She pressed her gift to her chest. Wife of the épicier, master of the guild. She imagined a fat child swaddled tight at her chest as she took orders and weighed spices at the counter, slipping the francs into a leather pouch slung low around her hips. ‘I’ll not be handing this over.’ She took two steps towards him, ‘Now, pardon, I must get back to the kitchen. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
As she said it, Roald’s right fist slammed into her chin, throwing her against the cold granite wall. Artemisia dropped the parcel and he kicked it across the wide oak floorboards to the other side of the room.
Artemisia began to move towards it, determined to retrieve her betrothal gift. She wasn’t leaving Château de Boschaud without it. By God’s blood, she wasn’t going to let the foul abbot bring a flame to it.
He swung his fist again and connected with her jaw a second time. The loud crack of bone breaking filled the tiny maiden’s room.
The room began to spin. Warmth trickled from her nose and mouth and she tasted the sweetness and salt of her blood where her lip was split. Artemisia struggled to stand upright, her hands clutching at the thick stone windowsill to pull herself up. Both cheeks throbbed. Her palms were sweaty and her breath was short and sharp with fear.
She just needed to get down the stairs to Andreas. Then she could leave.
The warm twilight air that just an hour ago had filled her with warmth, love, hope and the sweet perfume of summer blossoms had turned cold and clammy. Artemisia leaned her head right out of the window so she had a full view of the berry patch, the cloister billowing with roses, the walls, the dark hornbeam and the rolling hills beyond the wall. Comforted, she took a slow, deep breath.
Roald wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and straightened his purple robe. He stood blocking the narrow doorway to the stairs. He reached out and snatched the parcel from the floor and his fat sausage fingers struggled to untie the string.
Artemisia flinched as she watched his pudgy fingers run over her precious bound manuscript. He sniffed the calfskin, and said. ‘Expensive. Too good for a servant,’ before he pulled back the cover and flipped through the sheets:
Pour faire ung lot let bon hypocras
Dele mele bullito co le noci, detto nucato
Pour fair orengat
Artemisia watched him rub the parchment between thumb and forefinger, paying heed to the thickness and the fine handiwork of the sketches. Rosemary, coriander, crocus, catmint. He turned leaf after leaf, frowning and admiring out loud the accuracy of the drawings, the delicacies of the feathering in the ink and reading the herbals. She was proud of Andreas—now the abbot saw what a fine, talented man Andreas was he would hand over the parchments, to be sure.
She sighed with relief and allowed herself a tiny smile despite the thumping pain in her jaw. It was going to be okay. She still had her tongue.
Abbot Roald turned to the front of the manuscript and paused to read the dedication from Andreas. He sucked hard through his teeth and his eyes narrowed as he read the words aloud. ‘Pour—’
Artemisia put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes as her head pounded and ached. She didn’t want to hear the words of her lover from those repulsive, wine-stained lips. She inched along the wall, biding her time to snatch the book and run downstairs to freedom.
Abbot Roald snorted and sneered, then tore out the page. Artemisia dived towards him and tried to snatch it out of his raised hand. She kicked him in the shin, but Abbot Roald scrunched the parchment into a tight ball then lobbed it out of the window. She’d have to run down and find it the minute she left the tower and then she could return it to its rightful place.
Artemisia kicked Abbot Roald again and tried to wrestle the book from his hand but he shoved her against the wall and tucked the book down the front of his robe.
Sounds of exuberant dancing, stomping, clapping and wild screeching wound up the stairwell as the guests partnered up and joined the troubadours celebrating and swirling around the hall. The stamp of happy footsteps against oak echoed through the château. Even if she were to scream, no-one could hear her. She was trapped. Not a soul knew they were here in the maiden’s room.
Artemisia looked at the St John’s wort clumped with rue, rosemary and yarrow and realised it might not be enough to keep the bad spirits away. Her blood tasted bitter and she tried to swallow. She rested her upper body against the windowsill, and felt the cool breeze smelling of hope and freedom stroke her cheek. She would be out of this maiden’s room before the song was over, she vowed. Tomorrow she would breakfast in the de Vitriaco courtyard with her fiancé under the wisteria.
