Chapter 15
The next morning came far too soon. Gemma’s head was too full to sleep soundly.
Too excited about the garden and too preoccupied with thoughts about Leo sleeping in a make-do bed in the cold.
Just as he had done all those years ago.
Or possibly as she had forced him to do…
Those years were all such a tangle of memories, and what she had seemed absolutely certain of back then – what was irrefutable, and impossible to get past – had become nebulous over time, diffuse, until she could no longer trust what she did remember, and the reasons for her actions seemed to slip further and further away from her.
What with that and numerous flights of fancy about a garden that was a long way from being anything but a mess, she felt exhausted when the dawn slipped into her room.
But the coffee pot was already on the go when she arrived in the kitchen, and she gratefully helped herself to a mug. Rowan was cutting huge doorsteps from a fresh loaf of bread and a tray of pastries rested at his side. She sat down next to Willow, who was already eating, and groaned.
‘Yeah, me too,’ said Willow. ‘Why is it that some mornings are so much harder than others?’ She smiled. ‘Didn’t you sleep? I don’t know about you, but my head was too full of stuff.’
Gemma nodded. ‘Sounds about right.’ She obviously wasn’t going to mention her thoughts about Leo, but the garden… ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said, laying her notebook on the table. ‘But we need to wait until we’re all here.’
‘Sounds mysterious,’ commented Rowan.
Willow leaned forward. ‘Is it about the garden?’ she asked. ‘Have you found out something?’
Gemma couldn’t help the wide grin which split her face. ‘I have. Rather a lot of somethings, actually.’
‘Then Leo had better jolly well hurry up,’ said Willow. ‘Or I’ll go and wake him up myself.’
‘I don’t think you’ll need to do that,’ said Rowan, gesturing out the window. ‘He’s here now.’
Right on cue, the back door opened and Mulligan came bounding through, followed rather less enthusiastically by his master.
‘Talk of the devil,’ said Rowan.
Leo looked quizzical. ‘Who, me?’ he said, running a hand through his hair. ‘Why? What have I done?’ How was it that he could camp in a derelict farmhouse and still look like he did, when Gemma’s face was showing every one of her forty-two years, plus about ten extra.
‘Gemma has some news for us about the garden,’ said Willow. ‘We were just waiting for you, that’s all.’
‘Oh, right.’ Leo plonked himself down next to Gemma, while Mulligan, determined to get as close to her as possible, sat on her feet. ‘Well, I’m here now.’
Rowan set down a mug on the table in front of him. ‘Coffee first,’ he said firmly. ‘With toast to follow. There are croissants, too.’
‘Try them with some of the apple butter,’ said Willow, looking at Leo. ‘I feel so bad about you sleeping in the old farmhouse that I’m determined to make sure you have a decent breakfast. I’ve only ever made croissants once or twice before, so they’re a bit lopsided, but buttery and flaky and—’
‘I’m sold,’ replied Leo, smiling broadly.
Eventually, with everyone either eating, drinking or both, Gemma opened her notebook and all eyes turned to her.
‘It’s a fascinating story,’ she began. ‘But it is a little sad, I’m afraid.’
Willow gave a rueful smile. ‘I had a feeling it might be. Houses don’t just disappear without a trace for no good reason.’ She took a bite of toast. ‘Sorry, go on…’
‘So, the original house was built by William Brown for his daughter Anne on the occasion of her marriage in 1785.’
Rowan gave a low whistle. ‘They certainly knew how to do things back then, didn’t they? We got a selection of bath towels and two garlic presses as I recall.’ He dipped his head at his wife’s look. ‘Sorry…’
Gemma grinned. ‘William was big in cotton milling, so he could afford to be flash with his cash. And Anne was marrying the son of an eminent lawyer, who was himself following in his father’s footsteps, so it was considered a very good match.
And all was well until, five years later, Anne died giving birth to their only son, a little boy who his father named Thomas.
Sadly, the baby only lived for a few days himself and so Edmund, the husband, as you can imagine, sank into’ – Gemma consulted her notebook – ‘and I quote, “a deep well of despair”.’
‘I can imagine.’ Willow’s hand was over her mouth. ‘That’s so sad… I’m not sure how I feel about the place now.’
Gemma reached across to her. ‘Don’t worry, it has a happy ending,’ she said.
‘So the first thing Edmund did, rather controversially, and very dramatically, was to raze Brenant House to the ground. He literally had it torn down brick by brick – partly because in his grief he couldn’t stand the sight of it and partly because, through his work as a lawyer, he had grown to become an avid campaigner for reform.
