The Truth About Love (8 page)

They’d reached the end of the terrace; Gerrard gave Millicent his arm down a short flight of steps to a gravel path that led to the ridge.

Once they were strolling again, he asked, “How long ago did Jacqueline’s mother die?”
And how?

“Just fourteen months ago. We’ve only been out of mourning for two months.”

Gerrard fought to hide his astonishment. Tregonning had been after him to paint Jacqueline for more than two months. Because he was paranoid he’d lose her, too, and wanted the portrait done before he did? That seemed…distinctly odd.

Before he could frame a useful question, Millicent spoke again.

“My brother has explained to me, Mr. Debbington, that your work on Jacqueline’s portrait will necessitate your spending considerable time in her company, that you will need to learn about her to lend your work authority. My brother is very keen that the portrait be accurate. I can see that that will inevitably require you to spend time alone with Jacqueline.” Millicent turned a severe, rather dauntingly level gaze on him. “You appear to be an estimable gentleman, sir, and your reputation is spotless. Yes, indeed”—she nodded—“I checked.”

She looked ahead as they continued strolling. “Consequently, as far as your association with Jacqueline goes, I believe I can trust in your honor. If you will give me your word you will preserve the proprieties to the extent no harm will come to Jacqueline’s good name, then I believe that, in these circumstances, I can relax my vigilance regarding the appropriate distance that should be preserved between gentlemen and young ladies such as my niece.”

Gerrard blinked. Direct speaking was clearly a family trait; it was distinctly refreshing. “Thank you, ma’am. I give you my word that no harm will come to your niece’s good name through any action of mine.”

“Very good.” Millicent nodded ahead to where Barnaby was regaling Jacqueline with some story, the two bright heads close. “In that case, I suggest you send Mr. Adair back to me. I would dearly love to hear what that scoundrel Monteith has been up to now. I knew his father, and a bigger blackguard I never did meet.”

Gerrard couldn’t suppress his grin. Bowing, he left Millicent and quickly overtook the pair ahead.

Barnaby was intrigued by Millicent’s request; he happily fell back to walk with her, leaving Jacqueline strolling with Gerrard.

A small forest of tall conifers, all shades of dark green, some carrying their canopies high above long boles, others more like thick bushes, appeared before them. The path wound on between the trees, through the still shade; they followed it, their feet crunching on dry needles.

“The stables lie beyond the ridge.” Jacqueline waved ahead. “This path takes you to them, but we’ll turn off it soon. Each segment of the gardens was designed to represent one of the ancient gods, Roman or Greek, or one of the mythical creatures associated with them.” In the cool beneath the trees, her voice carried easily to Millicent and Barnaby behind them. “This”—she gestured about them—“is the Garden of Hercules, the massively strong trunks representing his fabled strength.

“He was, of course, a demigod, but an obvious one to include.” She smiled briefly at Gerrard. “My ancestors weren’t dogmatic over their choice of subjects, and in that time, there was great interest in the ancient myths.”

Gerrard nodded. They reached the ridge line and paused; ahead lay the usual stable buildings, separated from the gardens by a strip of open field through which the path continued. To the left of the path was a fenced paddock in which horses grazed; to the right, out of the center of a ring of tall corn rose an old, worn but still recognizable statue.

“Pegasus.” Gerrard smiled.

“They had him shipped from somewhere in Greece.” Jacqueline studied the winged horse for a moment. “He’s one of my favorites. To get to the stables, you have to pass beneath his eye.”

She turned left onto a connecting path that led along the ridge a little way before curving back down into the gardens; brows rising, Gerrard followed. Barnaby and Millicent had paused to exchange comments on Pegasus; they eventually followed some yards behind.

“This next garden,” Jacqueline said as the conifers thinned and the path led on into the sunshine, “is the Garden of Demeter. Among other things, she was the goddess of crops and the fruitful earth, so…”

They walked out into a large and varied orchard. Some of the trees still held a few blossoms; the scent of growing fruit was tangy and sharp on the air. Bees lazily buzzed as they strolled down the gravel path, descending deeper into the valley. Jacqueline and Millicent unfurled their parasols; the sun was high enough to flood the valley with warmth and light.

