by Kate Forsyth
At last the abbey bells sounded out across the valley. David went at once to the kitchen garden, but there was no sign of her slim figure. He paced back and forth as the shadows grew longer. A dandelion growing in a crack in the flagstones began to close up its yellow petals. He bent and dug it up and threw it on to the garden.
‘You think it nothing but a poor weed?’ a merry voice called from behind him. ‘I’ve heard you gentlemen gardeners want nothing to do with the common old flowers anymore, only wanting strange exotics from foreign lands.’
David’s heart gave a strange thud at the sound of her voice. He turned to face her. ‘It’s just a dandelion. Called common for a reason.’
Viviane laughed. ‘Is that what you call it? Such a funny name! It’s not just a weed, though. We eat its leaves in our salads and make wine from its flowers. And I make a medicinal cordial from it to help old men pass water.’ Her look of mischief grew. ‘For here in France we call it “pissenlit”, did you know?’
David could not help grinning. ‘We call it “wet-a-bed” too, sometimes. But mainly dandelion. When it’s in seed, we call it a “fairy clock”.’
‘I like that!’ she cried in delight. ‘Do you make wishes when you blow?’
‘Yes. At least, I did when I was a boy.’
‘What did you wish for?’
‘To make my name, I suppose.’
‘Is that why you are here? To make your name creating a garden for Monsieur le Marquis?’
He nodded.
‘Do not pin your dreams to my father,’ she said in a low voice.
Her voice, her whole manner, had changed. Her hands were clasped together, her jaw clenched tight with tension.
‘Why not?’ David asked, troubled.
Viviane hesitated, then shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘Pardon. I should not have spoken so.’
‘Have you had dreams of your own quashed?’ he asked, greatly daring.
‘It is not my place to have dreams. I am a mere daughter, subject to my father’s will. It would be foolish to hope for a different kind of life. Such a thing … alors, c’est impossible.’
Her face was so sombre, David wished that he could comfort her somehow. He said gruffly, ‘My grandmother always said, “For a valiant heart, nothing is impossible.”’
She glanced up at him, her lips parted in surprise. ‘I wish that were true.’
‘Aye, well, next time you see a fairy clock, you’ll know what to wish for,’ David said, trying to lighten the moment. ‘For the impossible.’
She smiled once more. ‘Then I shall! Every single time. Shall we look for a fairy clock?’
Picking up her muslin skirt with one hand, she began to walk through the garden, her eyes on the ground. ‘Look! Here is one.’ She picked the dandelion puff, closed her eyes and blew. Delicate seeds sailed out on to the breeze. ‘I wish …’ she whispered.
‘You need to say, “Dandelion seeds away, make my wish come true some day.”’
She repeated the little rhyme, smiling.
‘Here’s another!’ David picked it and presented it to her with a little bow. She blew once more, till she stood haloed in shimmering winged seeds.
‘You will have dandelions cropping up everywhere now,’ David said.
‘That is good! More dandelions, more fairy clocks, more wishes.’
‘Well, I hope all your wishes come true,’ he said.
‘And yours too. You shall create a garden most beautiful, and so make your name and your fortune.’
‘Will you help me?’ he asked. ‘Tell me what your father likes, what will please him?’
She was silent for a moment, then said slowly, ‘My father is very proud. He likes all that is most rare and costly, so that other men might be jealous of him.’
‘Then we shall make a garden that everyone will envy,’ David said. ‘People will travel from far and wide to see it.’
Her face lit up. ‘Maybe even from other lands.’
‘From everywhere!’
‘I would like that,’ she said.
For some reason David put out his hand, as he would to a friend, as some kind of pledge or promise.
Laughing, she took it and shook it vigorously.
‘To believing in the impossible!’
4
Romance of the Rose
5 August 1788
Viviane stood on the battlements, looking out across the barren fields.
It was going to be a hard winter.
Perhaps David Stronach’s dream of a garden was the answer. They could employ the men in clearing the dead trees and tumbled stones, and rebuild something new and beautiful from the ruin.
He had expressed a desire to see the château grounds from above, so Viviane had asked Pierrick to bring him to the top of the watch-tower, on the south-eastern corner of the château. It was the only turret open to the elements. From here, one had a bird’s-eye view over the surrounding fields and forest.
She heard his quick, impatient step and turned. He came towards her eagerly, a telescope in one hand, his cocked hat tucked under his arm. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore buff breeches and a sober waistcoat under a dark blue coat cut in the English style. His eyes were a clear grey-blue, as changeable as water, and his unpowdered hair glinted with fiery bronze lights in the sunshine. He wore it tied back with a leather thong, like a peasant, but his tall boots were polished to a high shine and he wore a gold signet ring on the little finger of his left hand.
‘Bonjour, mamzelle,’ he said.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she answered.
He grinned. ‘Your English is very much better than my French, I admit, but how am I to improve if I cannot practise it?’
‘You can speak French to everyone here at Belisima but I can only practise my English on you,’ she answered. ‘So, you see, my need is greater than yours.’
