The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf (36 page)

“—Defending his Lime Walk and his English spring,” Jo murmured.

“Aren’t you glad they’re still here?” Peter shrugged. “He’d sent the truth about Blunt and Burgess to Maynard Keynes; if nobody wanted to believe it—that was hardly Harold’s problem. He wasn’t the sort to expose his fellows.”

“Lest they expose
him,”
Margaux shot back. “But
murder?”

“We’ll never know whether it was murder,” Peter reminded her gently.

“We know,” Jo said.

BEFORE THEY LEFT SISSINGHURST THAT NIGHT, PETER placed the cigarette papers, Leonard’s letter and book, and the biscuit tin in a plastic bag. Imogen sealed it with tape and they all signed it with a black marker; then she photographed the bundle and locked it in her office safe.

“I can tell The Family I was in on the find with a straight face, now,” she said with exultant relief.

MARCUS SYMONDS-JONES WAS LOOKING AT JO THIS MORNING as though she were a particularly recalcitrant child. “I don’t think, you know, that you’re in any position to make demands. Given your extraordinary behavior in recent days. The people at this table are all that stand between you and prosecution.”

Jo smiled at him. “Did you learn that trick of intimidation from Gray? I suppose you’ll offer me a document to sign, now.”

“As a matter of fact—” Marcus lifted a sheet of paper from the agenda before him. “I have it here. You relinquish any claim to these items in exchange for a leniency I only
hope
we can guarantee. I have not yet consulted the Trust or the Nicolson Family—God knows what penalties
they
might enforce—but we will try to do our best by you, Miss Bellamy.”

“How fortunate, then,” Peter interjected, “that we consulted The Family ourselves.”

Marcus paused. He glanced at Gray, who was studying Peter with an interested expression.

“That’s why we thought it best to meet here, in the garden, where the papers belong,” Peter added quietly. “The Family were delighted to learn from Imogen that she’d unearthed a number of treasures related to Sissinghurst and its more famous occupants; and they felt we might be interested in a final document that has come to light.” Peter paused, aware that the room had gone silent. “A poem, to be precise, written by Vita Sackville-West and found after her death.”

“Where?” Margaux demanded. “In the Tower? I swear, there’s more bloody stuff up there than anybody realizes. The Trust just
sits
on it.”

“The Family, not the Trust, found this particular poem—and to them, it was inexplicable. But they kept it safe.”

“Inexplicable?” Gray repeated. “In what way?”

“In the way that any piece of a puzzle is meaningless without the rest. The poem is entitled ‘In Memoriam: White Garden.’ It’s dated April 1941.”

“That’s when she published her Woolf poem,” Margaux exclaimed.

“Spot on,” Peter agreed. “Vita wrote ‘In Memoriam: Virginia Woolf’ for the London
Observer
that April. This poem—the one found in the Tower—would appear to be a companion to it. A more intimate lament, if you will, that she suppressed. Dr. Strand, can you recall any of the published poem?”

Margaux pursed her lips and closed her eyes, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then she intoned:
“So let us say, she loved the water-meadows, / The Downs; her friends; her books; her memories; / The room which was her own. / London by twilight; shops and Mrs. Brown; / Donne’s church; the Strand; the buses, and the large / Smell of humanity that passed her by…”
Margaux’s eyes drifted open. “Vita goes on to compare Virginia to a moth, fluttering against a lamp. And then she closes with:

How small, how petty seemed the little men / Measured against her scornful quality
.

We feminists
love
to quote that bit.”

“What do you think of it? As poetry, I mean?”

“Not
entirely
successful.” Margaux was enjoying her moment on the stage. “Vita seemed torn between a private tribute and a public one, the need to mourn her friend and the need to ensure Virginia’s place in the English canon. That tension’s evident in the verse—”

Marcus shifted irritably in his seat. “Yes, yes, all very delightful I’m sure—but to what does this chatter tend?”

Peter drew what appeared to be a simple sheet of writing paper from a manila envelope and placed it gently in the middle of the table.

