EG02 - The Lost Gardens (3 page)

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. I realize it’s an awful lot to ask on the phone, plus you don’t know me from Adam—well, Eve, I suppose,’ she said, with the same infectious chuckle as before. ‘It wouldn’t be fair of me to expect an answer right away.’ She paused. ‘In fact, I would rather you didn’t. What I
am
asking is that you consider it. That’s all. Come down, spend a day and see the place—at my expense, of course—
then
decide whether the idea appeals to you or not. Stay as long as you want. You can have a whole cottage to yourself.’

Three days later, with the morning frost like cake icing on the hedges of Cadogan Square, he locked the front door to his flat and walked to the nearby garage where his Triumph TR4 was kept. Slipping behind the wheel, he soon joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Cromwell Road heading for the M4 and the two-hundred-odd miles to Somerset, to see Jamie Gibson’s estate.

Chapter Three

Once the cheerless sprawl of London’s suburbs was behind him, Kingston’s frame of mind improved with every mile. Midway on the long stretch between Reading and Swindon he pulled off at a service station and took the top down. It would be well worth braving the chill in the air. Back on the motorway his spirits climbed another couple of notches. Not surprising. His prized TR4 was getting a much-needed chance to blow out some cobwebs; he was on his way to a part of Somerset that he’d never seen, to meet a young woman he’d never met, and what’s more, after weeks of wretched weather, the skies in every direction were cloudless.

A crab sandwich lunch, a glass of Sancerre and a refuelling stop in Bridgwater and he was on the last leg of the journey. Now the roads were narrow, cars few and far between. The exhaust crackled as he shifted down to third, then second, to negotiate a sharp hairpin. Every curve in the road revealed yet another vista of postcard perfection. He was now in the very heart of the Quantock Hills, an ancient wooded corner of the West Country.

The last few miles of the journey had been full of pleasant surprises. On one occasion, on a lane barely inches wider than the car itself, he had had to pull up sharply to give right-of-way to a string of wild horses. Every so often the banks on either side of the road were thick with wildflowers that spangled through the ferns and into the woods like confetti. A sweet fragrance perfumed the air that was loud with the gurgle and bubble of water and the twittering and warbling of a thousand birds. Twice he had driven through shallow fords on the road. Crossing heather-cloaked moors, through gentle pastures and ferny forest, he hadn’t seen a house or any signs of people for miles.

Running a hand through his tangle of windblown hair, he peered over the top of his sunglasses. Yes, there they were, set back from the road, about fifty feet ahead on the left: the two blackened stone pillars each with a stone griffin perched on top—exactly as she had described. He slipped into second, passed between them and up the straight driveway leading to Wickersham Priory.

He drove slowly, taking in the scenery. A clutch of cottages tucked in the fold of a distant hollow appeared ahead: signs of habitation at last. Lulled by the meagre warmth of the grudging sun he tried to conjure a mental picture of the woman he was about to meet.

Caught up in the flight of fancy he very nearly overran the right-angled bend in the driveway. Quickly gaining control, he jammed his foot on the brake and skidded to a stop. He squinted in disbelief through the dirt-speckled windscreen. Fifty yards ahead was a wall of overgrown vegetation. In a heartbeat he had gone from English countryside to rainforest. Cheek by jowl with native shrubs and trees stood all kinds of subtropical species. Coconut palms swayed on their spindly trunks amidst native pine, cedar, beech and laurel. In the shadow of an enormous oak the fronds of giant tree ferns and the elephant-ear leaves of
Gunnera
looked incongruous. Here and there tips of golden bamboo undulated above brambles and thicket. Thick vines snaked up tree trunks, trailing fountains of vivid colour. He estimated the maidenhair tree towering high above the scene to be at least a hundred feet tall. One scarlet-budding rhododendron was the size of a two-storey house. He stared at the sight for a minute or more then continued up the drive.

As he passed through a gap in the green wall the sunlight was abruptly extinguished, as if at the flick of a light switch. Out of the shadows, columns of tree trunks—some with a girth approaching that of ancient sequoias—loomed from the ferny black undergrowth, their lower bark sheathed in a velour-like mantle of bright green moss, algae and lichen. A cathedral-like silence added to the primeval gloom. Kingston shivered and drove on.