Despite his own family’s considerable wealth and that of his in-laws, he hated the dominance of power held by the wealthy landowners of the time and, following Anne’s death, he declared that he wanted no more to do with it and essentially cut himself off from his family.
Ironically, he was still pretty wealthy in his own right, but he did at least seem to put his money to good use.
He gave up his private practice and instead devoted his time to advocating for the poor, working either for free or for very little.
He built himself a modest house on the footprint of the old one, and a few years later he married a local girl, Flora, and they went on to live a long and happy life. ’
‘Well, that explains where the house went,’ said Rowan. He turned to beam at Willow. ‘I rather like the sound of Edmund.’
Gemma smiled. ‘I thought you’d approve.’
‘Go, Edmund,’ said Willow, laughing. ‘Although that still doesn’t explain how the place came to be called Thistledown, or a farm.’
‘Ah… that’s because Flora was a farmer’s daughter and it was her who started the farm here.
It was also her who developed the garden, so even though the original Brenant House was Georgian, the garden was modelled in the Victorian style…
’ Gemma opened the book she had borrowed from the library and found the double-page spread she had shown to Leo the night before.
‘And here it is. Wasn’t it beautiful? Aside from being an amazing gardener, Flora was also a gifted naturalist, and spent a good deal of time writing about, and drawing, the world she saw around her…
including the area where the hares gathered every day at twilight to dance with the exuberance of life.
She wrote about it in one of her books, illustrating the cover with a picture she called “Hares Leaping”…
’ She laid the book down on the table between them, gently, reverently. ‘Isn’t that magical?’
‘Just like the hares themselves,’ said Rowan. ‘They’re sometimes associated with bad luck or thought of as tricky, mischievous devils, but they are also seen as sacred animals, heralds of transformation and change, a symbol of our spiritual connection to the earth. Those are the hares I see.’
Gemma studied his expression. ‘I’m glad you said that because I have a theory about how the farm got its name…’
‘I always wondered about that,’ said Willow. ‘I just assumed it was called Thistledown because we’re on a hill. Isn’t “down” just another name for it? Only the English version rather than the Cornish “Bre”.’
Gemma nodded. ‘It could be that,’ she replied. ‘But did you know that a “down” is also one of the collective names frequently given to a group of hares? Or that thistles are common in this part of Bodmin and, apart from anything else, likely to be one of their favourite foods?’
Willow and Rowan exchanged looks, and it was clear that they did not. Willow looked as if a lightbulb had just gone on above her head, her face lighting up.
‘That’s exactly the kind of name Flora would choose,’ she said. ‘In honour of what could have been her favourite animal.’
‘Well, that’s what I think,’ said Gemma. ‘Although it is just a theory.’
‘A very plausible theory,’ said Rowan. ‘Names are powerful things. You might not always know how a thing is given its identity, but you’d be a fool to overlook it when you do.’
Willow placed her hand over her husband’s. ‘And now we do know,’ she said. ‘Thanks to Gemma.’
‘Thanks to Flora,’ replied Gemma. ‘She was the one who turned this site from one of pain and sorrow into one of happiness and plenty. It’s lovely to think she might do the same for us.’
‘And she’s given us a blueprint for the garden,’ said Leo.
‘She has,’ said Willow, nodding. ‘So for now we do what we can with what we have, and trust that everything we need will follow. And the first task of the day is a trip to the hardware store to buy the immediate essentials. It’s money we had earmarked to pay for other things, but they’ll have to wait. None of us can work without tools.’
Gemma shot Leo a glance but the minute shake of his head he gave her in reply was enough to silence her.
‘I’ll help too,’ said Leo. ‘Just point me in the direction of whatever needs doing.’
‘But this is not what you signed up for when you joined us,’ said Rowan. ‘Are you sure? You’ve given us so much of your time already.’
Leo made a face that was somewhere between resignation and frustration.
‘And until my customer decides what he wants, and where he wants it, if he wants it at all, I’m all yours.
I can do what I need to from here, just as well as I can from home.
As long as that’s all right with you guys, I’ll help wherever I’m needed. ’
‘I think you said Ashley can’t come over today, Gemma, is that right?’ At Gemma’s answering nod, she smiled broadly ‘So…’ She gave Gemma a sheepish look. ‘I reckon the pair of you should crack on. Is that okay?’
Gemma nodded. She could hardly refuse.