The Serpentine Garden Path

by Edeana Malcolm

  The door safely shut behind her, she called her maid, who quickly appeared at her side. Susan pulled off her gloves and handed them to her. “Mary, let the butler know the guests are arriving. I’ll be in my dressing room.”

  On the way to her room, Susan encountered her mother on the second floor examining the servants’ preparations for the guests again.

  “They have passed the gates, Mother.”

  “Oh, my!” Her mother clapped a hand to each cheek in dismay. “What are we to do? Where is your father? I have not seen him this morning.”

  “I do not know, Mother, but I will be in my sitting room, if you should need me.”

  “Should need you, Susan?!” Her mother clasped her wrist as if to detain her. “Of course, I shall need you. We must all go down to greet our visitors en famille. It is the correct way of doing things.”

  “But I do not wish to appear overanxious, Mama.”

  “That was certainly not the effect I was intending, Susan. I was intending a welcoming demeanour. You could manage that, I suppose. Speak to his mother and sister. You will not be required even to look at the young Mr. Fitzwilliam. Now go and find your father—perhaps he is in his sitting room pretending not to be eager as well. I shall go down and greet our guests. A member of the family ought to be present for their arrival.”

  Susan went in search of her father. Not even look at the young Mr. Fitzwilliam? How ridiculous! Of course she would sneak a peep.

  She was a little disappointed at her first glimpse. He was not ugly—some might even call him handsome—but he was small and fair and much older than she had imagined. He looked almost thirty. When he saw that she was looking at him, he bowed in her direction, which startled her. He must think her very rude to gape! She extended her hand. “Cousin Fitzwilliam,” she said.

  He gallantly kissed the offered hand. “Miss Kirke,” he said in his flat dull English, lacking the resonance of Dean’s brogue. “The world has not lied in naming you handsome.”

  “I am sorry, sir, but the world does not know me at all. How can it have such an opinion of me?”

  “Then I feel sorry for the world.”

  He was still holding her hand, an intolerable length of time, so she removed hers, making a conscious effort not to wipe it on her gown. Her disappointment grew rather than abated on hearing Fitzwilliam speak. His speech was practiced and artificial, and his mannerisms were affected and foppish. It should be very easy to refuse the proposal of such a man, she thought.

  The member of the guest party were shown to their apartments so that they could wash and rest after the rigours of their journey. They were expected to dress in their finest clothes for dinner, which was to be taken at four o’clock. Mr. Kirke, as host, entered the dining room, accompanied by Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who, as the most senior lady, was free to choose her own seat first. The other guests arranged themselves as they fancied. Susan placed herself near the roast ribs and the salad because they were among her favourite foods, and she would not have to rely on others to pass them to her. After sitting down, she found that the younger Fitzwilliam had taken a place beside her. He smiled and nodded in her direction.

  “Oh, my goodness! Look at that!” his sister exclaimed. “Look, Father, it is a garden!” She was pointing at the large plateau that took up a great part of the table. On this plateau was arranged a miniature garden complete with foliage, tiny hedges, walks, mirror ponds, and streams; along the path, several porcelain figurines were strolling.

  “It is a replica of our garden,” Kirke explained proudly. “We thought it would be useful to show our guests the disposition of the grounds so that no one is lost when we walk there later.”

  “How delightful, Mr. Kirke!” Mrs. Fitzwilliam exclaimed.

  At that moment a footman arrived with the tureen. He spooned the soup into everyone’s bowls, as they talked quietly to their neighbours.

  “How long have you had your garden?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam asked her host.

  “It has been several years in the making. First the design was drawn by the great Capability Brown, and then several other gardeners did the physical work of planting and construction. Finally, it was completed to our satisfaction, although a garden is ever a work in progress, you must understand. This is the first season it is open to the public and you are the first guests.”

  “We are honoured, sir,” Fitzwilliam Senior answered him. Turning to Mrs. Kirke at his right, he said, “You will have no shortage of visitors once the London season is concluded, considering your proximity to London itself.”