All at once it was light again. Now, tall clipped hedges of yew flanked the driveway. After the cheerless atmosphere of the last several minutes, Kingston found the orderliness heartening. Ahead, the gravel drive split to form a sweeping circle. On the grassy island within stood a massive ornamental stone fountain topped by a trio of sculptured dolphins, open mouths pointing skyward. Imprisoned by weeds at the base, it was blackened with age and neglect. He pictured the fountain in its former glory, jetting columns of water high into the air. What a splendid first impression it must have made.

On the other side of the circle a manor house loomed large. The sprawling structure was built of stone the colour of parchment yellowed with age. Mullioned and leaded windows of varying size gave relief to its stern façade. In colonnades, tall chimneys jutted from the slate roof like guardsmen. A blanket of ivy with scaffolding erected alongside shrouded the set-back part of the house on his left. At the buttressed entrance a Gothic archway led to a recessed front door.

‘Mid-eighteenth century,’ Kingston muttered to himself, rounding the circle.

Ahead, standing by the arch, was a smiling young woman wearing a loose white T-shirt and blue jeans. She was holding a broom.

‘Could be earlier,’he mused, glancing up at the windows. He pulled the TR4 to a stop alongside her. Glad to be able to stretch his legs after being cooped up for the last couple of hours, he got out and took in a long breath, stretching his six foot three inch frame. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, slamming the car door with a thump, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to make it appear less tangled. ‘I’m here to see Jamie Gibson.’

The young woman grinned. ‘You’re talking to her.’

He summoned a weak smile and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I apologize.’

‘No need. I’m hardly one’s idea of the lady of the manor.’ She offered her hand. ‘So, what do you think of the jungle?’

‘Quite a jolt, I must say.’ He smiled, creasing the laugh lines at his eyes. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He shook her hand, noting the unusual firmness of her grip and absence of nail polish. ‘Lawrence Kingston,’ he said.

‘I’m delighted that you’re here,’ she countered, sizing him up. He towered over her by several inches, his features angular and pleasingly lined. Most noticeable was the hair, a thick snarl of white, though his eyebrows were oddly dark. No longer smiling, his face wore an air of authority. There was a vague but nevertheless intimidating lucidity in his blue eyes.

‘Do I call you doctor?’ she asked.

‘No, no, Lawrence is fine.’

‘Good. Well, come on in. You must be tired after such a long drive.’ She paused, glanced at the sports car, then ran her eyes over him, but all she said was, ‘Nice car.’

Kingston followed her into the house, their footsteps echoing across the tiled floor of a sparsely furnished entrance hall, through an open door into a living room. The room was grand, an ornate frieze girdling its high ceiling. A clutter of Persian carpets—most of them a bit the worse for wear—covered much of the parquet floor. The furniture, all of it antique, was a jumble of styles and periods. Gilt-framed paintings hung from walls that were the colour of old piano keys. An enormous crystal chandelier dominated the air space in the centre of the room. All the natural light came from one end where tall French doors, flanked by leaded windows, opened to a flagstone terrace looking out on to what used to be gardens, now an ugly wall of weeds, bramble and vines.

Jamie gestured to the large damask sofa. ‘Please sit down, Lawrence. May I get you something to drink?’

‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

‘Breakfast tea or Earl Grey?’

‘Earl Grey’s fine, thanks. Oh, lemon, please, if you have it.’

Jamie nodded towards the coffee table. ‘The top book contains several references to the house. I’ve marked the pages. I think you’ll find it interesting. I’ll be right back,’ she said, leaving the room.

Jamie Gibson was not at all as he’d imagined. In the first place, she was considerably younger and prettier than her somewhat husky American voice on the phone had suggested. Mid-thirties, he would guess. She had soft features with trusting brown eyes that, he would soon learn, could turn in a flutter of long lashes to businesslike and penetrating. Of average height and slim of hip, she had an athlete’s suppleness. Her blonde hair was fashionably short and her skin evenly tanned, leading him to wonder just how long she’d been living in Somerset. Beyond a trace of lipstick, she wore no makeup. It would be a fairly safe bet that she was from either California or Florida. He would inquire when she came back.

