The Gardener of Aria Manor Read online

  Ilene smiled.

  Janie shook her head and cringed. “I guess I’ve always been too independent.”

  “It must be awfully frightening to go it alone, to be independent like that.”

  “I suppose I look at it as rebellion. From that perspective, it’s quite an adventure. You never know what’s around the corner. Don’t expect men to tell you about life or its consequences, they don’t even know what’s coming until it’s too late.” Janie noticed that Ilene seemed discomfited, and belatedly thought of how she had lost her husband. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes...well...”

  Bartley entered the room and held out a silver tray that held a checkbook and pen.

  Ilene seemed to welcome the sudden distraction from the discomfort that had risen between them, and reached for the checkbook. “Thank you, Bartley.” Looking to Janie, she changed the subject. “I actually wanted to ask if you could run an errand for me in the morning.” She unscrewed the lid from the fountain pen and opened the leather bound portfolio. Scribbling on a check, she continued. “This is really Anna’s duty, but I have her busy with other things. My father is coming home tomorrow and I’d like a nice dinner. You don’t mind going to town for groceries, do you?”

  Janie reached out for the check. “I’d be happy to.”

  “Good.”

  “On one condition,” Janie added. Ilene paused. “That you come with me.”

  Ilene hesitated, then withdrew her hand, avoiding eye contact. “No. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly...”

  “I think you should come.”

  Ilene was obviously startled by the notion of leaving her home. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

  CLOVELLY WAS A quaint seaside village with cobbled streets and buildings built snugly beside one another on a steep slope. No motorized vehicles could possibly leave their tread marks there. The only transport was by foot and bicycle. Such serenity added to the charm of the port. Janie clasped her hands behind her and smiled at Ilene’s slight frown.

  “Very nice dress,” Janie said.

  “How did you ever talk me into this?” Ilene sighed.

  “I believe I needed a guide, and you needed some fresh air.”

  “I agreed to come to market only for my father’s sake, Miss Vaughn. If I intended to get fresh air, I would have stepped outside my own home.”

  Janie chuckled at Ilene’s spirited retort. “And when was the last time you did that?”

  They walked along the docks past merchants peddling sole, oysters, shrimp, and clams. Janie held a short conversation with an elderly woman about her herbs as Ilene drifted off to stand at dock’s end, where she stared out over the water.

  After a moment, Janie quietly joined her, eyeing the small sailboat on the horizon. The sea blew a cool breeze that made Janie glad she was wearing the cardigan.

  “I envy you,” Janie said earnestly, after a moment. “I never got a chance to mourn my father’s death.”

  Ilene’s eyes hesitantly shifted from the sea to Janie’s solemn gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask how long ago?”

  “Um, about four months now.”

  “Four months?” Ilene seemed surprised. “Were the two of you close?”

  “Not really. It was just the idea of losing him the way I did.”

  “You should have sent word that you needed to delay coming. I would have understood.”

  Janie shook her head. “I was actually grateful for the opportunity to distance myself from the matter. It’s helped ease the passing to keep my mind on other things. Like your garden, for instance. Now there’s something.”

  “Don’t you still have...thoughts, things you would have wanted to say to him?”

  “Hmm. Moments, now and again. I guess I’ll always have that, but I’m not going to let it dictate my life. He died, I didn’t.”

  Ilene turned toward the little boat, which by now was just a spot. “Did the two of you have anything in common?”

  “My mother said we two were too much alike to get along. He had his life and I had mine, and neither of us approved of the other’s.” After an uneasy sigh, she added, “Well, we’d better get your things, hmm?”

  Ilene caught up to Janie and the two exchanged warm smiles.

  “So, what would you have me buy for tonight’s dinner, Mrs. Eldridge?”

  “Oh, I don’t know really. Why don’t we leave that up to you?”

  Janie scoffed at the idea. “Me?”

  “Yes,” Ilene replied. “I’d like your opinion.”

