The House of Hardie (6 page)

‘Not the sort of girl to take to a ball,' Archie said. Lucy, who knew her brother well, didn't believe that he was telling the truth. She looked at him sharply but, to prevent her from pressing him further, he dug in his heels and set his horse at the steepest slope of the hill. Lucy followed him, although he might have expected her to descend into the valley by the more gentle gradient of the
ride. She had been lifted on to her first pony at the age of three and had never known what it meant to be afraid in the saddle.

Lucy was approaching her seventeenth birthday, but was not yet quite sure what sort of a person she was. When her grandfather treated her like a child, under the care of her governess, she
felt
like a child. But recently the marquess had begun to invite her to act as his hostess when he entertained guests, despite the fact that she was not yet ‘out'. And at the moment when she stepped out of her own room and came down the grand curving staircase which was one of the glories of Castlemere, with her hair up and wearing an elegant low-cut dress, she left the child behind her and took on the behaviour of a woman.

Sometimes she wondered whether her character on any day was determined by her clothes. White muslin and a wide-brimmed hat kept her young; velvet and lace transformed her into a society lady. In her riding habit she was something different again – energetic and adventurous; a taller, stronger version of the tomboy she had been as a girl.

There was an alternative possibility. Lucy was quick to admire anyone who was cleverer, more good-looking, braver or simply more interesting than herself; and her admiration expressed itself in emulation. Admiration of her grandfather helped her – sitting at the far end of the long dinner table – to observe the etiquette of the meal, turning her head from left to right and back again as each new course was served, and ready to discuss franchise reform, the Irish question or the progress of General Gordon's expedition. The marquess had taught her how to converse – to be articulate in expressing an opinion and
polite in defending it. Naturally, all her opinions were his own.

She admired Archie as well, because he was so sure of himself: so good-looking and so successful at whatever he chose to do. In his company she became young again, anxious to do him credit by looking her prettiest, or determined to keep up with him on the hunting field. Yet even while warming to his approval, she was aware that in living up to his expectations she was again acting a part, adopting his enthusiasms instead of developing her own.

It was a question which sometimes worried her. Without being vain, she knew that she was beautiful, and so felt none of the insecurity which might have affected a plainer or less well-connected girl. Men would fall in love with her. She would marry one of them, and have children. Would she then become only what they expected her to be – a certain kind of wife, a certain kind of mother? Somehow, before that happened, she must try to become an interesting person, and that meant having interests of her own. But her quiet upbringing at Castlemere had given her little idea of what these might be.

For example, she had never travelled anywhere at all except in her grandfather's carriage. She longed to visit strange places, to see magnificent mountains and beautiful rivers and wild forests in foreign countries – or at least, she thought that was what she wanted. But how was it possible to be sure, when arranging even the simplest railway journey to London for herself was outside her experience?

One interest Lucy did acknowledge. She had a talent for water-colouring. Although lacking the wider artist's imagination which would have inspired her to paint on a
larger canvas, she could depict whatever was in front of her eyes with meticulous accuracy and genuine artistry. She loved to paint flowers – and that was a genuine love. This afternoon, she promised herself, after Archie had returned to Oxford, she would take her paints into the garden. By focusing all her concentration on a single flower, she would for an hour or two be herself, Lucy Yates, and not somebody else's idea of her.

While Archie Yates was travelling towards Oxford on that last day of his Easter vacation, Gordon Hardie and his father were moving in the opposite direction. The Marquess of Ross had made it known to Mr John Hardie that he wished to make a generous gift of wine to his eldest grandson, Lord Beverley, on the occasion of his forthcoming twenty-first birthday. Mr Hardie's advice on the subject was solicited, and at the same time it was suggested that he might check the cellar books at Castlemere with a view to making good any deficiencies found in the stocks.

