The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  ‘I’ll take that,’ said Bruno, grabbing the glass. ‘Now you turn around, bella. Go do what you came here for.’

  The opera had stopped, and in its place was a poet at a screeching microphone who was reciting in Italian with much sighing and sweeping hand gestures.

  Bruno whispered in her ear after a line or two: ‘It is Dante. A poem about the lover and love.’ Then he gave her a gentle push in the small of her back.

  Pip crossed the room, accompanied by the sighing and singing. She walked right up and tapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Jack.’

  He turned slowly, Valentina’s hand dropping from his arm. ‘Pip?’ He looked shocked, then beamed as if the smile was going to rip right off his face. ‘Pip,’ he said with force and scooped her into a big hug. He still smelled of salt and the earth.

  Over his shoulder Pip could see Valentina, who looked equally astonished. ‘Oh! What a surprise, Philippa.’

  Jack twirled around for a moment, and then put her down. ‘But I don’t understand …’

  ‘Can we help you? Is everything okay?’ asked Valentina, placing a proprietorial hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing here, Pip?’ He looked around the room. ‘How did you even get here?’ He sounded hesitant. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes. Jack—’

  ‘Is it your family? Is there another emergency?’ interrupted Valentina.

  Pip opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. How did Valentina know about Megs? Just how close were she and Jack?

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Valentina kindly. She stepped towards Pip and reached out a hand to squeeze her shoulder.

  Pip’s heart was beating loudly in her ears. She wished they would just let her speak.

  ‘I spoke to Will,’ said Jack. ‘I thought you were in Tasmania.’ Pip couldn’t tell if he was pleased to see her or not.

  ‘I know, it’s crazy, right? I didn’t hear from you, and …’ She shouldn’t have come, Pip thought miserably, looking at their concerned faces. She had no business being here. She should have stayed home with Megs.

  Jack went on: ‘How’s Megs doing? Will seems to think she’s going to be okay. They are going to get some help. Together.’ He shot a sympathetic expression at Pip. ‘Poor Megs. I can’t imagine the energy—just trying to hide it from everyone. It must be awful: all that work pressure, the house, looking after little Chloé.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Megs does everything in double time,’ he explained to Valentina, who nodded. Jack pulled his shoulders back and his deep blue eyes met Pip’s.

  Pip blinked.

  Valentina looked from Jack to Pip, narrowed her eyes for a moment, then turned to speak with someone at the next table. Pip had to hand it to her—Valentina had class.

  Jack was still staring at Pip and a blush started to creep up from his collar. He scratched the back of his neck and glanced at his shoes. Jack spoke softly to his feet. ‘I spent a bit of time with her. Megs. I just helped them with a few bits and pieces around the place. She just seemed so stressed about the landscaping.’ He shrugged.

  ‘I know, I saw. Very impressive.’ Pip’s voice came out a little harder than she’d intended. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She was confused.

  Jack took a deep breath and whistled. ‘It was really no big deal. Besides, you were working all the time. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’

  Pip cut him off. ‘I know what you meant.’ She offered him a half-smile. She wished she had sculled some more red. This wasn’t going well.

  ‘Jack, I …’ But her voice was lost as a burst of Puccini blared from the speakers and a gaggle of busty peasant brides pushed past them, screeching with laughter.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ said Jack, leaning down so his face was almost touching hers. ‘I can’t hear you. Let’s go outside.’ He took Pip’s hand and led her out through the door.

  It was only when they were outside that Pip realised she was still carrying her backpack. So much for her attempt at glamour.

  But Jack’s eyes told a different story. ‘Gorgeous dress, babe,’ he said admiringly. ‘You look stunning. Though cold.’ He took his jacket off and draped it over her shivering shoulders and backpack. But—’ he took a deep breath ‘—I still can’t believe you came here. I thought the whole thing was over. For good.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for looking after my family. Sorting that place for Mum and Dad. But I—I shouldn’t have come. It’s crazy, I … I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice, looking at her feet. ‘But I want to show you something.’ She lifted her head and met his gaze as she fished in her backpack for the manuscript. When she found it, she put the bag on the gravel and handed the book to Jack.