  “It is our hope that the garden might be an inducement to visitors.”

  “It is not the only inducement that you are blessed with, madam,” he said, eyeing Susan.

  Mrs. Kirke, not noticing the direction of his gaze, blushed. “Why, thank you, sir.”

  “Let me propose a toast,” Fitzwilliam Senior said, enthusiastically.

  “By all means, sir,” his host cried. “Sutton, fill up the goblets.” The footmen provided each guest with a bumper of wine with which to toast. When they each had cup in hand, Fitzwilliam Senior continued, “To our host’s beautiful daughter, to Miss Susan Kirke.”

  Mrs. Kirke reddened. Mr. Kirke cried, “Hear, hear,” and everyone took a sip, while her father, to Susan’s embarrassment, swallowed his full cup in one long gulp.

  The footman arrived at that moment with the roast goose and placed it in front of Mr. Kirke to be carved. Mr. Kirke did a poor job of it, slicing huge slabs and shredding much of the finest meat. Susan and her mother were used to his poor carving skills, but Susan could read in the faces of the guests their disgust at his lack of skill.

  “There ye be,” he said, pushing the platter of goose toward the centre of the table.

  The footman stopped the goose’s momentum before it knocked over a couple of figurines in the garden.

  “Now, let us have another toast,” Mr. Kirke called. “Refill everyone’s beaker, Sutton.”

  The footman took the host’s goblet to be refilled, and the other diners were obliged to wait until Mr. Kirke had his cup in hand. Then he stood up shakily and proposed, “To the fine goose, I say.”

  As everyone took a sip, Susan could see over the top of her glass how ridiculous the guests thought her father to be. She decided she would show them that not all her family were country clowns, and so, when they had finished their toast, she found the courage to say, “May I be so bold to propose a toast to our good guests.” Her mother discreetly put a finger to her lips to warn her not to speak, but Susan ignored the gesture. “To Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Fitzwilliam and their children, Herbert and Melissa.”

  “To the Fitzwilliams,” her father seconded her, before swallowing the remnant in his glass.

  “Now, we shall leave off hobnobbing and enjoy this splendid dinner,” Mrs. Kirke suggested.

  The company were glad of her intervention and fell to devouring the contents of the feast.

  When the eating slowed, the servants removed the dishes, many of which still contained a great deal of food. Slowly, gingerly, the footmen lifted the elaborate centre-piece plateau so that the butler could remove the dirty tablecloth, revealing a clean one beneath it. Then the second course was brought in. This consisted of venison, ragout, macaroni, vegetable pie, vegetables of the season, and even creams, jellies, and ices. Susan hoped that the sweet pastry would be placed on the table in front of her so that she would not be obliged to ask the footman to put some on her plate, thus calling attention to herself. Unfortunately, it was placed in front of the young Miss Fitzwilliam at the far side of the table.

  A few moments later, when plates were filled and the guests were again conversing, Fitzwilliam Junior remarked to Susan, “Miss Kirke, I see that you have no sweet pastry. Would you like some?”

  “Why, yes, I would.”

  He called the footman to fill her plate with the pastry.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, accepting the dish gratefully. Her poor opinion of the man was
somewhat amended by his solicitous care of her plate.

  “Shall we walk in the garden after dinner, do you think?” the young man enquired.

  “I should think so,” Mrs. Kirke responded, overhearing him. “Walking in the garden is our daughter’s favourite activity. Is that not so, Susan?”

  ”Yes, Mother,” she said half-heartedly. Or at least it used to be, she thought to herself.

  “Why, Susan knows as much about the garden as the gardener does, do you not?”

  Susan blushed. “I would not say that, Mother.”

  “You would not say it only because you do not wish the gardener to be dismissed,” her mother continued, causing Susan’s blush to deepen until she burned inside. She glared at her mother.

  “Well, I look forward to learning all about the garden from you this evening, Miss Kirke,” Fitzwilliam Junior said. “Here. Have some of the venison fat.” He took a spoonful of it and poured it on her sweet pastry. She wanted to scream at this violation of her favourite food but restrained herself. Her poor opinion of this insufferable man returned.