Such a service was a routine matter for Mr Hardie, and it had become equally customary for his son to accompany him. One day Gordon himself would be expected to give advice to the aristocratic patrons of The House of Hardie: this was a practical way in which to become familiar with their tastes. In addition, the work was more rapidly accomplished when his father could keep his hands and eyes free to inspect the bins and check the books whilst dictating his comments for Gordon to write down.

Gordon had a particular reason for welcoming the opportunity to visit Castlemere. He waited until the marquess had come to the end of his instructions and was about to dismiss them.

‘If I might make so bold, my lord … I've been told that Castlemere possesses the finest medieval herb garden in the whole of England.'

‘The only one, I wouldn't be surprised. Can't say that I
know much about it myself. Prefer the fruit of the vine to any foul-smelling tisane when it comes to keeping good health, don't you know. Interested in that sort of thing, are you? Have a word with my head gardener, Curtis. He'll tell you where to find it.'

‘I'm very much obliged to you.' Gordon ignored his father's frown. Any disapproval which Mr Hardie felt would be caused not by the thought that his son's request was impertinent, but by the reminder that Gordon had not yet outgrown the enthusiasm for unusual plants which he had picked up, like an infectious disease, during his boyish escapade to the South Seas. But no criticisms would be expressed in the presence of either the marquess or his butler, who was ready now to escort them to the cellars.

At half past three in the afternoon Gordon stepped out of the house for a short break in the fresh air. He blinked for a moment in the bright light, and then set off on his private errand. The herb garden, he was told, could be reached by the family directly from the west terrace of the great house, but Gordon was instructed to approach it from the other direction, by crossing the moat and passing through the walled garden in which soft fruit and vegetables were grown.

Knowing that his time was short, he hurried along a path lined with espaliered pears and apples towards the twelve-foot-high stone wall on the further side, patterned with the fan-trained skeletons of peaches and apricots. He pushed open the arched door in the centre of the wall and then was forced to stop. Although he did his best to bring his hurrying pace to an immediate check, he almost knocked over the young woman who was sitting in the path with her back to him. For her part, she was so startled to feel a stranger brush against her shoulder that
she jumped to her feet, clutching a box of paints in one hand and a watercolour pad in the other, but dropping her brush and spilling the jar of water she had been using.

Gordon began to stammer his apologies while he was still bending down to retrieve what she had dropped. Only as he straightened himself did he see her face for the first time. Long corn-coloured hair, loosely tied back with a blue ribbon, framed a small face with the delicate pink and white complexion of a china doll. But there was nothing doll-like about her lively blue eyes, and her lips were curved and full of movement. So perfect was her beauty that for a moment he was struck dumb by it. But to remain silent would be impolite. ‘Please forgive me,' he said humbly.

The young woman's startled expression melted into a smile. ‘It was foolish of me to sit so near the door and in the middle of the path,' she said. ‘But the gardeners never come here except with me, so I was not expecting …' She paused for the explanation which she had every right to demand.

‘I have a particular interest in old species of plants,' Gordon told her. ‘His lordship was kind enough to give me permission to inspect the herb garden. But of course I don't wish to intrude on your privacy. If you'll allow me to fetch some water for you, I'll leave you to continue your work.'

‘No need. It's finished already.' Now that he had explained his presence, a new warmth came into her smile and her voice was friendly: she held out her water-colour as though to prove that she was telling the truth.

Gordon accepted the invitation to study it. Instead of the general garden view which he would have expected a young lady to attempt, she had depicted a group of crocuses in the bottom left-hand corner of the page, and
above them had painted an enlarged and meticulously detailed representation of a single flower and its leaf.

‘But it's not completely finished,' he pointed out. ‘You haven't signed it.'

‘This is not a painting to hang in an exhibition,' she said, laughing. ‘There's no need for a signature.'

‘Except that it would allow me to know your name.'

She flushed delightfully. ‘I'm Lucy Yates.'

It took Gordon only a second to realize that she must be the sister of Archie Yates, whom he had met at The House of Hardie; so the Marquess of Ross would be her grandfather.

Gordon knew that he ought to withdraw at once – but she was clearly waiting for him to complete the introductions.

