Seeds of Deception (6 page)

“Could be. I gather there were limited roads back in the day, so if they were on the move, they didn't have a lot of choices. Let's head back to the car.”

“All right. How far are we from our mysterious destination?”

“Under half an hour. Speak now if there's anything else in this neighborhood that you want to see. I understand there are other significant historic sites, although a lot of them seem to be battlefields.”

“I'll pass. I'm getting cold, and the light is going. We can think about it for the trip back.”

“Then we will move on to our next stop.”

“Which is?”

“The nicest hotel in Wilmington, the Hotel du Pont. I figured we deserved one splurge.”

“Ooh, lovely! Maybe they'll have a high tea.”

“They do. We have a reservation.”

Meg hugged him. “Another reason why I love you.”

By the time they left the Garden's grounds, the sun was halfway down the sky. The wind hadn't dropped off, and Meg was getting cold. When they got into the car, Seth turned on the heat while they sat for a bit.

“Do you know where you're going from here?” Meg asked.

“Near enough,” he said. “Wilmington's not that big a city, but it is the next one near this highway.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Only passing through by train. I took myself off to Washington once, a long time ago, because I thought I should see the place.”

“What did you think?”

“It was interesting. A bit unreal, almost stagy, if you know what I mean. But that's what it was supposed to be—designed to impress the rest of the world. I didn't have
the time to explore the museums or the rest of the area. Mostly I walked around. You've seen it?”

“Yes, on a high school field trip, a long time ago. How well do you know Boston?”

“Not very. Sure, I've been there, but it's not the same as knowing a place. Same with New York. I could say something corny like, ‘I'm a country boy at heart.'”

“A country boy with an education from one of the best small liberal arts colleges in the country,” Meg shot back. “So you're not exactly ignorant of the rest of the country, or the world. Did you ever want to go to Europe?”

“It crossed my mind, but I couldn't leave the business that long, even if I'd had the money. You?”

“I took a trip with a friend the summer after I graduated from college. We didn't have a plan, or a lot of money—mostly we went where we felt like it and stayed in places we could afford. We spent some time in London and Paris, and then we rented a car and saw some of the countryside. It seems a long time ago now. Can we put it on our bucket list for some future date?”

“Sure. As long as it isn't during growing season.”

“Good point. But there'd be fewer tourists in winter, and it can't be any colder there than in Massachusetts. Should we start an official bucket list?”

“Like, in writing? Why not?” Seth said. “Ready to go?”

“I am. I can feel my toes again.”

As Seth had promised, it was a short drive to downtown Wilmington. Apparently the hotel was one of the larger buildings in the city, and rather impossible to miss. When they reached the entrance, Meg was already feeling tongue-tied. “Oh, my. Can we afford this?”

“It's our honeymoon, Meg. We should have a few
experiences worth remembering, shouldn't we? This is our well-deserved indulgence.”

“Well, I love it. It's gorgeous.”

She sat back and let Seth manage things: valet parking, and a liveried doorman to collect their luggage and escort them to the front door, in case they were incapable of finding it on their own. The lobby was everything she would have imagined: high ceilinged, with gilt everywhere. The reception staff was efficient and courteous, and within a couple of minutes they found themselves in a spacious room—where there was no gilt. Meg suppressed a giggle—again—wondering where they could have added gold to a standard hotel room. Maybe the toilet seat . . .

“Tea awaits us. If you're willing,” Seth reminded her.

“I'd hate to waste the reservation. Will there be finger sandwiches?
Petits fours?
”

“I'm supposed to know?” Seth replied. “Why don't we go find out?”

They descended once again in the opulent elevator, and were directed to the Green Room. It was laid out for a small army of tea-drinkers, although there were not many people in the room, and Meg and Seth had their choice of seats. Meg picked up a small menu, which on one side was printed the entire history of afternoon tea, with notes on etiquette. “Good grief, I've blown it already. My purse is supposed to go on my lap—obviously they've never seen my purse. The rest of the formal details I think I can manage. Oh joy, there are tea sandwiches
and
pastries! Wait—are we supposed to eat dinner tonight?”

“We can eat late, if you stuff yourself now,” Seth said, smiling.

“That's rude. I shall limit myself to only one of everything. Unless it's really,
really
good.”

High tea in an elegant room in an historic hotel. Was this how she had envisioned her honeymoon? In truth, she'd never given it much thought. She'd never been close to marriage with anyone. At times she'd wondered if there was something wrong with her, but mostly she'd been comfortable with her life—her job, her friends, her activities. She hadn't been actively seeking a man, and she was ashamed to admit that at an earlier time in her life she wouldn't have looked twice at Seth Chapin. They hadn't “met cute.” In fact, they'd met ugly, if there was such a thing. She'd been thrust into the middle of his life under unpleasant circumstances, and as she had said more than once, she had always planned to leave Granford as soon as she had dealt with her mother's house, even without some unexpected complications. Like a murder. And now, less than two years later, here she was, sitting in Delaware with her new husband. She realized that Seth was watching her—how long had she been silent? “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“How unlikely it is that we would be sitting here like this. Married,” Seth replied.

“Funny—that's exactly what I was thinking. Apparently planning your life is highly overrated. Things only got interesting after I stopped trying.”

“I agree. Who was it who said, life is what happens when you're making plans?”

“The revered American philosopher Sheryl Crow, among others.” Meg looked around the room. “I don't know if I brought anything fancy enough for dinner in this place.”

“Well, there's always room service.”

“There is that,” Meg agreed. “But if this is just the room where they serve tea, I'd really like to see the main dining room.”

“Up to you. More tea?”

“No, my kidneys are floating. And I could use a nap.”

“That can be arranged.”