The house now lay to their left, rising above them as they descended into the valley. Directly ahead at the junction of four paths—theirs and three others that spread like an open fan into the gardens before them—stood a small wooden pergola, painted white. Roses rambled over it in lazy profusion, spilling yellow blooms over the roof and down the carved pillars.

Jacqueline pointed left to a long strip of garden that ran from the pergola back to the terrace. “The kitchen gardens, otherwise known as the Garden of Vesta, goddess of the hearth.”

It didn’t look like any kitchen garden Gerrard had ever seen. As if reading his thoughts, Jacqueline said, “What you can see are mostly herbs. There are vegetables planted between, but the rampant growth of the herbs screens them.”

“ ‘Rampant’ being a very apt word,” Barnaby returned. “Everything seems”—he glanced around them—“extraordinarily healthy.”

Pausing under the pergola, Jacqueline nodded. “It’s the situation, the shelter, and the soil.” She waited while they all looked around, then waved to the three paths diverging before them. “This path”—she pointed to the one to the left, angling back to the house—“leads to the Garden of Poseidon.”

“There?” Barnaby blinked. “I thought he would be down by the shore, god of the sea that he is.”

“Ah, but Poseidon was the god of
all
water—fresh as well as salt—and it was claimed all springs flowed from where his trident struck.” Jacqueline pointed to where, directly ahead, they could see sunlight glinting off the rippling waters of a stream running down the valley. “The stream is fed by a spring that rises in a grotto under the central section of the terrace. Poseidon therefore presides over the point where its waters start to flow freely down the valley, leaving the shoreline to Neptune.”

“Aha! Very neat.” Barnaby squinted down the valley toward the distant cove, but it was too far away, and there were too many intervening trees, shrubs, and rises and dips in the land to get any real view.

Gerrard decided he’d waited long enough; the Garden of Poseidon seemed to lie just below the area of thick, dark vegetation he’d noted the previous evening. “Where’s the famous Garden of Night?”

He was standing beside Jacqueline; she didn’t move, yet he was aware she stiffened. Nothing showed in her face, but it had suddenly become a mask. However, when she spoke, her tone was even, albeit devoid of emotion.

“The Garden of Night is reached through the Garden of Poseidon, or directly from the terrace via the main garden stairs. It abuts the terrace—in fact the grotto where the spring rises is part of the Garden of Night, more properly the Garden of Venus, who aside from being the goddess of love was also the first goddess of gardens, hence her preeminence here.” Looking down, Jacqueline stepped out of the pergola onto the central of the three paths leading on. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the various plants that grow in the Garden of Night. As it’s closest to the house, we’ll leave it for later.”

Gerrard held his peace, following her out into the sunshine; the others strolled after him.

Resetting her parasol, Jacqueline waved up the path to their right; it wended up and then along the steeply sloping north ridge. “That path leads through the Garden of Dionysius—it’s full of grapevines of various sorts. Beyond it, you can see the cypresses of the Garden of Hades, cypresses being the tree of graveyards. That path rejoins this one farther down the valley, at the last viewing stage.”

She gestured about them. “This area, directly below the Garden of Poseidon, is the Garden of Apollo. It’s one of the gardens that uses statuary—he’s the god of music, hence the once-gilded statue of a lyre.”

They came upon the statue, an intricate work in iron, on a pedestal in the center of a small circle of lawn. The path wound its way past. They approached the stream; a small wooden bridge spanned it. “Music,” Jacqueline continued, “is also created by the sound of the stream running over the rocks and the small weirs placed along its course.”

They halted and listened. Watery music did indeed fill the air, tinkling, burbling, almost singing. It was a pleasant, relaxing sound. Gerrard scanned the area; it was rich with lush lawns and burgeoning flower beds.

Jacqueline stepped onto the bridge. “Apollo was also the god of light, and this area of the gardens has light for the longest time each day. The sundial”—she pointed to it, on the lawn just off the path ahead—“marks the point considered the center of the gardens.”