  A grin played around Janie’s lips as her eyes met Ilene’s. Amused by the sudden switch in mood, she pondered the many choices in the street market. “Well, let’s see. He’s coming from London, you said?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s had his fill of beer, stag, sheep guts, and fowl.” Janie spoke with a poor attempt at a British accent that drew a chuckle from Ilene. “If I were coming home to a seaside manor, I guess I’d be interested in having sea fare on the table: mussels, oysters, lobster, maybe a good, stout clam chowder. Oh, and an excellent white wine. What do you think?”

  Ilene smiled shyly, eyeing the cobblestones. “I think that sounds wonderful.”

  It took them the better half of the morning to collect everything. Janie was amazed at the grand selection of wines to be found in such a small port side shop. She carried their selections in a wicker basket. The midday sun had warmed the stones beneath their feet and now raised a warm flush on their cheeks.

  “Now,” Janie exclaimed happily, “aren’t you glad I got you out of that stuffy place?”

  Ilene smiled. “Yes, actually. I am. Thank you.”

  “We’ve been gone longer than expected. Think Michael has given up on us and taken a nap in the car?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. He’s quite used to it really. I have been around, you know.”

  “No.” Janie feigned astonishment. “Tell me more.”

  “Oh, I was quite the traveler. In fact, notorious for shopping,” she added with a devilish grin. “Paris, Vienna, Rome. Even your New York, once.”

  “Really? What’d you think?”

  Ilene’s brow furrowed in recollection. “I’m not much on your American fashions and all that. I did find it curious, though, that you Americans have a strange tradition of eating ketchup on your eggs, don’t you?”

  “That’s not as bad as your country’s northerners eating herring with your eggs. Blah!” Janie shivered in feigned disgust.

  “I bet we could share some pretty ugly food stories from both continents, couldn’t we?”

  Janie’s sudden chuckle drew a smile and then a laugh from Ilene as she recounted the harrowing meals that had been laid before her on the train and the ocean liner. Janie knew that it probably had been a long while since Ilene had experienced such a light hearted moment. She was pleased to hear her laugh.

  Chapter Four

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  IT WAS JUNE. Janie had been clipping the dead blooms from the massive grape and apricot colored Iris border nestled above the northwestern slope of the property, and was now pushing a wheelbarrow full of clippings up the slope toward the stables and greenhouse.

  The pinging of hammer on anvil was echoing from the open stall area. Gil was adept at repairing garden tools as well as horseshoes and hardware. Janie rested the wheelbarrow beside the compost bins and strolled down the aisle between the stalls. Stopping to lean against a post, she eyed Gil’s stern resolve as he hammered the bent tines on a pitchfork. A weathered frown etched his long face while his deep-set eyes showed more fatigue than interest in his task.

  “I’ve got the last of the clippings out back for you,” she said. He did not acknowledge her comment, continuing his intent hammering. “Okay,” she murmured. “Did you fix the shears?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sharpen the axe?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fix t
he handle on the—”

  “Yep.”

  Janie dropped her hand. “All right. If you have the time, I’d like you to sharpen the tree pruners for me.”

  “Don’t prune till the fall,” barked Gil.

  “I realize that, I really do, but I noticed some willow branches down by the pond that are dead and need to be cut.”

  “Did it already,” he announced in his guttural Scottish brogue.

  Janie stood with hands on her hips. “You couldn’t possibly have done it, Gil. I just came from there.”

  Gil stood to his full height, a pitchfork pointed in her direction. “I just said I did it, didn’t I?”

  The heat in the tips of the tines had faded, but Janie could still smell the metal smoldering. She eyed the tines nervously. “Well, yes...you did say that. However—”

  “Then it’s done.”

  “Fine. Sharpen those tree pruners for me. I’ll use them myself tomorrow. All right?”

  He shoved the tines into the coals. “Can’t prune in the rain. It’ll rust the tool.”

  “It’s going to rain tomorrow?”

  “Yep.” He pulled the tines back out and struck their orange-hot tips.

  “But news on the wireless predicted it will be a great day. How do you know it’s going to rain?”