  After dinner all the party walked out into the garden. The young Fitzwilliam and Susan were soon separated from the rest of the family who seemed to be conspiring to walk slowly. In Susan’s view, early evening was the second best time of day, after the morning, to visit the garden, and she was glad to be out in it again. She had not realized how much she missed the calm peacefulness that she enjoyed while strolling among the garden’s Elysian delights. She was grateful for Fitzwilliam’s silence.

  Finally, he spoke to compliment the beauty of the Kirke estate.

  “Yes, it is quite lovely,” Susan murmured.

  “You are so quiet, Miss Kirke. Have you nothing to tell me about the particular features of the garden? Your mother has assured us that the garden is your passion and that you know it as well as the gardener himself.”

  Susan blushed again, waving her fan in front of her face to abate the sudden heat there. “Oh, sir. You embarrass me. I assure you I can barely tell a pansy from a buttercup. My mother exaggerates because she never sets foot in the garden and knows less than nothing at all.”

  “Then, if the garden is not your passion, Miss Kirke, what is? Or is your passion a secret?”

  Susan blushed again. She wished she could be rid of this meddlesome man. “My dear sir, I have none, at least none that I would admit to you. If I did, it would no longer be a secret, would it? Perhaps you have a secret passion. If you tell me yours, then I might be persuaded to share mine. A secret for a secret is only just.”

  Susan was quite pleased to see that Mr. Fitzwilliam was blushing as prettily as she had been. “Ah ha!” she cried. “You do have a secret passion, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I see it on your face! Perhaps you are in love with a scullery maid. Or perhaps you are having an affair that your parents would disapprove of. Admit it, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I will hear your secret affair.”

  “Nothing of the kind, I assure you. There are no women that I am secretly passionate about. None at all. I promise.”

  “That is quite a shame. So tell me what you are passionate about.”

  “I enjoy playing tennis.”

  “Do you, sir?” Susan was not at all interested in tennis, but she was not sorry the topic of conversation had changed. “You must tell me about the game. I believe I have never played it nor seen it played.”

  Fitzwilliam began to explain to her the niceties of the sport, to which Susan only half attended; for, at that moment, the gardener came into view around the turn of the path in front of them, walking in their direction. Her heart skipped a beat when he looked up and saw them.

  For the first time in a long time, she saw emotion on his face. Could it be jealousy? Perhaps he did care for her after all. His cold demeanour had been so unwavering that she had begun to doubt his affection, of which she had once been so sure. She felt renewed hope now. She was even glad Mr. Fitzwilliam had come, if only to elicit this jealousy in Dean. Susan looked ahead boldly and saw with satisfaction that the path at the point where they would meet was not very wide and they would be obliged to make some kind of communication as they passed.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dean,” Susan said.

  He nodded and touched his cap as usual, but added civilly, “Good evening, Miss Kirke.”

  Susan spoke to Fitzwilliam. “Sir, you will be interested to know that this is the head gardener, Mr. Dean. Mr. Dean, Mr. Herbert Fitzwilliam.”

  “How do you do,” Fitzwilliam spoke first.

  “How do you do, sir,” Dean bowed.

  “I was just admiring the beauty of the garden to Miss Kirke. Unfortunately, she was unable to enlighten me on many aspects of the garden that pique my interest. Would you be so good as to walk with us, Mr. Dean, and answer some of my questions?”

  “Why, certainly, sir. I would be delighted to render any assistance that I might.”

  As already mentioned, the path was narrow, so Fitzwilliam and Dean walked together just in front of Susan. She watched them in animated conversation—Fitzwilliam asking intelligent and probing questions and Dean assiduous in his answers. As she did so, a sensation of jealousy grew in her, as well. The two men, who should have been attentive to her, seemed to have forgotten her in their shared interest of the garden. Fitzwilliam had taken her place as a pupil and, in her imagination, Dean was paying him even more attention than he had ever shown her. She waved her fan in misery and scarcely listened to what they were saying.