  He studied the engraving on the front cover, running his fingers over the lines of the herb before he opened the front page: Fête de la Saint-Jean.

  ‘Whoa. What is this?’

  ‘You know the French recipes and letters I found? The ones in the pots Mum and Dad gave us for our—’ she swallowed ‘—our engagement present?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Jack said. ‘They’re in your sister’s shed.’ He sighed, looked down and kicked the gravel. When he spoke again, he sounded hopeful. ‘What about them? What’s so important you had to come all the way over here in person?’

  Pip swallowed. She really should have had another glass of red. ‘This is a book of recipes for a wedding banquet. A medieval one. Look at the dedication at the back.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘Please, Jack,’ she said softly. ‘It’s important.’

  Jack flipped to the back of the book and found the loose sheet in its plastic sleeve:

  Pour Artemisia,

  Mère d’herbes,

  Avec tout mon amour sur nos fiançailles.

  Vos Andreas

  Pip watched him hopefully as he read.

  At last Jack looked up at her, a grin spreading across his face. Then he lowered his head to read the dedication again. He closed the book. ‘Is this what I think it is?’ he teased.

  ‘Um, well …’ Pip hesitated, then bumbled on: ‘The Herbier National has confirmed the letters from the pot and this manuscript were written by the same hand. They think a former cook at Château de Boschaud—Artemisia—wrote it, and that Andreas illustrated it and had it bound. It’s calfskin. Very expensive. A cook wouldn’t have been able to afford that.’

  ‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Jack as he stroked the cover and traced the lines of the herb.

  ‘There’s no record of Artemisia being married though. She died single. But look at the dedication—it’s an engagement gift, or a gift to a lover, surely?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He was still looking at the book. It seemed an age until he raised his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were shining.

  ‘I want to—I want us to be together,’ Pip said nervously. ‘It’s a gift for you. An engagement gift.’ She drew a breath. ‘I want to marry you.’

  Jack looked at her, clearly stunned.

  When he didn’t speak, she rushed on to fill the awkward silence. ‘I want to prepare a banquet,’ she said. ‘Like Artemisia. For Artemisia. I want us to prepare a banquet.’ She stepped forward and placed her hand on the book. ‘I mean it. I want to be with you. Forever.’

  Still, Jack said nothing. He just stared at her, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Are you still—will you …’ She stopped. ‘What I mean is, will you marry me, Jack?’ Pip could feel herself blushing as the skin on her chest and neck tingled hot and cold.

  They stood in silence, the words hanging in the air between them. The muted sounds of singing spilled under the doorway and somewhere in the darkness an owl screeched.

  Jack stepped in close. ‘I have something to tell you too.’

  Pip thought she might just throw up—he was going to tell her he was with Valentina now. She’d come all this way, and it was too late. Mortified, she stared at the gravel.

  ‘I settled on Ashfield House this week. I bought out Mum and Dad one hundred per cent—even Nicko came aroun
d in the end and helped me find the best terms. I’m in debt forever!’ He took a deep breath then reached out to grasp her shoulders gently. Looking into her eyes he said, ‘Pip, when your thesis is finished—when you’ve sorted your work …’ He took a deep breath and started again. ‘What I mean is, when we are settled back in Hobart, would you think about … I—I just love you to bits. You’re amazing. I don’t want to do it without you. I can’t take on all these projects without you.’ He stopped and sighed.

  Pip waited, her heart racing.

  ‘I won’t make any plans without first discussing them with you. I was wrong to push you to marry me before you’d finished your own project. And Ashfield House—it was a crazy ask. I tried to shoehorn you into my life. But your research is important. You’re the brains trust, that’s for sure—that’s why I fell in love with you in the first place.’ He paused and grinned. ‘That, and the fact you’re pretty handy at fishing!’ Jack took a breath and let his shoulders fall, before locking eyes with Pip. ‘I’m sorry. But what do you say … are you in?’