  “I just do.”

  Janie sighed in exasperation. Before turning to leave, she ordered, “Just sharpen them for me, for God’s sake, will ya?”

  She entered the house through the servants’ entrance and strode into the kitchen, stuffing her work gloves into her back trouser pocket. Anna had started preparations for dinner. The aroma of baked goods and their sugars wafted to Janie’s nostrils as she drew in a deep breath.

  “Oh, my God, Anna. That smells terrific.”

  Anna had a large crockery bowl cradled on her hip and was mixing ingredients with the fury of an experienced chef. “I’m making the Major’s favorite,” she said breathlessly. “A custard meringue.”

  Janie rested a chin on Anna’s shoulder and peeked down into her bowl, scooping a finger into the meringue.

  “Oh, you devil.” Anna laughed.

  Janie swallowed the airy peak of sugar and smiled, then kissed Anna on the cheek.

  Anna shook her head. “If you’re hungry—”

  “Famished.”

  “Get yourself over to the ice box. There are leftovers you can use in a sandwich. And good sharp cheddar.”

  Janie rooted around and came out with a large jar of pickles and a chunk of cheese. She scooped a dill from the jar and plopped it on a plate next to the cheese, then tore a piece of bread from a crunchy French loaf still warm from the oven.

  Anna cast an eye on the plate. “We call that a ploughman’s lunch.”

  “Cheese, bread, and pickles?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “That’s funny. I’d call it cheese, bread, and pickles.”

  “Everything’s got a name here, luv.”

  “Like Old Brick Face,” Liz piped in, carrying in a freshly scrubbed copper pan.

  Janie laughed between bites on a pickle. “My man Gil makes Old Brick Face look as skippy as Shirley Temple.”

  “Ooh, buggers.” Liz reached into her apron pocket. “I almost forgot. You got a letter from America.”

  Janie took the letter from Liz’s outstretched hand and eyed the return address. A smile curled around her lips.

  “Where’s Yitz...’ak?” Liz asked, craning her neck about to read the envelope.

  Janie stuffed the letter in her trousers pocket. “It’s not a where, Liz, it’s a who. He’s an old friend.”

  Liz was astonished at Janie’s disregard of news that had traveled across the ocean. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Liz, for heaven’s sake,” growled Anna. “Leave the woman her privacy.”

  Liz sighed and pouted. “Sorry, Carolyn.”

  “And you, luv, better not eat too much of that cheese,” Anna said to Janie. “You don’t want to be spoiling your appetite for dinner.”

  Janie waved her off. “That’s all right. I’ll pick up something later.”

  Anna’s eyebrows raised. “Nonsense. This is big doings.”

  Janie stopped chewing her cheese. “What is?”

  “Didn’t Liz tell you?”

  Liz gasped. “Oh, bloody ’ell!”

  “Elizabeth Agnes—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Liz moaned. “I forgot.”

  “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached!” Anna scowled. “Now, go and set the table. And use the powder blue tablecloth.” Anna smoothed the tower of meringue on top of the pie and made a face. “I swear, with young folk nowadays, you’ve got to stick a metal rod up their bums just to keep them straight.”

  Janie choked on her gulp of water. After a moment, she asked, “So, Anna, what’s this all about?”

  Anna slid the pie into the oven and stood, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been invited to dine with the Major, of course.”

  THE EVENING’S FEAST was elegant, and quite filling. A creamy, rich clam chowder was served with Anna’s own oyster crackers the size of a spoon. The entrée was stuffed Dover sole in a light dill cream sauce, with herb roasted potatoes and onions. Each course was served with an excellent wine.

  Through most of the dinner, the Major and his daughter talked about her older brother. Janie noticed that bitter animosity peppered Ilene’s observations.

  The Major, as he was fond of being called, was Sir Denys Vanderholt. A well-bred, fit man of small stature, he embodied his family’s heritage—blond hair now mostly white, a round face, small chin, and slightly upturned nose, beneath which he sported a neatly trimmed moustache. Keen blue eyes now and again interrogated Janie, though not for the sake of politely including her in the conversation. She had the distinct feeling he was eyeing her as one eyes a lion in the bush—afraid of what move she might make next.