Gathering all her strength, she tried to duck and run past the abbot, but he smashed her eye socket with his fist. Before she could slump to the floor, he reached down and grabbed her feet. Her petite frame was easy to lift and within an instant she was balanced on the sill, half hanging out of the tiny window.
Artemisia struggled for a shallow breath, her eyes closed. Her pulse quickened and she started to wriggle and kick. She could see the patchwork of her walled garden five storeys below.
‘No! Stop! Release me, you swine.’
‘You want me to release you?’ asked Abbot Roald, lifting her feet higher.
Artemisia scraped her hands and arms on the outer walls as she tried to brace herself against the wall and window frame with all her strength.
She spat at the abbot as she writhed and twisted to free her legs, still clinging to the wall. One good kick and she would be free.
A nightingale shrieked and beat its wings against its cage.
With not much more than a shove, Abbot Roald grinned and tipped Artemisia over the ledge and out the window like a sack of flour.
Chapter 45
Tasmania, March 2016
Pip dropped her shoulder to shove open the worn Tasmanian oak door and jogged down a dozen flagstone steps into the cellar. ‘Careful, they can be slippery,’ she said over her shoulder to Mary, Gabrielle and Megs. ‘Better let Chloé walk, Mum. Hold her hand.’
The temperature dropped ten degrees as they descended. The tiny room felt dank and lifeless, but Pip could smell traces of cinnamon and ginger. She flicked a switch and a dusty globe swinging from a beam bathed the sandstone walls with warm light.
‘Why are we here?’ Megs twisted her head and looked around the room. ‘What the—?’
‘Patience,’ replied Pip. ‘Now come here to the table, look under this sheet.’
‘Bit old for magic tricks, aren’t you?’ Megs said as Pip peeled back the faded floral bedsheet from something perched on an old wooden wine box. Then she took a step back and let out a long whistle. ‘Pip. That’s …’ She poked it with her finger. ‘Is this what I think it is? Is this edible?’
‘Yep, sure is. It’s an entremet. It’s my tribute to Artemisia—there’s a sketch of one she made for the wedding feast.’ Pip smiled at Gabrielle, who looked as if she might burst into tears of joy.
Gabrielle stepped forward and patted Pip’s hand. ‘We know—thanks to Philippa here—Artemisia wrote that manuscript. We have evidence. And her Andreas did the illustrations. Perhaps they were lovers—I like to think so,’ she looked up and gave them all a naughty grin. ‘But we will never know for sure.’ She shrugged. ‘C’est le vie.’
Pip added, ‘The conservators have no idea how this Abbot Roald managed to get the book, but they think he ripped the page out and passed it off as his own.’
‘Swine,’ said Megs.
‘Exactly.’ Pip nodded. ‘So I made a version to honour her. I mean, look …’ She gestured to the entremets. ‘I’m ridiculously blessed.’ She looked up and grinned.
Mary came and put an arm around her. Chloé cuddled Pip’s legs.
‘It’s just my crazy way of saying thank you. For everything …’ Pip choked on the last few words, emotion getting the better of her. She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her hair.
She turned to Gabrielle. ‘I wouldn’t be standing h
ere if it weren’t for you.’
Gabrielle tutted and pulled her grey cashmere cardigan tight across her bosom as she blushed. She patted Pip’s hand. ‘It’s magic just to be here, no? To walk your garden. To see a family wedding. C’est très special.’
Megs leaned in under the swinging light bulb, studying the replica of Ashfield House. Pip hoped everyone would recognise the walled vegetable garden, tennis court and the rows of vineyards. She had even re-created the grey choppy waters of the D’Entrecasteaux Channel.
‘Is that wall gingerbread?’ asked Mary in awe as she stared at the replica two-storey Georgian homestead.
‘Yep, I cut it in blocks so it looks like the sandstone.’
‘I love the lavender lined up along the wall and tennis court. Feel that moss on the tennis court. It’s so soft. How gorgeous. The garden beds in the veggie patch are—is that a sliced carrot retaining wall?’
Pip nodded. ‘Yes, they’re meant to be sleepers but I ran out of gingerbread. I’ve used dehydrated olives and pine nuts for the soil, and pared baby carrots, celeriac, radishes and turnips so they are teeny-weeny. Can you see them planted in there?’ She pointed out the tiny feathery tufts in neat rows. Megs nodded and Chloé took a hand out of her mouth and stroked the moss, cooing.