They followed her on. The path steadily descended down a bank of verdant growth. Glancing back, Gerrard noted that while the roofs of the house were still visible high above the head of the valley, areas nearer to hand that they’d already traversed were not. It would indeed be easy to get lost.

“The four viewing stages,” Jacqueline said as they reached the next, a rectangular stone platform with a wooden roof, “are placed at the main junctions of paths and also where a number of gardens meet.”

There were five paths, including the one they’d just arrived on, radiating from the stone platform.

“We’ve just left the Garden of Apollo. That path”—Jacqueline pointed to the next path on the higher side of the platform—“leads back to the house via the Gardens of Poseidon and Venus. The next also leads back to the house, but through the Gardens of Diana, Athena and Artemis—we’ll go back that way later. The next path”—she pointed to one heading up the southern ridge—“initially goes through a portion of the Garden of Mars, but then forks—you can head back to the house via the Garden of Diana, or go farther down the valley through the Gardens of Hermes and Vulcan. Which brings us to the path we’ll take, heading down to the cove.”

She led the way; Gerrard followed, taking her elbow to steady her down the steps. She glanced briefly at him, then looked ahead. “Thank you.”

Once on the path, he released her. They waited until the others joined them, then Jacqueline turned and walked on. “This is the Garden of Mars. Although everyone knows him as the god of war, most gods have multiple, often contradictory faces, so Mars is also the god of fertility and farming, especially of all things that grow in the spring.”

The beds they were passing were full of plants that had flowered and now carried seed pods of every description.

“Your relative, whoever he was, was quite inventive in choosing his gods.” Hands in his pockets as he ambled beside her, Gerrard added the questions of how Jacqueline’s mother had died, and why Jacqueline disliked the Garden of Night, to his growing list.

“My great-great-great-grandfather started it, my great-great-grandfather completed the design, but the planting wasn’t complete until my great-grandfather’s time.”

They walked on, Jacqueline naming the gardens as they went, describing the association of each with the god for whom the area was named. They descended through the Garden of Persephone, goddess of plenty, lying below the dark mass of the Garden of Hades, her husband, lord of the underworld. The path led them to the lowest of the viewing platforms, a wooden one giving an excellent view of the narrow cove filled with rocks on which the waves crashed, then slowly, sussuratingly, receded.

The platform sat squarely at the intersection of four paths. The one leading to the shore wended through a landscape comprised of plants with unusual leaves or strange shapes. “The Garden of Neptune, god of the sea. The plants were chosen because they look like various seaweeds, or suggest another world.”

They all stood at the balustrade, drawn to the view of the sea, gentle today yet the waves still rolled in. Gulls wheeled on the updrafts rising up the cliffs to the right, their screeching a sharp counterpoint to the rumble and whoosh of the waves. To the left, the cove was bound by a rocky outcrop, the extreme seaward section of which consisted of a single, massive boulder.

“Here comes a big wave.” Barnaby pointed.

Gerrard looked; from the corner of his eye he saw Jacqueline glance at him, caught the curving of her lips…now what?

A sudden roaring sound reached them; before they could react, a spout of water exploded upward from the center of the massive rock.

Gerrard stared.

Barnaby grabbed his arm. “Good Lord! It’s a blowhole!”

They both turned to Jacqueline. Smiling, she nodded. “It is indeed a blowhole—known as Cyclops, of course.”

“Of course!” Barnaby’s face was alight.

“What you just witnessed was a mild eruption. Every day as the tide comes in, there’s a time when every fourth wave or so sends up a huge fountain. During king tides, the height and amount of water thrown out is simply amazing.”

“Does the path lead down to it?” Gerrard asked.

“Yes, but it doesn’t go onto Cyclops, the rock, itself—it’s too dangerous. The surface is perennially slippery, and the sea’s quite deep just there. The currents are very strong, and, of course, if anyone ever got sucked into the blowhole, they’d be smashed against the rocks inside.”