In Memoriam: White Garden

I said she was a moth, fluttered spirit, delicate;

That bumped against the lamp of life. No mention made

Of how they tortured her, prey to nameless fears,

With such exact descriptions of the night:

Its quality, deception, unnumbered shades of grey

Crept in to suffocate the plangent souls she loved.

The glow of blanchèd flowers and pale birds

Her sole security for sleep.

O Virginia, whose cobweb fingers trailed

Among our thorns, jabbering in tongues and fractured

Semaphore, your madness is a comfort to us now.

What sense you made of bowler hats and bombing runs,

The water meadows drown; it will not stand for long

against the ministry of lies, the soporific song

we mutter in our darkened rooms, mere lullabies
before the final sleep.
I told you not to meddle. Not to worry your poor head.

I should have held you up as sane

Before the men, instead.

Fatuity, indifference; a bitter, soul-deep blight—

A weariness with war and bombs

And blackout shades pulled tight.

And when I paid attention—
You had slipped off, in the night.
White clematis, white lavender, anemone and rose

The lists go on and on, my dear, remorse that barely shows.

I’ve planted you a garden here, against the pitchy black;

Pure white, my virginal, my owl; pure white,

Now just—
Come back
—

“It’s an apology,” Jo murmured, “and a farewell. Isn’t it, Peter?”

“The Family tell me they would like this poem included with the other documents—the notebook, Leonard Woolf’s bound volume, the cigarette papers. Their preference is that these finds remain in England, in an archival setting, and they’re hopeful of consulting, through the Trust, the curators of Monk’s House to reach an equitable solution for all parties concerned.”

“Excellent,” Marcus managed, with a visible effort at recovery. He tore at the cap of his Montblanc pen. “Just give me the best contact number, won’t you, and I’ll take it from here?”

“I’ve been empowered to act as broker between The Family, the Trust, and the University of Sussex,” Peter continued
inexorably. “The bulk of the Woolf papers are housed at Sussex, you see. The Family is desirous of placing these items with the rest of the Woolf collection, so that scholars”—he inclined his head toward Margaux—“might have the greatest ease of access. They’ve offered the notebook to the University at an exceptionally decent price, and the University is considering the acquisition. Jo Bellamy has agreed to
lend
her grandfather’s papers for an indefinite period of time.”

“Scholars?” Margaux repeated. “That’s not what I stipulated. I was promised sole access!”

“We have documents, Peter!” Marcus spluttered.
“Signed.”

“—By no one with any real authority in the case, unfortunately. But don’t piss your drawers, Marcus—you’re not out of it altogether. I have here a letter”—Peter resorted once more to his manila envelope—“signed by representatives of both the Trust and The Family, requesting the completion of Sotheby’s in-house notebook analysis and the return of the materials to Sissinghurst. The auction house will, of course, be paid for those services—out of the proceeds of our private sale.”

There was a breathless silence as Marcus scanned Peter’s letter. Then he tossed it on the table in disgust.
“Bugger.”

“As I said—you were set up.” Gray rose from the table. “Jo, send me your accounting and any drawings you’ve got, once you’re back home. With the holidays coming, Alicia’s time is tight—but maybe in January you can meet us in Manhattan to discuss the plant list.”

“That’d be great,” she replied.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me”—Gray inclined his head at Imogen Cantwell—“my plane is waiting at Gatwick. Marcus, you’ll catch a train back to London, of course?”

The door closed soundlessly behind him.

“You nasty, underhanded, backstabbing
sod.”
Marcus
made a show of gathering his papers and agenda, pique in every movement. “I’ll see you sacked!”

“But first,” Peter said, “you’ll tell me where the notebook is. With Beevers in Watermark, or Finegold in Bindings?”

“Beevers,” Marcus spat.

“Right, then.” Peter smiled all around. “I’ll just give him a call. Margaux—you might want to share Marcus’s taxi to Staplehurst. There are trains on the hour. Imogen, you’ve been more than generous—but may I beg the use of your phone? My mobile battery’s quite dead, I’m afraid. Jo—I shan’t be a moment. Wait for me, will you?”