‘My name is Gordon Hardie.' He was anxious that there should be no misunderstanding about his status. ‘My father and I are here to advise your grandfather on his cellar.'

Instead of dismissing him, Lucy held out her hand. She was still young, he realized, as he bent over it: society had not yet been given the opportunity to make her haughty.

‘Your subject is an unusual one,' he commented.

‘This is the saffron crocus,' Lucy told him. ‘You can recognize it by the long stigmas. It's the stigmas which are dried to make saffron. To produce one ounce of saffron, more than four thousand flowers are needed.'

‘You know a great deal about it, Miss Yates.' Gordon, as it happened, knew even more, but he was nevertheless sincere in his admiration.

‘My grandmother loved this garden. She died three years ago, but when I was quite young she taught me to recognize all the herbs and to know their uses. Nowadays saffron is only used in cooking, to add colour. But in the
olden days it was a specific for jaundice, and prescribed in cases of measles to speed up the eruptive state. My grandmother kept a book of old receipts. I thought it would be interesting to interleave it with illustrations.'

‘Do you know how this crocus came to England?' Gordon asked her. Almost certainly she – like himself as a boy – would have assumed that it was native to the country. As he had expected, she looked puzzled. ‘A pilgrim returning from the Holy Land in the reign of Edward II collected some seeds as he travelled through Asia Minor,' he told her. ‘Had they been discovered, he would have been killed. So he hollowed out his pilgrim's stave to make a secret place for them. He carried them to his home in Walden, where they grew and multiplied so successfully that it has been known as Saffron Walden ever since.'

The effect of his story was all he could have wished. Lucy's eyes widened with astonishment and regret.

‘How exciting it must have been to live in those times,' she sighed. ‘If only such adventures were possible nowadays!'

‘They're still waiting for anyone who looks for them,' said Gordon. ‘I myself, as a boy, ran away to sea and found myself in the company of a man who had achieved just such a triumph – and he is still alive today.'

‘You ran away to sea!' Lucy clapped her hands in excitement. ‘I thought such things only happened in Mudie's novels. Do tell me how you were able to do it, and where you went.'

Gordon would willingly have recounted the complete day-by-day history of his voyage in order to remain in her company. But the sound of the stable clock striking the hour made him pause. His father would be seriously displeased if he returned to the cellars and found no
one waiting to assist him. Reluctantly, he excused himself.

‘Like Scheherazade!' exclaimed Lucy. ‘You leave me just when I long to hear more. You must promise to return and continue your story.'

‘I hope … I wish …' But Gordon, who a moment earlier had been made boastful by his wish to impress, was suddenly aware that he ought not to be talking to any young lady alone in this way, and especially not to the granddaughter of his patron. Fumbling for words, he apologized both for disturbing her and for leaving her, and backed away.

‘Was it interesting?' asked his father, as he relit their lantern.

‘Was what interesting?'

Mr Hardie looked at him sharply. ‘The herb garden. Wasn't that what you were so anxious to see?'

‘Oh yes. Yes. Most unusual.' Only then did Gordon realize that he had not noticed a single flower, with the exception of the saffron crocus which had provided such a perfect introduction to Lucy Yates's interest. ‘I'd very much like the chance to inspect it in greater detail. At leisure. Perhaps, when you've prepared your suggestions for the coming-of-age gift, I could carry them here in person instead of entrusting them to the post, and then –' The enthusiasm in his voice faded away, and he did not finish the suggestion. If he returned to Castlemere without warning, he could not expect a repetition of today's encounter. Lucy Yates would be riding in the park, or paying a call, or playing the piano in the music room. And even were she once again to be found in the herb garden, she was not for him. Gordon shook his head vigorously, like a dog throwing off water, as he tried to free himself from the memory of that young, beautiful face. He opened his book and prepared to set down his
father's comments. For the remainder of his time in Castlemere, and during the journey back to Oxford, he did not allow himself to think of Lucy Yates again.