  Quite aware of Janie’s unease, Ilene mercifully changed the subject. “Carolyn helped me choose your dinner, Father. She’s very good at planning.”

  The Major stretched. “Well, I must say, this was an excellent choice. I thank you both.” He tipped his wine glass in a toast.

  Janie smiled politely, rubbing a finger down her own glass. Anna appeared to collect the dishes.

  “Thank you, Anna. How I’ve missed your cooking,” the Major said.

  Anna smiled, and nodded at Janie’s slender figure. “You could do with seconds, young lady.”

  Janie shook her head. “No. Thank you, Anna. I feel more stuffed than the fish.”

  They all laughed, the Major being the loudest. “To the gills, eh?”

  “We’ll let you clean up here, Anna.” Folding her napkin over her plate, Ilene addressed Janie and her father. “Shall we go to the library?”

  Rich walnut paneling and a enormous number of books filled the room from floor to ceiling. Above the mantle was a seventeenth-century Italian tapestry depicting Jacob wrestling an angel. As she admired the tapestry, Janie wondered whom it was that she, herself, was wrestling. An angel, a devil, herself, or as Frank had proposed, a twin? Why is it we defy what the Fates bring us? If there is such a thing as destiny, then what are we really fighting, and why?

  “Perseverance,” the Major said, apparently commenting on the tapestry. “Perseverance is a Vanderholt’s greatest asset and ally. The tapestry was a gift to the original owner of the manor. A magistrate.” The Major poured three snifters of brandy. “From a nobleman who couldn’t pay his taxes. Fortunately for us.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Janie said, accepting a brandy.

  “Blends well with the ceiling, don’t you agree?” Ilene commented pointedly.

  Janie lifted her eyes at Ilene’s gesture and gasped at the magnificently painted ceiling. “Oh, my God.”

  Ilene smiled. “It’s as if Michelangelo ran out of space at the Sistine Chapel, isn’t it?”

  The Major lit a cigar. “Not the sort of thing you’d
see in a house in America.”

  “Not to that extent, anyway,” Janie agreed.

  The Greek myth of Odysseus leaving Calypso was painted in subtle hues. Robes flowed seductively on winged figures representing the Sirens—Odysseus’s other temptations—as they stood, crawled, and draped themselves against island rock, calling Odysseus to sail from shore. With her “come hither” stare, Calypso, the Goddess of Silence, begged him to stay.

  “Done by some Italian whose name escapes me,” said the Major. “I would butcher it with my bloody English tongue anyway.”

  Ilene provided, “Giovanni Antonio—”

  “Pellegrini,” Janie finished.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Sheepishly, Janie admitted, “I’ve studied a bit.”

  “I would assume you had.” The Major swirled his amber liquid and sauntered about the room, gesturing at his many shelved volumes. “This library holds over ten thousand books. Read all of them, if you should be so inclined. Do you speak any languages, Miss Vaughn?”

  Janie had pulled a volume of Tennyson’s works from a shelf and was running a thumb over its slim, brown leather cover. “Just two. English and American.”

  “By George, you’re the first bloody American to say that!” The Major snorted. “Tell me, is America really the great melting pot your politicians say it is?”

  She returned the book to its place with a faint smile. “Let’s just say you don’t have to travel around the world to hear all the same bullshit in different accents.”

  Tipping his glass, he toasted. “Hear, hear.”

  Janie’s eyes met Ilene’s warm gaze, then Janie turned and strolled over to a small painting of a horse race.

  “Do you engage in sports of leisure in your country, Miss Vaughn?” Ilene asked.

  Janie’s mind quickly darted to her running from the mob. She quashed the thought. “Never had much desire, really. But I do like to bet on a good race now and again.” In a change of subject, Janie turned to her host. “What sort of business are you in, Major, if I may ask?”