‘And I must admit it’s a relief to speak in my mother tongue.’ He laid down his hat and stood with his hands braced, gazing out across the meadows. ‘What a beautiful view. I can see for miles.’
As he opened his telescope and scanned the landscape, Viviane made a little gesture to Pierrick who was standing by the door to the stairwell.
You can leave us, her gesture said.
But your great-aunt? Pierrick answered with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.
Never mind my great-aunt, go! She made a pushing motion with both hands.
La la la, you like this clodhopper! Pierrick responded, both eyebrows shooting up. He appraised the gardener with an appreciative eye. I can see why!
Go, go, she responded, smiling and blushing and shaking her head.
David glanced at her and she bent to pat Luna so he could not see her face. When she looked up, Pierrick was gone.
After a while, David dropped his telescope and said, in a neutral tone of voice, ‘The land is not in good heart.’
Viviane knew it was true. ‘The flax exhausts the soil. And it gives us the greatest return, so my father insists we continue to plant it instead of allowing the fields to lie fallow. Then he takes all the profits and does not allow us to invest it back into the land.’
He glanced at her.
She could not meet his gaze. ‘Life at court is expensive.’
He frowned. ‘Have you tried planting winter turnips? They return nourishment to the soil, and can be harvested as fodder for your animals to help them through the lean months.’
‘No,’ she answered, excitement quickening through her.
‘You will not be able to plant flax for a season after the turnips, but other crops will do well.’
She shook her head, her spirits deflating. ‘My father will not permit it.’
‘There is no profit to be made from empty fields. If we worked to fertilise the soil and planted winter crops, we can stave off hunger over the winter, and replant in the spring. Surely your father could not disapprove of that?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘But … how are we to fertilise the
soil?’
‘I’ve heard there is no place in Bretagne more than one hundred miles from the sea,’ David answered. ‘Why do we not go and harvest some seaweed?’
She gazed at him in wonderment. ‘Seaweed? Of course! Why did I not think of that?’
‘Farmers in Wales have used seaweed as fertiliser for a long time. Whenever there was a great storm, everyone would take their horse and cart down to the seashore and fork it up. I always loved to help.’
‘I’ve never been to the sea.’
‘Then you must go.’
Viviane did not answer. She knew she would never be permitted.
David went on eagerly, ‘Perhaps we could go to Saint-Malo. That is where my grandmother was born.’
‘Your grandmother is French?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, though she left France when she was only eight. Her family were linen weavers, but they fled to England to escape the king’s persecution of Protestants.’
‘Your grandmother was a Huguenot?’
‘Yes. They lost everything. She still remembers the journey from Saint-Malo to Plymouth, even though she was just a child. She thought the sea would swallow her up. She and her family found their way to Wales, and settled near Caerphilly. There were so many French there, the village was called Fleur-de-Lis.’
Viviane laughed in delight. ‘A village with a French name in Wales?’
‘Yes indeed. I suspect they couldn’t wrap their tongues around the Welsh. There are villages nearby with names like Pontnewynydd and Llanbradach and Troedyrhiw.’
Her black eyes widened comically. ‘Say those names again?’
He obeyed with gusto.
‘I will never be able to say such words,’ she declared, then spent the next few minutes trying. ‘No wonder they named their village Fleur-de-Lis,’ she said at last, limp with laughter.
‘My grandmother still has trouble speaking Welsh, even after sixty-odd years. We all grew up speaking French as much as English.’
‘We?’
‘Me and my sisters,’ David answered. ‘Ceridwen is eighteen and Angharad is twenty …’
‘One is a year younger than me and one a year older! Well, almost. I turn twenty in a few months.’
‘I think you would like Angharad. She loves animals too.’ He nudged a sleeping Luna with one boot. ‘After my grandfather lost his living, she decided to raise rabbits for the pot but then grew to love them so much she refused to let them be killed. They are the fattest, happiest rabbits you’ve ever seen.’
‘I would like her!’ Viviane exclaimed. ‘I am like that about my doves. And what about your younger sister? What is she like?’
‘Oh, she is the merriest-hearted girl you’ve ever met. Always laughing and singing and dancing about.’
‘And your parents?’
His face darkened. ‘Our parents died when I was just a boy.’
‘I am so sorry. It is hard to grow up without your parents. My mother, she died the day I was born. I never knew her. And my father … well, he lives at court and so I rarely see him.’
There was a long silence, then Viviane said softly, ‘What happened to you all after your parents died?’
‘My grandparents took us in.’
‘Which is why you speak French so well.’
He nodded. ‘That is how I got the job at the Jardin du Roi. They wanted an English gardener but had trouble finding one whose French was good enough.’
‘They got a Welshman instead of an Englishman,’ she said, smiling.
‘Well, yes. But I don’t think they know the difference. All they cared about was that I had my degree in botany …’
‘You went to the university?’ She gazed at him with eager interest. ‘Oh how I wish that I could do such a thing! But women, they are not permitted.’
