—Thyme for strength
—Mint for warmth.
Let us know when you plan to come back to Australia and we will meet you at the airport.
Big hugs and love to Jack,
Mum xxx
Chapter 43
Tasmania, March 2016
Pip glanced inside her basket filled with dark caps and squashy undersides of yellow. She breathed in the crisp air and noted it was cool for early autumn. Unusual. Rain had drizzled across Tasmania since Christmas, and tiny colonies of mushrooms had popped up early in unexpected places. She hoped they would last right through autumn; mushrooms could be so fickle. Pip took another deep breath and inhaled pine, eucalyptus, salt and, yes, excitement. Her nose and throat tingled as her lungs filled. Jiggling the wicker basket to make sure the spores fell onto the ground, she kicked some damp pine needles over the spot. Just in case. Her father’s old mushrooming companion had taught her well. She was looking forward to seeing Dom today. Gabrielle was already out early with a basket and a list from Dan, picking herbs from the walled garden. She’d jumped at the chance to be a part of the wedding when Pip emailed the invitation and was keen to take her first trip to Australia.
Though it was only March, Pip could see her breath. She knew the chill would lift soon, when the sun was high enough to burn skin not smothered in sunscreen. She watched the damp mist drift up from the carpet of pine needles underneath the giant macrocarpas and looked out across the rows of vines that ran all the way down to the channel. The dull fermenting acid of the pine needles mingled with the sharp scent of the native blue and white gums. She could just catch a scent of the salt lifting off the mudflats with the morning breeze.
‘Brrr. It’s bloody cold, Pip,’ said Megs, stomping her feet to keep warm, and hugging her belly. ‘Why do you always get up this early? Ever heard of cereal?’
‘Had to collect the clams before the tide came in. You have a good excuse not to get out of bed,’ said Pip. ‘You sure you’re not too tired?’
‘I can’t believe you thought I would miss anything today! Chloé and I have been dancing around in our dresses for weeks.’ Megs threw her head back and laughed and it sounded like sunshine.
‘C’mon, I think we have enough of everything now,’ said Pip. ‘Carry that other basket. I’ve got work to do.’
Megs sighed, reached down and hoisted the deep wicker basket onto her forearm. She lifted the damp tea towel to look at the tiny green berries rolling around the bottom of the basket. ‘What have you got in here?’ she asked.
‘Native cranberries,’ said Pip. ‘Sweet and sour. I’m putting them with the blackberries and watermelon I picked yesterday from the garden—I thought it would make a great starter. I’ll serve the fruit on big platters, with a boozy cranberry sauce and you eat with your fingers. Lick the sauce off. Like honey. Except with port. Delicious.’
Megs raised an eyebrow at her younger sister. ‘Eating with our fingers, hey? Sounds very medieval. Are we having jousting and juggling between courses?’
‘Actually, I have seven courses planned,’ said Pip as she led the way back up the hill towards Ashfield House, perched high above the D’Entrecasteaux Channel. ‘It’s a full-on banquet. I got the idea from the wedding manuscript Gabrielle gave me at Château de Boschaud. We’ll start off with some dry fizz that Jack makes here at the vineyard. It’s a new style he’s trialling, among others.’
Pip waved a hand at the lines of golden pinot leaves trellised all the way down the hillside to the channel. As the sun lifted, the mist and glistening dew would burn off, and they’d be able to see almost all the way to Bruny Island. She could hear the drone of a tinny in the distance. The couta were running early this year and Jack had mentioned he might throw a line or two out this morning with Will and her dad for an hour—just to check. She’d bumped into him at dawn, heading out to the vineyard with his cordless drill and a pocket full of screws. It was hard to tell exactly what he was heading out to fix—he’d mumbled at her through a mouthful of nails and kept walking at full pace up the hill. No doubt there was a row of vines loose, or a gate had come off its hinges somewhere. She grinned. So typical of him to fix it straight away, even before he went for a fish with the boys.
‘Thanks for all your help these past couple of days, Megs. I know Dan is really grateful too. If surgery doesn’t work out, you can always get a job here.’ Pip squeezed her sister’s shoulder.