  Pip flung her arms around him, her heart dancing with relief and happiness. ‘Of course I’m in, Jack! A draughty Georgian homestead needing a stack of work and a partner up to the gills in debt? How could I resist? Besides, where else are we going to find a kitchen big enough for those damn copper pots?’

  Jack leaned down to kiss her and she felt warm from head to toe. ‘Now let’s go get you out of that lovely dress …’

  ‘Wait. Do you—do we need to speak to Valentina? Won’t she be wondering where you are?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jack, teasing again. He draped his arm around Pip and pulled her close. ‘There’s nothing between us.’ His voice was clear and honest. ‘We’re colleagues. That’s all.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Pip! There’s nothing. I won’t lie to you—Valentina’s gorgeous. There were a few moments when maybe there could have been more. But she’s just been through a bad breakup. Sound familiar? It would have been awkward working together. Less complicated to stop at friends.’

  Pip thought of Pedro walking past her prep station, staring at his shoes, and flushed.

  Jack gave her a squeeze. ‘The only unfinished business I had was with you. I couldn’t get you out of my head after your visit. Thought the only way to cope was not to get in touch for a while.’

  ‘Well, Valentina seems pretty awesome,’ said Pip.

  ‘She is,’ said Jack, nodding. ‘Super smart.’ Then he leaned down and whispered in her ear, ‘But she’s not you.’

  Chapter 41

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  In the banquet hall, a smiling Abbot Roald placed a hand on Artemisia’s shoulder as if he were a kindly grandparent. Leaning in, he said in a harsh whisper: ‘Lady Rose requests that you go up to her chamber and fetch her a vial of her special oil. The épicier made it laced with gold.’ Then he hissed: ‘You thought I didn’t know, hmm?’

  Artemisia froze. Surely he hadn’t found the letter? Or perhaps he’d found her records that proved his lying and cheating?

  Abbot Roald continued, louder this time to make himself heard over the banter and music filling the room: ‘She demands it be placed in the bridal chamber—at once.’

  Artemisia flinched. ‘Begging your pardon, Abbot,’ she said, ‘but would it not be better for one of the chambermaids to fetch it? My place is down in the kitchen.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see a duo of troubadours juggling a set of pewter wine mugs as a third played a jolly tune on his fiddle. The crowd was laughing and clapping in time to the music and Lord Boschaud banged his tankard on the edge of the table, missing the beat every time. Artemisia couldn’t help grinning as she noticed the shy smile of Lady Rose, who seemed entranced by the spectacle.

  Abbot Roald noticed her studying Lady Rose and raised his voice. ‘Do not argue. Do you wish to be whipped?’ As he was speaking, Abbot Roald turned his head, nodding and beaming—the picture of benevolence—at Lord Boschaud and his bride.

  Artemisia thought she might throw up.

  ‘I shall go after I put down this platter of boute-Hors, master,’ she said.

  His threat worried her. Once the last dish was served she would need to find a way to make her escape.

  From his position at the end of the table, Andreas watched with relief as Artemisia walked away from the repulsive Abbot Roald and headed towards him. She placed a silver tray of roasted cardamom and anise seeds in front of Andreas, avoiding eye contact. Andreas reached out for a handful of the still-warm seeds. He crunched them between his teeth then lifted the edge of the now-stained tablecloth to wipe his lips. With six courses behind him he needed all the help digesting he could get.

  He longed to tuck the dark curl that escaped from Artemisia’s wimple behind her ear. He longed to lean close and smell the rosemary she washed it with. He knew she had written this secret into the parchments along with so many others. But she turned and glanced at him, urging caution. Then she slipped out of the room and he saw her turn right to go upstairs rather than downstairs to the kitchen. He wondered what task she had been assigned.

  The lead troubadour—clad a in green velvet vest and pantaloons with gold trim—stepped forward, shushing the crowd with a wave of his arms. After a dramatic pause, he began to recite:

  It is the Romance of the Rose,

  In which al the art of love I close.