‘No. Nor are grandsons of poor parsons, usually. I was lucky. The local squire was a man named Morgan and he had a son much my age named Richard. My grandfather tutored Richard for college, and Mr Morgan was happy for me to sit in the lessons too. They thought it would keep me out of trouble.’ He grinned at the memory. ‘Anyway, when Richard went off to Magdalen College in Oxford, I went with him. He studied law and I studied botany, under Humphry Sibthorp, who is famous for having taught but the one course for thirty-odd years.’
‘This Monsieur Morgan, he paid your fees? That was most kind of him.’
‘Oh yes. It made all the difference. My grandfather is not very worldly, you see. He … well, he travelled about, preaching to all the poor people in the mountains who had no church of their own. He’d preach in a field if there was no barn, and on a street corner if there was no field, and he’d teach all the poor children how to read and write, all for no pay, because he thought it the right thing to do.’
‘He sounds like a wonderful man.’
‘Oh he is! You’ve never met anyone so good! But not at all practical, I’m afraid. He displeased the church, who thought he was neglecting his own flock. They did not like him writing hymns in Welsh, or preaching on the streets, and so they cast him out of the church a few years ago.’
‘Comme c’est barbare!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, indeed. He was heartbroken. Indeed he has been blue-devilled ever since.’
She frowned. ‘Blue-devilled? This term I do not know.’
‘It means he’s had a fit of the blue devils. You know, down in the dumps.’
Her puzzlement only grew.
He laughed. ‘He’s in the doldrums, poor fellow, his heart in his boots.’
‘His heart in his boots?’ She gazed at him quizzically. ‘Are you making a joke with me?’
‘It means he’s low-spirited. Malheureux.’
‘Oh I see. I am so sorry that he is beset with these blue devils. It is very sad for him.’
‘It is. He does not know what to do with himself. And the worst thing is that my grandparents were already as poor as church mice, and have the three of us to provide for.’
‘And so you must make your fortune so that you may support them all.’
A flush rose in his lean cheeks. ‘Yes, indeed. That is why … well, that is why this job is so important. I must create something very beautiful and romantic, something your father will want to boast about.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘An enclosed rose garden … sweet-scented … with a fountain or a statue …’
‘A garden of love to celebrate my father’s wedding.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Do you mind … about your father marrying again?’
‘Not at all,’ Viviane said. ‘Particularly if it means he is no longer so deep in debt.’
‘I just need to find the right spot,’ David mused, lifting the telescope to his eye again.
Viviane looked down at the roofs of the château below. Suddenly her eyes lit up in excitement. ‘What about the outer bailey? See?’
She pointed down at a long broad strip of rough turf that ran the entire length of the château, separated from the lake by a low wall.
‘Why, that could be perfect,’ he said. ‘Would I be allowed to use it?’
‘It’s not used for much else anymore. Come, I will show you.’ She led him down through the dim stairs and corridors, Luna trotting along at her heels as usual. David looked about him with great interest, noticing the chandeliers in their muslin shrouds, the murky paintings in tarnished frames.
‘This is the banqueting hall,’ Viviane said, showing him into a long gloomy room with shuttered windows all along one side and huge damp-spotted mirrors along the other. An immense table stretched the entire length of the hall, covered with a heavy dust-cloth.
‘This room is only used when my father is in residence,’ she told him, going across to the windows and beginning to fold back the shutters so light streamed in. David went to help her. ‘It looks straight out onto the outer bailey.’
Below the windows was a long stretch of grass and weeds.
‘We could buil
d the rose garden at the heart of a maze,’ David said, his grey eyes glowing in excitement. ‘You would be able to see the shape of it clearly from up here. People could watch those who try to make their way through. We could construct it to illustrate a story, like the king did with Aesop’s Fables at Versailles.’
‘Oh yes! Ce serait merveilleux!’ Viviane cried, then her face sobered. ‘Was not the maze at Versailles ripped out, to make an English garden? My father would want to be à la mode.’
He looked at her in surprise. ‘Well, yes. That was in the days of Capability Brown, though. He removed all planned elements from a garden, wanting everything to look as natural as possible. The newest trend in English landscaping is to have three sequences of gardens. The first is inspired by formal geometry, with parterres and topiary and avenues of trees. The second is the transitional garden, with lawns and secret paths winding through groves of shrubs and trees, and vistas cut through to eye-catching landmarks, like temples or statues or fountains. The third level is the wild and the natural, with field and forest and mountain.’
As he spoke, David gestured with his hand to the view, sketching in the air how he imagined redesigning the landscape. ‘That is how the garden at the Petit Trianon is laid out, and also how the Marquis de Laborde is planning his garden at the Château de Méréville. He has employed Hubert Robert, designer of the king’s gardens, to lay out the grounds, but your father was determined to have an Englishman, as you know.’
Viviane knew that her father had a long unfriendly rivalry with the Marquis de Laborde, whom he considered an upstart and a commoner. Laborde had been born into a lowly bourgeoisie family, but had made his fortune importing sugar, rare plants and slaves. He bought himself a title and a fine estate, only to lose his château to the Duc de Penthièvre after a game of musical chairs. Laborde had simply bought himself another château and was, by all accounts, pouring money into making it the finest property in the country.