In the end they did settle for room service, which was a treat in itself. The fabulous tea had been marvelous, but Meg could feel her frugal New England ancestors glaring their disapproval at her over the centuries at the idea of eating another self-indulgent meal in the lap of luxury—on the same day! Maybe there'd be something to splurge on in Virginia. Like a tree. No, that wouldn't work—it was too late to plant one this year, since the ground was frozen, and besides, they'd be hauling it around the countryside for days. She had to laugh at the idea of dragging a small tree with them, and carefully bringing it in each night so it wouldn't freeze. Almost like a pet. With some regret Meg gave up the idea of having one of Thomas Jefferson's trees—well, at least one he would have approved of—on her own property. But then, she could probably order one by mail. Would Thomas Jefferson be satisfied with that?

They both woke early the next morning, after retiring before ten the night before, and took advantage of the lavish breakfast, having in a moment of weakness agreed that ordering room service again was a good idea.

“How far to Monticello?” Meg asked, enjoying some excellent French toast.

“I thought you were the navigator. Anyway, it's about four hours, door to door.”

“So we'll be there by lunchtime?”

“Thereabouts. Are you hungry already? You haven't finished breakfast.”

“Just thinking ahead. Do we have a place to stay?”

“Yes. I thought you'd given up on planning?”

“That's for the big things in life. I can still obsess with the little things, can't I?”

“If you insist. Yes, we have a reservation at a respectable motel not far from Monticello. I doubt it will meet the standards of our present accommodations, though.”

“What could? Besides, I wouldn't want to muddle the memories—one fabulous hotel is plenty.”

“I'm glad to hear that. My bank account thanks you.”

“Hey, this honeymoon belongs to both of us—you've got to let me chip in financially.”

“I won't argue,” Seth said amiably. “So, are you ready to hit the road again?”

Meg drained her coffee cup. “I am now.”

Meg felt a pang of regret as they pulled away from the hotel, but she was looking forward to Monticello. They headed toward Interstate 95 south, and skirted Baltimore, then took the beltway to avoid Washington, abandoning the interstate and aiming for Charlottesville, Virginia. As Seth had predicted, it was almost exactly four hours later that they arrived at their destination. They hadn't stopped along the way.

The approach to Monticello was not what she had expected. Maybe she had assumed there would be a tacky strip mall with neon lights advertising TJ's favorite ale. She shook herself: why should she think that? Jefferson was respected, even beloved, for his role in American history. But as she knew too well, that didn't always translate into treating memories with good taste.

They drove partway up a hill and parked near the visitor center. “Do you want to take the tour?” Seth asked.

“I think we'd better—I can't say I know much about the building, apart from the fact that Jefferson liked to think up ingenious ways of doing things. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. We can tour the grounds after the tour of the house.”

“With maybe a quick stop at the café in between?”

“Sure.”

They bought tickets and joined a group gathered under the portico on the far side of the building, overlooking the gently rolling Virginia countryside. The docent began by explaining the intricate sundial-clock under the portico, apparently designed by Jefferson, but the group of visitors did not linger long—even in Virginia it was cold in winter, and there was much, much more to see inside. Meg marveled at Jefferson's clever wine elevator, and puzzled over the bed that spanned the space between two adjoining rooms. She'd always heard that Jefferson was a tall man, over six feet, and it seemed unlikely that he could have fit in the bed, unless he had slept sitting up. But mostly Meg enjoyed watching Seth in his element. He understood the intricacies of both design and assembly, and he looked like a boy in a candy store—or would that be a comic book store these days? Coming to this place had been a good decision.

They finished the interior tour at the back of the house, and Meg and Seth peeled off from the tour group. “Food now?” Meg asked.

“Sure. But humor me—let's walk down to the end of the lawn here.”

Mystified, Meg followed him along the perimeter path. At the far end he stopped and turned her around, and she
burst out laughing. “It's the view from the nickel! Although I guess I should say the old nickel. It really does look like the coin, or vice versa. I just hadn't put this place together with the coin. Wow.”

“It does. The café's back in the visitor center, but we'll have to walk down to see the orchard anyway.”

“Lead on, since you seem to have done your homework.”

They ate sandwiches quickly, reluctant to waste the daylight, then climbed partway up the hill again to visit the orchards and other plantings. This was Meg's territory. “So, there's the vegetable garden,” she said, pointing, “and then there are two orchards, plus vineyards. The South Orchard is right below the vegetable garden, and has the widest variety of fruit trees.”

“You've been doing your homework, too,” Seth said.

“When it comes to the apples, yes, I have. Did you realize that Jefferson planted his orchard before he began building the house? Did you know that this hill, or small mountain, is high enough that warm air rises to the top of it, which protects blooming trees in the spring? Which was good for the more sensitive plants like peaches and grapes, but not so good for apple varieties. He had to pick mostly ones that thrived in the South, which limited his options.”

“I never thought about that. Too bad we can't take advantage of that for our orchard.”

“We've got plenty of northern apples that can tolerate the cold. Anyway, Jefferson planted over a thousand fruit trees in the South Orchard, on a grid pattern, with eighteen varieties of apples. Peaches did best, plums not so well. Jefferson concentrated on cider apples and a couple of dessert or eating apples—the Newtown Pippin and Esopus
Spitzenburg, which actually originated in New York. A lot of the Pippins were shipped to England. And that, sir, is just about all I know.”

“Well done. Do we have any of those?”

“No, but I'd like to add a couple, more for sentiment than because they're in high demand. At least now—I think the market for the less common heirlooms is still growing. I should order trees now, if I want to plant them in the spring.”

They wandered through the gardens. As Meg had feared, there was little growing, but the layout and orientation of the various beds were clear. Near the bottom of the hill they came upon the cemetery. After a few silent moments she said, “It seems that not only is Jefferson buried here, but lineal descendants may also be buried here, even now.”