There had been many tears over the past few months as Megs started piecing together her new normal and weaned herself off the medication with the help of her counsellor. Part-time work. Day surgeries only. Light exercise. Scheduled date nights with Will. In other words—baby steps. Pip was in awe of how brave and strong Megs was, even when she looked deflated and tired.
Today, though, Megs was buzzing with energy.
‘I might take you up on that. Just look at this place. Not bad.’ Megs jogged up the wide flagstone steps towards the Georgian house, swinging her basket. They walked along the terrace until they reached the new conservatory built onto the northern side of Ashfield House—two storeys of glass walls with an elegant industrial steel frame that had been treated so it turned a rusty red.
‘It’s so beautiful, Pip—like a contemporary art gallery. You are both so clever.’
‘Well, it was Jack’s idea. He needed a big new winery so I suggested if he was purpose-building something so beautiful it should be multi-purpose!’
‘Good thinking.’
Pip passed the old turpentine hardwood door. It was hard to believe it was complete only a little more than ten months since Jack had knocked up some sketches on the train from Lucca to Paris.
A handful of staff was busy setting plates and cutlery. The clatter of china and laughter filled the room. She loved the way Jack had given this room such a sharp contemporary edge with soaring steel beams, but made it feel warm using the louvre windows ripped from the old garden shed. From the six-metre-high ceilings dangled long red cords with giant old-style globes at irregular intervals, and Jack had fashioned lightshades in warped cylinders using some rusty old fencing wire. The brick wall was affixed with oversized smoked paprika tins printed with bright Spanish cartoons sprouting a mix of succulents like pigface, Echeveria and cacti.
Pip looked across at the big old big pine dresser she’d had shifted from the homestead’s kitchen. She’d asked Jack and Will to move it into the conservatory to house the copper pots. They looked perfect in their new home. Her home. She smiled.
A door burst open and high-pitched shrieks and giggles streamed inside. Chloé ran up and wrapped herself around Pip’s legs, trying to hide from Mary, who was giving chase. The child clung to Pip, howling with laughter.
Megs looked over at the dresser, her eyes sparkling. ‘You got the pots sorted.’
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t think I should ask you to help again.’ Now Megs was back at the hospital part-time, Pip watched her like a hawk to make sure she didn’t overdo it. Her sister was a brilliant actress, it seemed.
‘Pots, pots,’ Chloé repeated. Pip idly stroked the toddler’s back.
‘What’s this?’ asked Megs, picking up the leather-bound book sitting on the dresser. She opened the cover. Mary came and put her arms around Pip’s waist and rested her head on her daughter’s shoulder. They all stood silently as Megs flipped through the pages until she came to the title page with the heading Boute-Hors and some line drawings of rosemary and Artemisia:
Pour faire ung lot let bon hypocras
Dele mele bullito co le noci, detto nucato
Pour fair orengat
Megs flipped back to the cover and ran her fingers along the engraved herb and placed it back on the dresser, giving her sister a quizzical look.
‘Artemisia,’ said Mary and Pip said in unison.
‘She was also known as Mother of Herbs,’ Pip explained, adding: ‘I think that’s what we’ll call the bistro when it opens. Seems right.’
Pointing to the herbal, she said,
‘It’s also where I got the inspiration for this.’ She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans and smoothed it out on the dresser beside the book:
Wedding Menu
Spicy popcorn
Bruny Island wagyu tartare, tarrago emulsion Ostrea angassi
Smoked new season pink-eye potatoes, sauce of whey, garlic, samphire and elderflower
Broad beans, violet artichokes, burrata curd, green juniper oil
Steamed Venerupis clams, anise hyssop dashi and Bellota Lightly steamed line-caught Tasmanian hapuka and mushrooms cooked over charcoal
Artemisia’s smoked eel, poached rhubarb, laver and pickled hawthorn blossom
West Hobart lime posset, iced fig leaf and lovage kefir, caraway and dill shortbread.
‘Popcorn?’ Megs exclaimed. ‘Who ever heard of popcorn at a wedding banquet. What kind of starter is that?’
‘The salty snack kind,’ replied Pip.
