Chapter 15 #2
Sophia studied the uneven shape of the failed patch. It formed a rough oval, too distinct to be entirely natural. She looked toward the nearby path, then back toward the dry soil.
A memory stirred of an illustration in an old botanical volume.
It was a description of a kitchen garden laid upon ground once used by carts, where years of pressure had created a hard layer beneath the topsoil.
Water remained trapped above it, drowning roots in wet weather and leaving them shallow and vulnerable when the surface dried.
“There may be a layer of hard clay beneath it,” she said slowly. “A clay pan.”
Mr. Wilkes came nearer. “The rest of the garden is loam.”
“But perhaps not there. Was there ever a path in this place?”
He studied the bed. “Not in my time.”
“Or before the garden was laid out? Heavy carts may have crossed here. The soil beneath could have been pressed so firmly that the water cannot pass through.”
Mr. Wilkes’s eyes narrowed, not in displeasure but in thought.
Sophia continued, more cautiously now. “One of the books I read described a similar bed. The gardener dug test holes and found a layer of compacted clay beneath the good soil. Everything above it appeared healthy, but the roots could not descend, and winter water had nowhere to go.”
Mr. Wilkes crouched beside her and pushed his narrow hand fork deep into the earth. It entered easily at first, then stopped with a dull resistance. He shifted it and tried again with the same result.
“Hm,” he murmured. “Hard as brick beneath.”
Sophia’s confidence grew by a thread. “The account said he drove an iron bar through the hard layer in several places, rather than disturbing the entire bed. He filled the narrow holes with coarse gravel and cinders, so water could pass through, and the roots might eventually find their way deeper.”
“Drainage shafts,” Mr. Wilkes agreed.
“Yes. Narrow ones, perhaps a foot or two apart, depending upon how far the clay extends. Then more leaf mold at the surface after the lower layer has been broken.”
He remained silent. Sophia looked down at her soil-stained fingers.
She had been mistress of Rivermere for only one morning.
Mr. Wilkes had tended its gardens longer than she had been alive.
It was entirely possible she had offered a bookish solution to a problem requiring practical knowledge she lacked.
“I may be mistaken,” she added. “I only remembered—”
“No.” Mr. Wilkes removed his hat and scratched thoughtfully at his silver hair. “You had the right of it.”
Sophia blinked. “You think so?”
“I do.” His whole face seemed to awaken. The stoop in his shoulders lessened as he looked across the bed, no longer seeing failure but possibility. “I’ve been treating the difficulty above. Replacing soil, feeding the plants, watching the water. It may be beneath us all the while.”
He thrust the fork into another part of the bed and met the same resistance.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “You feel that?”
Sophia took the handle and pressed. The fork stopped sharply.
“I do.”
He rose with greater speed than Sophia would have expected. “I’ll have Thomas bring the iron bar before luncheon. Gravel from the north path stores. Cinders from the old furnace room might serve.”
Marjorie beamed at Sophia as though she had restored the whole garden with her own hands.
“I told you she knew things.”
“You said she was sensible in emergencies,” Amelia reminded her.
“This was a flower emergency.”
Amelia looked at Sophia with quiet pride. “You helped Mr. Wilkes.”
“I only remembered something I had read.”
“That’s generally what knowledge is,” Mr. Wilkes said gruffly.
Sophia smiled.
Marjorie leaned toward him. “What will you put there?”
Mr. Wilkes glanced at her. “Delphiniums at the rear. Maybe white stocks. Something low at the edge.”
“Not nasturtiums?” Marjorie asked.
“Never again. They insulted me.”
“They died.”
“Exactly.”
Amelia slipped her hand into Sophia’s. Marjorie immediately took the other. Mr. Wilkes watched the three of them for a moment before turning away with suspicious haste.
Marjorie leaned closer to Sophia. “He likes you.”
Mr. Wilkes stopped without looking back. “I hear perfectly well, Miss Marjorie.”
“I know.”
“He likes you very much,” she added more loudly.
The gardener’s shoulders stiffened. “No objection to the lady. Keeps her eyes open. Listens when the soil tells her something. Keeps her shoes out of the borders.” He resumed walking. “That’ll do.”
Amelia smiled. “That is what liking means to Mr. Wilkes.”
He resumed walking, though Sophia could see the tips of his ears had turned pink beneath his hat. The girls looked up at her with expressions of such satisfaction that Sophia felt as though she had passed an examination she had not known she was taking.
She glanced once more at the dry bed. Nothing had changed yet. The soil remained cracked, the leaves curled, and the flowers lifeless. Still, it no longer appeared abandoned. There was a plan now, and hope entered the place before any new roots could.
Sophia squeezed the girls’ hands and followed Mr. Wilkes deeper into the sunlit garden.