  The mater fair is of to make;

  God graunte in gree that she it take

  For whom that it begonnen is!

  The revellers cheered and clapped as he raised his voice slightly and thrust his hips at the blushing Lady Rose. If the opening lines were anything to go by, they were all in for a treat. While Andreas could skip Chastity, he was looking forward to the stories of Jealousy, Beauty and Chance. With a bit of luck the narrator would skip through to the plucking of the rose from the garden. Andreas shrugged and found a pewter jug among the mess on the table, poured himself another digestif and leaned back to enjoy the act. This was going to take a while. In the meantime, he would watch for an opening to approach Lord Boschaud.

  Andreas was halfway through his brew when he saw Abbot Roald excuse himself from Lord Boschaud to oversee work in the kitchen for the next course. He paused in his drinking and sat up when he noticed that instead of heading downstairs, Abbot Roald had turned right to follow Artemisia up the stairs.

  Chapter 42

  Paris, May 2015

  To: maryarnet@bigpond.com

  From: parnet@unitas.edu.au

  Subject: Engagement

  Hi Mum and Dad,

  Sorry the Skype just dropped out while we were on the train back to Paris. Couldn’t wait to share the news. Megs and Will sound pretty stoked. I’m so happy.

  The plan is for me to stay and finish my PhD. I’m close. Should take another two months, I reckon. Jack is going to stay for some of that time, but then he has to get home to work in the vineyard. Earn some $$$$!

  He is building a new winery, with a view to including a casual bistro. I’m going to ask Dan to consult, and of course I’ll help with the menu. We want to use local sustainable produce. Line-caught fish. As much stuff foraged and grown ourselves as we can manage. Maybe we can employ Dad and Dom!

  It will be tricky to balance all these jobs, but please reassure Dad that this time I think I have the formula just about right!

  If all goes to plan, we want to host the wedding there in 12 months.

  Tell Dad I’ve accepted that research associate job at IMAS. Dr Philippa Arnet coming right up in late 2015.

  Lots of love, Pip (and Jack) x

  To: parnet@unitas.edu.au

  From: maryarnet@bigpond.com

  Subject: Engagement

  My dearest Pip,

  We are thrilled for you.

  How remarkable that the pots I gave you for your engagement to watch over you as you made your own home would lead you all the way to the other side of the world.

>   And then back again.

  What to say to my darling Pip? I remember the first time I held you to my chest, skin to skin, and you looked up at me with your curious little green eyes, pulled your tiny pink fist out of your mouth and stared at me. No tears. (Margot cried, well, like a baby!) It was as if you were saying, ‘Here I am.’ And then you rolled your head back and tried to look around the room. I’ll always remember how strong you were. How quiet and focused. I thought it unusual for a baby at the time. Now I have delivered thousands, I can be certain that you are one of a kind!

  From the very beginning you were a curious little girl. Always asking questions, sitting on the benchtop, stirring the cake mixture, rolling the dough for pasta and bread. Licking the spoon—always licking the spoon.

  In the garden you’d pull along your little yellow Tonka truck full of bulbs if I was planting daffodils, seeds if I was in the vegetable patch. You never cared much for weeding—but then again, neither do I.

  Your father and I could not be more proud of you. You are strong and determined and I wonder where your studies will take you? I know in my bones it will not be the well-trodden path chosen by your father and Margot. But that’s okay, my darling. You need to learn to trust your instincts. You have always preferred the obscure tracks running around the side of our mountain here. The stolen moments perched high in the branches of our tallest chestnut tree.

  My Pip, with the wild hair. Remember that it can be hard to pin you down for an answer sometimes. You will need to be flexible. Embrace change.

  Be kind to yourself.

  You already have an engagement present and it turned out to be more special than we ever imagined. But I wanted to send you a list of the herbs I had in my wedding posy. I have a feeling it may suit you—and you can make it yourself!

  —White roses for love (Wedding Day, of course)

  —Rosemary for remembrance

  —Lavender for devotion