  “Would you not agree, Miss Kirke?”

  She became aware that Dean had turned and was addressing her. She was deeply embarrassed by her petulant inattention. “I am so sorry, but I was not listening.”

  He looked disappointed. “I was just saying to Mr. Fitzwilliam that it will be difficult to get plants from the New World now that the rebellion is in progress.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Dean.” Susan smiled at him, warmed by this small reminder of a conversation they had once shared.

  At that moment, the path opened onto a lawn where the three of them could walk abreast.

  Dean stopped and said, “Well, I must leave you here and finish my work. It was a pleasure to talk to you, Mr. Fitzwilliam.” He offered his hand and Fitzwilliam shook it. Susan watched in amazement as Fitzwilliam held it just a moment longer than was conventional, in the same manner as he had held her own hand too long. She could see that Dean was as uncomfortable as she had been.

  After the gardener disappeared back down the path where they had met him, Fitzwilliam remarked, “He is a most agreeable fellow, and so knowledgeable in his field. I do like the Scots, madam. I find them to be such affable people, though my parents would be scandalized if they heard me talking thus.”

  “As would my parents, I am sure, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I have no knowledge at all of the Scotch race beyond Mr. Dean, but if he is a sample, they are a wondrous people.” She sighed.

  Fitzwilliam looked at her. “Why, my dear, I believe you are in love!”

  Susan, for the third time this evening, blushed a deep crimson. “Sir!” she exclaimed, waving her fan frenetically. She could scarcely think of anything to say in response. “How dare you insinuate something so improper?”

  “Miss Kirke, forgive me. I did not mean to upset you. Believe me, I do not mean to judge you for it. None of us can help whom we love. I sympathize most ardently with your distress if you do love him.”

  How could he have known? How could he have read her so expertly? She was mortified at her artlessness. He must think her a simple naïve country girl. “Let us go back to the house at once, sir.”

  “If that is your wish, but please, be assured that I shall not reveal your secret passion to anyone.”

  Susan said nothing, not even to ask him to tell his secret in exchange. Her embarrassment was too deep for words.

  Chapter 7

  The next morning when Susan went down to breakfast, she discovered that Mr. Fitzwilliam was already in the parlour ahead of her. She wished him to the devil
. The man had a hold over her now that he knew her secret; she could not so easily be rid of him as she had first intended.

  “Miss Kirke, after your breakfast, would you be so good as to walk out with me again this morning? I so enjoyed our walk yesterday.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Susan lied.

  When they were well on their way along the serpentine path of the garden, Fitzwilliam finally spoke. “Yesterday, in my pleasant but brief conversation with Mr. Dean, he insinuated that you know more about the garden than you have let on.”

  Susan was alarmed that he had immediately begun speaking about the gardener.

  “Please, do not be distressed. I have promised you that I will not reveal your secret.”

  “You know nothing at all about my secret, sir. There is nothing for you to reveal.”

  “It is of no use for you to pretend to me, madam. I have seen your face as you looked at him. Perhaps nothing improper has yet passed between you, but you cannot honestly say that you do not love him.”

  Susan was exasperated by his insinuations. “I thought that you were here to court me, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Why do we speak about another man?”

  “We speak of another man simply because there is another man upon your heart. How can I begin to court where the heart is already taken?”

  “Mr. Fitzwilliam, consider the differences in our positions. I mean that of Mr. Dean and myself. You must understand that a marriage between us would never be approved by my parents. So you understand that whatever my feelings are for Mr. Dean, or whatever his feelings are for me, they are completely irrelevant to your courtship of me.”

  “I understand that the difference in your stations makes marriage an impossibility, Miss Kirke. However, I am also certain that your relationship with Mr. Dean is at least part of the reason for my being here. I am sure that your parents, if they are even slightly aware of your predilection, must be desperate to marry you off before you do something foolish with the gardener.”