2 The Gardener
Cal was hard at work pricking out celery seedlings for transplanting to their main bed. It was one of the easier jobs, but his age gave him that privilege. The two younger men were planting potatoes, and he was glad to be spared that.
He had taken his box of seedlings to the main bed where they were to grow when he saw George, the head gardener, making his ponderous way down the path, accompanied by a stranger, a young man wearing spectacles, respectably dressed in an unostentatious style.
“Cal, this is Mr Hammond, secketry to the Duke of Brinshire. He wants a word with you. Leave you to it. You know where I am if you want me.”
Rising to his feet, Cal nodded to the newcomer. “Mr Hammond.”
“Mr Garford, I am very sorry about this but we are in something of a quandary. A week ago, this letter arrived at Lampton Priory. Would you be so good as to read it?”
Cal scanned the letter in silence.
‘To Mr Calvin Garth, Lampton Priory, Gloucestershire. Sir, Your particular talents with pleasure grounds and noble woodlands have been noted, and therefore I should like you to present yourself to the Duke of Brinshire at Staineybank, Brinshire, in order that you might advise him on improvements to his own estate. Please reply directly to me to confirm your preferred date of travel, and I shall arrange private transportation and accommodation en route. Respectfully yours, A Goodenough (attorney at law), Castle Street, Brinchester’
“You will appreciate the problem, I am sure,” Hammond said. “Mr Garth naturally assumed that the letter was intended for him, but the duke is… um, concerned that a mistake has been made and perhaps you are the intended recipient. What do you think?”
“I think my seedlings will dry out if I don’t get them in the ground soon,” Cal said. “If you’d like to wait at my cottage, I’ll be done in half an hour or so and we can talk about this. There’s ale there, and ham and cheese, and you’ll be out of this wind. Door’s never locked.”
“Where is your cottage?”
“Out through that gate over there between the peach trees, then straight up the hill. Can’t miss it.”
Hammond grinned. “That is what people always say when the route is particularly tortuous.”
Cal smiled at him. “Straight up the hill. You really can’t miss it.”
By the time Cal had finished his transplanting and had washed his tools and himself, Hammond was standing outside the cottage with a tankard of ale in his hand.
“You were right, I could hardly miss it, but whatever happened here?” he said, waving an arm to encompass the stumps and detritus that were all that remained of Hanger Wood, so that the cottage rose out of the tangle of debris like a castle on a rocky island.
“Mr Charles Garth happened,” Cal said. “Wanted the timber sold off. It’s his right.”
“But your cottage… you would have been entirely surrounded by forest. It must have been magical, and now it’s all gone.”
For a moment, Cal could barely breathe. Magical!
The perfect word. Determinedly, he fought down the grief and willed himself to calmness.
“What’s done is done. No use repining. Come inside while I get myself some bread and cheese, and let me read that letter again.
Then you can tell me what the Duke of Brinshire wants with me. ”
Hammond had already stoked the fire and set the kettle over it, but it was not an occasion for tea. The two drank ale and ate bread and cheese and a slice of pigeon pie apiece, and Cal listened while Hammond talked.
It was a wild enough tale to make a stage play. An attorney who wasn’t, and strange summonings which the duke knew nothing about yet he seemed happy enough to take in everyone who turned up on his doorstep.
“What do you think? Will you come? I know it is a queer start, but—”
“I’ll come.”
“How long will it take you to pack?”
“I’ll have to borrow a bag from the house first, but packing? A quarter of an hour.”
***
Cal could not remember the last time he had made a long journey, beyond Tewkesbury, the nearest town.
There were trips to Cheltenham, occasionally, and once or twice a year to Gloucester, crowded into a wagon with the other gardeners from the Priory and neighbouring houses, or else an outside seat on the public stage coach.
But a private carriage with only two men of slender proportions to be accommodated was an extraordinary luxury.
He wore his Sunday best in honour of the occasion.
There was one overnight stop at Kidderminster, where he was thankful to have his own room and not have to share with Mr Hammond.
He knew he wouldn’t sleep well. They made a leisurely dinner, with pork cutlets, ducklings, a broiled chicken and some kind of fish, washed down with a very good wine, followed by port.
It made a pleasant change from mutton stew and ale.
Neither being late sleepers, they were on the road again soon after first light the next morning.