‘And now I just have to add a few things.’ Pip reached into her wicker basket and pulled out a handful of tiny pink and green native cranberries. ‘I’m just dotting a few of these in a line—two lines, actually—to make a berry walk.’ She grinned at Gabrielle, who mouthed a silent merci, with the slightest nod.
Pip passed Chloé a handful of the berries and lifted her up above the table. Her voice softened as she pointed out where to place each berry: ‘Here, darling. Make them straight. That’s perfect.’ She congratulated the toddler with a kiss on the top of her head.
Megs watched Pip pluck tiny green leaves. ‘What’s that stuff?’
‘Fennel, dill, carrot tops and beetroot leaves. Plus the native samphire, spinach, some Poa grass and a few wattle buds.’
‘I see,’ said Megs, even though she clearly didn’t.
‘Had to do this bit at the last minute as the leaves would just get too droopy.’ Pip lifted the leaves and folded the purplish beetroot leaf into tiny rosettes as if she were doing origami. The tiny lettuces were planted in neat rows down the middle of the vegetable patch.
‘Is this pine?’ Megs asked as she lifted some dark feathery twigs from the basket and sniffed.
‘Sure is. These are some little branches from the giant macrocarpa pine between the main house and Jack’s old cottage. They’re massive, but they stop the crazy winds up the river hitting the house.’ She placed them in a protective row down the side.
Pip reached down to her mushroom basket, collected a handful, folded them into her apron and pounded them against the wall. The crushed mushrooms smelled like sweetened dirt. ‘And now for the finishing touch.’ And she spread the crushed mushrooms along the bank of the channel: ‘The estuary.’
‘No good cake should be without standard mudflats!’ Mary giggled. ‘How did you make the channel appear so stormy? It looks freezing—you got that bit right.’
‘Jelly, obulato and squid ink.’ Pip shook a plant with wide green leaves. ‘Samphire and sea celery—they’re natives. Got them down by the shore this morning. Great with fish or in a salad. I’m going to use them a bit in the meal today,’ she said as she shredded and sprinkled it along her faux waterfront.
Gabrielle raised her eyebrows and gave a clap. ‘Bravo, Philippa. C’est magnifique.’
The sharp tang of eucalyptus cut through the stale air and lingering softer spices as Pip crushed some gum leaves in her hands and laid them along the foreshore, adding a few stands of twigs to make it look suitably scrubby. Pip preferred the parts of the Tasmanian coastline where it remained wild.
She had a feeling Artemisia would approve. It was the perfect wedding present for Jack.
Chapter 46
Tasmania, March 2016
Pip stood with her family outside the walled garden waiting for the wedding service to start. She closed her eyes for a moment and rubbed her cheek against the old sandstone wall. The day’s sunshine warmed her skin, her bones, and she smiled. The twilight air was thick with the scent of catmint, lavender and Artemisia.
When she opened her eyes, rows of golden vines threaded down the slopes to the billowing tufts of dry native grasses and bracken at the water’s edge. Her channel. The grey water surged and licked uneven rocks covered with lichen. The tide was coming in and further along the foreshore her mudflats would disappear for the evening, blanketed in roving currents. The channel was starting to cool, and by winter the deep waters would be far warmer than the surface. She’d swim the length of North West Bay with Jack, keeping her body submerged, watching her breath unfurl across the broad winter sky.
‘Look at you: the dreamy bride,’ said Megs dressed in an elegant sky-blue knee-length silk shift. Her parents stood behind, beaming. David was in traditional black tie and the buttons on his shirt were straining at the belly. Pip hoped they’d make it through the evening. She leaned over to smell the white Wedding Day rose in his buttonhole and got a noseful of fluffy yellow wattle instead. At least the ivy was holding it all together. Pip readjusted it so no-one could see the squashed bits.
‘You look beautiful, my darling,’ said Mary, stepping forward in a navy beaded flapper-style drop-waisted dress with a slit up one leg.
‘Jeez, Mum. You look about twenty-five. Ever heard that rule about not upstaging the bride?’
‘Oh, Pip, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mary as she smoothed out Pip’s shawl. ‘This has turned out well—much better than a veil.’