Megs laughed. ‘Is there any dish these days you don’t add herbs or spices to? I mean, I’ve heard of salt, butter and maybe honey on popcorn. But spices? Sounds mad to me.’
‘Just wait until you try it,’ said Pip.
‘I think it sounds delicious,’ Mary interjected. She bent down and hoisted Chloé onto her hip, nuzzling her neck. ‘Almost as delicious as you, my darling.’ Chloé squealed with delight as Mary pretended to nip her neck.
‘Everyone loves a salty snack in summer with beer or bubbles,’ said Pip. ‘And it’s healthy and not too filling—the guests will have plenty of room left for my feast. It’s going to be the best wedding banquet ever.’ Pip hesitated. ‘I hope people get it. I emailed it to Pedro for a squiz. He’s been great with ideas for the menu—even sent me a couple of recipes he’s trying now he has taken over the kitchen at Telmo’s. It’s great having him to bounce ideas off for the kitchen. Dan loves it too. We’ve got—’ she looked at her watch ‘—eight hours. Better get cracking.’
Pip eyed the conservatory. There were old canteen tables and bench seats from the shearers’ quarters, round mahogany tables from the formal areas of Ashfield House, a repurposed scouring table from the woolshed covered with glass and a few square laminex café tables. The restaurant could easily seat a hundred people.
Megs was studying the room too. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack designed this place with his own wedding in mind,’ she remarked. She wrapped her arms around Pip’s shoulders. ‘This is extraordinary, Pip. What are the tablecloths?’ She leaned over and ran a hand over a soft, grey pile.
‘Wool. Bit of a nod to the Rodgers’ farming heritage. I didn’t want plain white starched tablecloths, and we found these old blankets over in the shearers’ quarters when Jack was looking for furniture and fittings to repurpose for the restaurant. You know what he’s like—why buy something if you can make it yourself?’ She smiled happily as she looked around the space.
The dull of the grey blankets was lifted with bright mismatched plates of Wedgewood and bone china they had pulled from the homestead dressers and whipped into service. She and Jack had filled boxes with antique French glassware, crockery and cutlery from the Clignancourt markets in Paris and shipped them home. It seemed fitting to have glass jars of herbs and flowers scattered among the silverware.
Cut crystal wine glasses bounced light around the room, dazzling in the glow of clusters of tea lights. At the centre of each table was a collection of plain water glasses stuffed with sprigs of rosemary, parsley, ivy and white roses. Alternating glasses were filled with the blue hues of lavender and catmint.
‘Smells like a florist—or an apothecary,’ said Megs as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Pip leaned over the table to tie a couple of loose strings around the medieval-style posies lying on a silver tray for guests to take home as a gift. Earlier this morning, as the trio sat around the breakfast table making them, Mary explained to Pip how on her own wedding day she’d gathered the posy of herbs and woven it with ivy to represent fidelity and strength—it was impossible to rip from the soil once it was planted. Mary had giggled in her girlish way and said she’d made a buttonhole for David too. It had seemed to do the trick for her parents. Mary suggested hawthorn and holly, but Pip insisted on some native yellow wattle, kelp, a sprig of sweet Kunzea and green strands of Lomandra. Megs had simply laughed and said, ‘What are we, rabbits? I’ve never heard of herbs and salads for bouquets.’
With the strings secure, Pip turned to Megs. ‘Hey, Megs, that’s the herb we were talking about. The one in the manuscript—Artemisia. Wormwood.’ Megs looked to where Pip was pointing at the grey-green row of shrubs glinting with dew and unfurling up to the top of the old brick garden wall.
‘It’s the base of our vermouth. We grow a lot of the ingredients here.’ Pip gestured to the walled garden outside and started checking them off on her fingers: ‘Wormwood, of course, rosemary, marjoram, coriander and fennel seed, juniper and sloe berries, and the rest we harvest when it is in season along the foreshore. Some of the gum pollens, the samphire seeds, mountain pepper.
‘I can’t tell you the rest, otherwise we’ll have to kill you. Anyway, it changes depending on the season and what we can get hold of. It’s fun. Jack already had the leftover white wine and we bought the vodka from a local maker. It’s our little experiment. I create the formula and source the native botanicals; Jack makes it work in the bottle.’
