I am watching you every second. It is my reputation at stake,’ he whispered.

  She twisted her neck to avoid his stink and glanced back down at the pot. The lid was dislodged, and a tiny corner of the letter was sticking out. Her stomach churned and bile boiled as she watched the briefest flicker of his eyes to the shelves where she kept her kitchen records. Perhaps it was just a blink. It was too dark for him to see. She needed to calm herself.

  Artemisia took a deep breath, gathering strength from her spices. ‘Of course, Abbot Roald. As you wish.’

  She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she stepped into the light and let the banging and crashing of the kitchen wash over her.

  Only one more course to go.

  Chapter 40

  Tuscany, May 2015

  The taxi wound up the hill past the ghostly silhouettes of pencil pines lining the road to Tenuta di Falgino. Pip took a deep breath and straightened the navy silk dress crushed across her thighs. The chill had numbed the side of her face pressed against the window, but the rest of her skin felt on fire. Half her cells wanted her to go forward, the other back.

  She pulled her mobile phone out of the front pocket of her backpack and there was a return message from Megs. Good luck. Call me ASAP to let me know. I’m good BTW. M x

  As the car slowed to take the final few hairpin turns it stopped and pulled over to the shoulder of the road to give way to a series of trucks.

  ‘Ah, see: Carnevale di Viareggio,’ the driver said, tapping his window with excitement.

  A series of oversized papier-mâché effigies slowly paraded past on the back of floats lit up by the full moon. The taxi driver had his window down in an instant, filling the car with biting air and upbeat jazz as he yelled out, ‘Bellissimo! Bellissimo!’ and started clapping his hands in time to the trumpet melody. It looked like a barnyard Mardi Gras: the first float had an oversized red-crested black hen with wings flapping, the next a purple Indian-style bejewelled elephant. The floats were flanked by pedestrians dressed as lion-tamers, peasant girls, monks, priests and a wall of Venetian masks with pale faces and ribbons of tears. They waved as they walked past and the taxi driver turned and shouted at Pip: ‘Ah, bella. This carnevale is for all of spring. They take this parade into the town and then we have the fireworks later.’

  Pip wondered if the fireworks could possibly compete with this rollicking crowd. A giant clown with pink hair, a bow and arrow and a giant red nose drifted by on a float, accompanied by a dozen mini-clowns dressed in multi-coloured jumpsuits, tumbling and cartwheeling down the road in time to the beat of four huge drums. Behind it came a huge gothic bride and groom dressed in black, tongues out, eyes red and googly, grey hair being whipped around by the wind, only held down by the pointy sequinned witches’ hats. A row of dead brides, witches and demons carrying straw brooms swarmed around the taxi, smiling and chanting in Italian. They kissed and hugged and high-fived the taxi driver, who now had his whole torso hanging out the window, his face beaming.

  Pip couldn’t help but smile too. ‘What is it all for?’ she asked.

  ‘Carnevale? It used to be for celebrating the lowering of taxes. Boring, eh? Now, we do it to mark the end of winter and to celebrate spring—hope.’

  He climbed back into his seat as the noise wound its way down the hill. ‘I go join after I drop you.’

  She glanced at her watch. It was 8 pm; the celebration dinner would have started by now.

  The driver continued up the hill.

  As they turned into the driveway of Tenuta di Falgino, Pip started to grow anxious. Would Jack be pleased to see her?

  She paid the driver and walked across the terrace, the gravel crunching under her feet. When she reached the main villa, Pip stood outside and eyed the heavy old oak door. She took a deep breath and composed herself, counting from one to ten. Below the door seeped the soft warm smell of wood smoke, roasting meats and rosemary.

  Adrenaline flooded her veins—it was time to go inside. Pip looked down and adjusted the plunging front of her new navy evening dress so it didn’t gape and show the edge of her bra. She’d spent way too much on it—but she needed every bit of chic she could muster this evening. She smoothed the dress over her hips, and smiled.

  Pip pulled the herbal from her backpack and traced her fingers over the engraving of Artemisia, as she had done so many times this week. Nadia had confirmation from the Herbier lab that the letters, recipes and the manuscript were written not by one but two hands. The drawings, sketches and title pages had used one type of ink, the recipes another. The scientists concluded that it
was this mysterious Artemisia who wrote the recipes. Pip had already known that instinctively; now she had scientific proof.

  She heard laughing behind her and three drunk witches staggered across the terrace arm in arm, swinging bottles of beer. They nodded at Pip, and pushed open the door.

  Pip stepped into the warmth and light after them. Acrobats were swinging from the ceiling, the sound of a male baritone singing opera was blaring from all corners, red and white ribbons crisscrossed the ballroom. Tables were set in rows, clad with red-and-white-checked cloths. Judging from the collection of half-empty carafes and discarded beer bottles, the feast was well underway.

  Waiters dressed in peasant costumes—long brown tunics and wimples—weaved through the crowd, carrying huge terracotta platters of veal and chicken, bowls of cheesy polenta and jugs of red wine to the tables. Pip scanned the room full of jugglers, ghouls and weeping clowns, looking for a face she recognised.

  Bruno approached on her left and pulled her into a hug.

  ‘Ah, Philippa. I am surprised to see you. Let me look at you.’ He stepped back and admired her dress, nodding. ‘No fancy dress for you. Me neither,’ he said with a vigorous shake of his head.

  Pip smiled at his rumpled white shirt, black linen pants and red bow tie. He was a sweetheart and it was a relief to see him.

  ‘Come. Have some wine. Drink.’ He handed her a glass of red. ‘Salute.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Now we find your Jack.’

  Pip took a hasty gulp of wine.

  ‘Ah, I see him. Over there. Go, go, go!’

  Jack was standing with his back to them in the far corner. She could see the line of his broad shoulders in his navy jacket. He wasn’t one for dress-ups either. She smiled. Beside him, with her hand on his forearm, was Valentina in a red velvet Grecian-draped gown. Her black hair was loose and glossy, fanning down her back. Pip could feel her face burning and she turned away and took another gulp of her wine.