Cal watched the changing scenery avidly, marking where rich farmland was interspersed with sturdy oak and beech, and poorer soil produced scrubby birch and ash.
The hedges were well grown, alive with nesting birds, while the fields showed rabbits and hares, untroubled by the light rain that fell.
Here and there, vivid yellow primroses peeped through the detritus of last year’s fallen leaves, and sometimes under the trees he caught a glimpse of blue — violets, perhaps.
And everywhere the startling bright green of new growth, the orchards full of early blossom, reckless of the frost, with the deeper colour of the occasional evergreen like fully clothed sentries amongst their still near-naked deciduous fellows.
Hammond was the perfect companion for such a trip, since he felt no need to maintain trivial conversation.
When he spoke, it was only to inform Cal of the time of the next stop, or a detail of the route he might wish to know.
If Cal had asked any questions, no doubt he would have answered them, but Cal was content to let events unfold as they would.
They reached Staineybank not long after noon, another vast house even more monstrous than the Priory.
Cal guessed there must be two dozen windows along the full length of it, perhaps seven or eight on the end wall and two floors of that size, quite apart from the basement and attics.
A stable block, too — no doubt there was an army of horses to be accommodated, as well as a dairy, a brewery and who knew what else.
As the carriage decanted them before a wide portico, he gazed up at the facade in distaste.
Several footmen emerged from the house to retrieve luggage, returning disappointed with only Hammond’s small box and Cal’s even smaller portmanteau to carry. In the vast entrance hall, its marble pillars like a cold, lifeless forest, an older man of sober dress greeted them.
“Welcome home, Mr Hammond. Welcome to Staineybank, Mr Garford. I am Froggett, the butler. I regret that everyone is at the new orangery today to view the completed workings. There is to be a ceremony on the roof, I understand. However, your room is prepared for you.”
“Is it in the house?” Cal said, gazing up at the ceiling, every inch of which showed a dramatic religious panorama, replete with cherubs, lightning and bearded men in flowing robes.
“The Blue Room, sir. You will be very comfortable, I am sure.”
“I’d be even more comfortable in the servants’ quarters, or over the stables.” Or somewhere in the gardens, away from these oppressive walls.
Froggett frowned. “His grace’s orders were very explicit, sir. You are an honoured guest here.”
“The Blue Room is not overpoweringly large,” Hammond said. “Let me show you the way.”
“I will inform Mrs Hammond that you have returned,” Froggett said.
Hammond’s face lit up. “Then she has not gone off to the orangery?”
“No, sir. She is in your apartment with the baby.”
On the stairs, Hammond said, “I might have guessed. Georgie hates leaving the child with the nurses. He is just two months old, and last night he only woke us once. Such a happy baby! You will never believe what he can do…”
Cal could, having listened to proud parents many times over the years, but he made no demur, following Hammond in silence.
The Blue Room was not as dire as he had feared, for it was indeed relatively small for so capacious a house.
However, the bedposts were elaborately carved, the wallpaper was painted silk and the hangings were in the fashionable Chinese style, draped and looped to use four times as much material as was needed.
But when he looked out of the windows, he discovered a fine view over a sinuous lake, with woodland beyond.
He threw up a window, revelling in the cool air and the promise of those beckoning trees.
“You like a bit of a breeze, then?” Hammond said, as the curtains were blown back and forth.
“Can’t breathe in a house like this,” Cal said. “Hope this won’t take long. I need to go home. Got peas to sow.”
A footman came in just then with Cal’s portmanteau, and began to unpack.
“This is Robert, who will be seeing to you while you are here,” Hammond said.
“Don’t need anyone to see to me,” Cal said. “Used to seeing to myself.”
“You’ll need your hot water brung, at least,” Robert said, grinning cheerfully. “I won’t dress an’ undress you if you don’t like it, though.”
Cal smiled. “Then we’ll get along just fine, Robert.”
“Ah, evenin’ knee breeches,” Robert said, holding them up. “Good. Mr Froggett were worried about that, what with you bein’ jest a gardener. Thought you’d have ter borrow some.”
“Really, Robert!” Hammond said sharply. “Try to remember that Mr Garford is an honoured guest, whatever his profession.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr Hammond,” Cal said. “I’m one for calling a spade a spade myself.”
A second footman reversed carefully through the door, bearing a tray of decanters and glasses.
“What’s this — sherry and such like?” Cal said. “I’d rather have a pot of ale.”