Megs laughed and laughed. ‘Is that a number from your French recipe book?’
‘Gabrielle tasted it last night and gave it her blessing!’
A long trestle table was being set up near the entrance and the staff chatted and laughed as they set out rows of gleaming champagne flutes and cocktail glasses.
Megs raised her eyebrows at Pip. ‘Cocktails? At a wedding? Dangerous!’
‘Of course! There’s the Sloe Gin Sling and the Artemisia—of course—using our vermouth. C’mon, let’s get cracking,’ said Pip, on the move again. ‘We have a lot of cooking to do. Actually,’ she paused, ‘before I forget, I just have to pop down to the cellar for a minute. I want to show you something. Mum, can you please find Gabrielle in the garden? It’s important.’
Chapter 44
Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487
‘Give it to me,’ hissed Abbot Roald.
Artemisia glared with her chin up and removed the parchment parcel from her apron. In the distance she could hear the nightingales warbling—trapped in their wicker cages—and wondered when they would be presented to the bride. She looked out of the tiny window and saw that the midsummer sun was still high. Below she could see the green leaves of the berry walk where the stalks of gooseberries, cranberries and raspberries all stood lashed to their chestnut props. From high in the turret, the green allée looked beautiful set against the orchard and rows of hornbeam hedges. Serene. She took a deep breath, calmed by the scene of the garden stretched like the bright quilt spread across the maiden’s bed.
She turned back to answer the abbot. ‘No. It doesn’t concern you.’
‘I said give it to me.’ He stepped closer and for the second time that day Artemisia recoiled from his septic breath.
‘I will not. It is a gift. Private. It does not concern you.’
‘Everything in Château de Boschaud concerns me. Comprendre? Including this.’
He pulled Andreas’s letter from his pocket and waved it in the air. Artemisia closed her eyes. When she opened them again he was holding kitchen records—he must have stolen them from the larder.
‘I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master. Those are the words of God. Are you above God, Artemisia?’
‘No, Abbot,’ she whispered.
‘Pardon?’ he boomed.
‘I said no, Abbot,’ she repeated, louder this time.
He thrust the parchments into the orange flame of the bedside candle and she watched them ignite. As the flames licked his fingers, he dropped the burning pages to the floor and stamped them with his foot until
there was nothing left but embers and ash.
‘So you see, Artemisia, a cook is no match for an abbot. I will not have a nobody like you running to Lord Boschaud with your petty woes. I run this place, and I am in charge. So what if I keep a little wine and supplies on the side? I deserve it.’
‘Lord Boschaud will find out. He’s not a fool. Even if I don’t tell him—he’ll know.’
‘Ah, but with the records gone, where’s your proof?’ Then he snarled: ‘I will not allow you to use your records to send me back to Limoges in disgrace.’
‘I wouldn’t—’
Abbot Roald held up his hand. ‘No, Cook. You won’t.’
She realised there was little point in arguing. She couldn’t win without evidence and that was now lying in ashes on the floor. Her shoulders dropped as she pondered this problem. Soon I’ll be married, and Lord Boschaud will take the word of my husband. No-one would call a master of a guild a liar. Their word was their business.
‘So back to this little book.’ He waved the letter in the air and Artemisia saw the bushel of St John’s wort hanging above the bed. Her luck would hold tonight—she would wager on the head of St Jean.
‘Why would you not seek my approval for marriage? Instead, you sneak around like a dirty whore behind my back. I saw you in the walled garden this morn with the épicier.’
‘No, Abbot. Andreas—’
‘I don’t care what the merchant says. You belong to the château. I command the servants and the monks. You should come to me before you approach Lord Boschaud.’ He sniffed in frustration. ‘You and that Hildegard. Always wanting exceptions. The lord will not release you. I will not release you. You belong here. That book in your hand—it belongs to me. Give it to me. Now.’
Artemisia slowly stepped along the wall. ‘No.’ Andreas was downstairs asking for her hand and it would be granted. How could Lord Boschaud refuse on such a day? She was willing to come and help Emmeline and Hildegard with banquets, if that’s what it took to live with Andreas above his spice shop in the village.
The Midsummer Garden Page 28