‘Sure has, Mum. Thanks.’ Mary had whipped up the shawl from a remnant of French lace Gabrielle had brought over from the storerooms of Château de Boschaud. Something blue.
‘Right, I think we’re all set then.’ Pip ran her hands over her dress, feeling every bit the bride. It was funny; she’d never dreamed of a big fancy wedding, but now it was here she couldn’t stop shivering with excitement. Or perhaps she was just cold and should have gone with the long sleeves?
Her dress was plain and simple: cream silk, strapless, fitted bodice with an A-line skirt that billowed a little at the ground. She’d been reluctant to look too bridal, flouncy and fluffy—her only request was for comfort. Mary and Megs had come up with the design to show off the shawl and she’d left them to it. She wanted to be comfortable as she raced between the party and the kitchen, checking that Dan and his team were okay.
‘Okay, here’s the salad. The only thing missing is the parsley,’ said Megs as she passed Pip her bouquet.
Pip held it with straight arms out from her body, turning it in the fading light. It looked and smelled like home—a loose bunch of rosemary, catmint, white roses, broadleaf sage, lavender and some native mountain pepper and eucalyptus leaves. Edging it all like the finest silver lace were a few sprigs of her beloved Artemisia. Mother of Herbs. She lifted it and sniffed. Not a hint of bitterness. Just a strong woody, earthy scent, in tune with the eucalyptus and balancing out the heady sweetness of the herbs. And perhaps with time, Pip hoped, it would represent fertility. She lifted the posy and let the silvery fronds brush her nose for luck. Was she the only scientist who still believed in a little magic?
Megs looked at her watch. ‘Quick, Mum, I’ll walk you to your seat.’ Megs flicked the catch to the old turpentine door leading into the walled garden and pushed. Nothing.
‘Sorry. It’s heavy,’ said Pip. ‘Put a bit of muscle into it.’
‘Rightio,’ said Megs as she dropped her shoulder and shoved the door open. ‘Now that’s what I call a door—see you on the other side,’ she said with a laugh as she linked arms with Mary and led her up the gravel walkway to her seat.
Pip turned to face her dad. ‘All good?’
Her father tipped his head on the side, smiling. He fished for a tissue in his inner pocket and da
bbed at his eyes.
Pip gave him a hug.
‘Pip, my popsicle,’ he said as he stroked her tamed hair sitting flat to her shoulders. ‘I’m so proud of you. Your extraordinary research. Jack. This place.’ He stepped back and held up his arms as he looked around in awe. ‘You’re a remarkable young woman.’ He placed both hands on her shoulders and Pip remembered the day they stood together at his graduation when she was a child. ‘You always surprise me, Pip.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Now she was the one blinking back tears. She touched her fingers to her eyes, hoping the mascara would hold. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and took her father’s arm.
‘Let’s go.’
Jack watched Pip walk with her father through the old arched doorway in the wall and blinked back tears. Her auburn hair sat thick and loose on her shoulders, offset by the blue lace shawl she was wearing. She looked up and her green eyes locked onto his, before she wiggled her nose and broke into an enormous grin. He blew her a kiss.
The crowd of about a hundred chuckled, full of goodwill and champagne. They’d been enjoying the last rays of afternoon sun, waterside views from the terrace and a generous dose of 2014 vintage bubbles. Jack saw his parents beaming. Mary nodded encouragement and Gabrielle seemed to be laughing and blushing at old Percy Thompson from next door. Behind them, Nicholas and his sleek partner, Wei, nodded and raised their glasses at him in a silent toast. They looked quite the pair of New Yorkers—Nicko with his slicked back dark hair and white tux, Wei with her plunging neckline beneath a white tuxedo jacket and a whole lot of chutzpah. They’d just bought an ultra-modern penthouse in Brooklyn, all lights, glass, steel and slate. Jack wondered what they thought of Pip’s revamped walled garden.
The grey gravel had been replaced with an earthy terracotta stone topping. In the far corner, a square of planter boxes made from old railway sleepers was brimming with herbs and vegetables. Pip’s prized Artemisia hedge billowed and shimmered like giant silver feathers in the afternoon light.
The Midsummer Garden Page 29