He leafed through the thick book to the first yellow Post-it note and started reading.

Five minutes had passed when he heard the rattle of china and looked up to see Jamie coming through the door carrying a tray with cups, saucers and a plate of scones.

‘I see the house was built in the mid-1700s,’ Kingston said, looking up. ‘From these old drawings, it doesn’t appear to have changed much?’

Jamie lowered the tray to the coffee table. ‘No, hardly at all.’

Kingston crossed his long legs, leaned back into the sofa and put on his best smile. ‘Forgive me for being curious,’ he said.

She tilted her head to one side as if to say, ‘Well?’

‘California’s my first guess, Florida second. Am I close?’

She sat down opposite him, folded her hands in her lap, returned the smile and then nodded. ‘Right first time,’ she said. ‘Sonoma County, north of San Francisco.’

‘Wine country. Know it well.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I had the good fortune to spend the best part of a summer there, about seven or eight years ago. A friend of mine, Gene De Martini—Gino, God rest his generous soul—owned a small winery close to Buena Vista on the east side of town. His kids run it now. I just love the place.’

‘I don’t know them personally, but I know the winery. They’re getting quite a reputation. They won a couple of medals recently and they just opened a tasting room.’

‘Good for them. I must drop them a line sometime.’

‘I’ll certainly look them up when I go back.’

‘Don’t you miss it? That beautiful weather—your friends?’

Jamie’s expression suddenly clouded and she looked away. For what seemed like a long time, he waited for her answer. At last she turned back to face him. She had regained her poise but Kingston knew that he had stirred up memories she preferred not to recall.

Trying to avoid his gaze, she lightly brushed a finger under one eyelid then looked up with a forced smile. ‘I think about it from time to time,’ she said, ‘but I haven’t been away long enough to be homesick. Besides, everything here is so new and this place is so demanding that I haven’t had much time to think about home.’ She offered a little smile. ‘Sooner or later, I’m sure I will, though.’

Kingston knew when a change of subject was called for. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and smiled. ‘So, Jamie, tell me how a nice young American woman came to acquire such a big chunk of Somerset?’

She picked up the teapot, pouring Kingston’s tea and then her own, as if buying time before answering his question. She slid the cup and saucer towards him, then a small glass dish with lemon slices. ‘I hope it’s strong enough for you,’ she said.

Kingston watched and waited as she stirred two teaspoons of sugar into her cup.

She settled into the armchair, resting the cup and saucer in her lap. ‘When we talked on the phone, I believe I told you that I’d inherited this place.’

‘Yes, you did.’ Kingston was consumed with curiosity to know more about her good fortune but with their acquaintanceship barely started he didn’t want to risk the slightest chance of appearing forward or nosy, traits not entirely foreign to him. He had been hoping that, given her own good time, she would tell him her story. That moment might be now.

‘It all started about six months ago,’ she said. For a second or so she looked away, staring out through the casement windows where the skies had darkened and the leaves were starting to swish against the panes. ‘I received a letter from a lawyer in Taunton—David Latimer. It was quite short, actually. Said that I’d been left the estate and all its assets and would I get in touch with him, which I did the next day. I thought it must be a horrible mistake or some kind of joke but right off, he confirmed that it wasn’t. When he told me the size of the estate—what it was all worth and how much money was involved—I nearly died. I couldn’t believe it.’ She paused then laughed. ‘I remember telling him jokingly that it came just in time because I was facing a fifteen-hundred-dollar repair job on my car.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Pretty soon, you’ll be able to go out and buy a Bentley, if you like.’

‘What an amazing story,’ said Kingston.

‘It certainly is. I still have to pinch myself sometimes to make sure I’m here—that it’s all happening.’

‘This was an aunt … an uncle?’

‘Neither. No one related to me, as far as I know. That’s what made it even more far-fetched.’ She took a sip of tea, holding the cup in both hands.

‘How extraordinary.’

‘I know. Isn’t it crazy? I still don’t know who the man is.’ She paused, a slight tilt to her head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sorry. What I should have said is that I know
who
he is but I haven’t the foggiest idea why he named me as heir to this lot,’she said sweeping an arm round to take in the room.