SHE LEFT IMOGEN TO SET HER PERPETUAL KETTLE TO BOIL, and walked out into the garden. It was barely ten o’clock, a full hour before the gates of Sissinghurst would open; Paradise was left to herself.

Tomorrow was Saturday, the last Open day of the year. By Monday the castle grounds would be dead quiet, a few shadows dancing against the pale green panes of the propagation houses, a few barrows trundling down the slate paths. Mist, curling at the foot of Vita’s tower. An angelic host. But by Monday Jo would be back in Delaware.

She paced slowly up from the Powys Wall through the Rose Garden fading now into dormancy; through the heart of the massive Yew Rondel, to the cross path that led through the opening in a brick wall, past leafless magnolias and a tool shed, into the Yew Walk.

Severe simplicity. Restraint. A vanishing point that beckoned.

She had never strolled entirely alone between these green walls. The fragrant yew seemed to whisper in the morning mist:
Come back. Come back
. Or was it Virginia they called?

The entrance to the Lower Courtyard opened on her left. She glanced at the steps spilling down from the Tower, the sweep of lawn and the bare bones of clematis, and walked on.

Her heart, she found, beat faster as she turned for the last time into the White Garden. As though a specter awaited her there. She would always look for Jock, now, in the shadows beneath the arching roses.

She stopped short, her gaze drifting past the arbor and its fading canes to the wrought-iron gate beyond. Jock had never seen this, though he’d been part of its dreaming. What had he feared, when he learned she was coming to Sissinghurst? That the careful web of lies he’d upheld for six decades in silence—the myth of Virginia Woolf’s suicide—would explode in his face? Publicity? Flashbulbs? Accusation? The loss of the fragile peace he’d found among his tools in the Delaware Valley?

He’d been the only one of Sissinghurst’s ghosts still left alive. The only one the world could interrogate. The one who faulted himself most for failing the Lady. And so he’d made his choice, Jo thought: to go silently into that great good night, rather than face the endless questions. She understood, now, that his choice had never had anything to do with her. It was no failure of love, no unanswerable reproach. It was Jock’s bow to an obscure past he’d hoped would remain buried.

“Grandpa,” she whispered as she turned into the path that led to the Little Virgin, past the mottled silver of eryngium and crambe, “I’m sorry for all your pain. I think for a while now I’ve shared it. But I’m telling you, my dearest: You did your best. You tried your hardest. And you’ve taught me that’s all any of us can do.”

“Are you really going Sunday?” Peter said quietly behind her.

She turned. “That’s what my ticket says. Did he fire you?”

“I gave a month’s notice. I want to be around until the
Woolf papers are safely housed; I don’t trust Marcus. Four more weeks of indentured servitude on behalf of a good cause—and I’m free. Here.” He pressed a sheaf of papers into her hands. “I made that for you. A photocopy of Jock’s cigarette papers. So your gran can read them. Imogen let me borrow her copier.”

“I’m…” She looked up at him shyly. “So
grateful
to you, Peter. For everything.”

“Don’t be. I owe you a good deal more—the commission for this bit of work, for instance. I’ve got plans for the cash.”

“Do you?” she said, slipping her hand through his arm. “Would they happen to include buying me lunch?”

“’Fraid not,” he said regretfully. “I’m promised to Margaux. We’re to discuss our future, you see.”

“Oh.” She faltered. “No, actually, I don’t see. Or maybe I hoped… but it’s okay. I understand. I really do. She’s… a remarkable woman, Peter.”

“She’s a virago,” he said cheerfully, throwing his arm around Jo and steering her back down the path. “And don’t tell me, in your endearing American way, that you’re a Gemini yourself. Margaux’s a screaming vulture, and I want nothing more to do with her in my life.”

“I’m so glad,” Jo whispered into his sweater.

“You haven’t asked me what I’m doing with my cash.”

“Opening Peter’s Place?”

“Could do. But first I intend to have a bang-up Christmas. You’ve never seen Sissinghurst in the snow. Neither have I. But I’m thinking the village needs a good Michelin two-star. With an organic potager. We might hunt for a property together.”