Robin’s
Garden
by Kathleen Y’Barbo
“Let my teaching fall like rain
and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants.”
DEUTERONOMY 32:2
To Andrew for the smile and Hannah for the snap
And to Josh and Jacob just because
Chapter 1
Robin Locksley slid her hand over the torn papers and broken wires strewn across her desk and said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t been in the building when the intruders arrived. They’d come like the proverbial thieves in the night. Still, she felt as violated as if she’d let them in herself.
As befitting the docent of the Lowingham Manor gardens, her office held more books on horticulture than most libraries. Thankfully, those had been spared. Obviously the thugs did not read.
Stepping over debris, she ran her hand over the well-loved spines of Lindley’s Ladies Botany, Handbook of British Flora, and Letters on the Elements of Botany addressed to a Lady, then turned to stare at the disaster in her office. Her computer, the phone, and fax machines were all replaceable. The children’s money, however, was not.
She sighed as she rang up the Cotswolds Special Needs Day School in nearby Malmsbury. A lovely gentlewoman, Anna Lawrence had run the day school for three decades, two years longer than Robin had been alive. Thankfully Miss Lawrence answered the phone, although the school had been closed for hours.
“Dear me,” Miss Lawrence said when Robin finished her story. “So there’s nothing left?”
“No,” she whispered, waving away Nigel Sudbury, the elderly chief of security who stood in her office doorway. “I’m sorry but everything in the safe was taken, including the money intended for the children’s trip.”
During the brief silence that followed, Robin watched Nigel shrug and disappear down the hall. She’d obviously offended him with the dismissal, and she’d have to make amends later.
“I suppose I will have to tell the children,” Miss Lawrence finally said. “It won’t be easy. They worked so hard.”
Robin’s heart sank at the thought of the disappointment the loss of their Seeds of Love fund would cause. After all, these special and amazing mentally challenged children had put in so many long hours in the garden to raise the fruits and vegetables that had provided the cash. It had taken them the better part of two years to reach the lofty goal of paying for summer camp.
How could she now tell them their efforts had been in vain? Surely something could be arranged to replace the money.
“Would it be possible to delay the announcement?” Robin asked, nursing the gem of an idea as she toyed with the telephone cord. “Perhaps the money will be returned.”
“I suppose,” the older woman said slowly. “But do you honestly believe this?”
“I believe the Lord can make good from any circumstances,” Robin said as she thought of the precious students who made weekly trips to the castle for gardening and fun. “If the Lord wishes those children to go, He will see that it happens.”
“Indeed,” Miss Lawrence said, “but you understand time is of the essence. The deposit has been made, and the remainder is due within the week.”
Robin forced a smile to her voice. “Then perhaps we should both pray for Him to hurry.”
Miss Lawrence chuckled. “Dare we?”
Again an almost ludicrous idea surfaced. The useless medieval longbow hanging above her mantel might be worth something after all. Father deemed it priceless, an heirloom passed from father to son since the first Locksley took it into battle at Hedgeley Moor in 1464. Scholars from nearby Oxford had authenticated it as one of only six remaining longbows from the Renaissance period.
She just called it ugly.
Its wood, a primitive yew, was rough and gnarled, and it looked positively ghastly hanging over the lovely Laura Ashley floral wallpaper she’d splurged on when she first moved into the flat. More than once she’d considered hanging the horrid thing back in the rafters of the barn where it had been hidden during the last world war.
Of course, as much as she disliked the piece, she’d never think of allowing it to leave the family. At least not permanently.
But perhaps a certain discreet antiquities dealer in London might give her a brief loan on it—just until the children’s money could be returned by the magistrate.
Among her former circle of friends, the Simpton-Wright Gallery in the Notting Hill district was often called upon as the solution for overextended persons of a certain social strata with temporary cash flow problems. At any given time, his Portobello Road shop was filled to the sixteenth-century rafters with treasures gone unredeemed by the gentry.
But she wouldn’t have to worry about the bow landing in the shop window. The magistrate’s office would have the children’s money returned to her by then, and the bow would be safely back above her fireplace—or perhaps safely tucked back into the protective custody of the barn.
“Miss Lawrence,” Robin said with renewed confidence, “I’ll ring you tomorrow with something a bit more definite, but perhaps there is another way.”
“Dear,” the other woman said slowly, “do I detect a ray of hope?”
The ray of hope followed Robin on her visit to the castle gardens. It settled into something more when she shucked her office attire in favor of dungarees, soft leather gloves, and her most comfortable straw hat to dig in the fertile soil of the walled in area the children had named Robin’s Garden.
Tomorrow the boys and girls, all fourteen of them, would descend and utter chaos would reign, but today only the occasional bird’s call interrupted the peace. Robin attacked a particularly rocky patch of ground at the edge of the garden with her hoe and listened with satisfaction as metal dashed against soil in rapid succession.
The muscles in her arms began to burn, and despite the moderate temperature, a trickle of perspiration made a path down the center of her back. Still she continued to hack away at the contrary soil, forcing it into submission as she tried to do the same with her worries.
Too soon they caught up with her in the form of the security chief she’d so easily dismissed earlier. Ignoring him proved impossible when he settled onto the low stone wall enclosing the garden, adjusted his frayed jockey’s cap, and began to whistle.
According to castle legend, Nigel Sudbury had been quite a successful jockey in his day, and a hit with the ladies as well. While he still retained his slight frame and the hat and silks he’d worn in victory as well as the rare defeat, his skills as a ladies’ man were long past.
For that matter, his skills with anyone left something to be desired, although Robin had long since learned to overlook his eccentricities most of the time. Any other day, perhaps she might have found the security chief a welcome distraction. Today, however, the man who perpetually wore tweed with his racing silks was the last person with whom she wanted to speak.
For that matter, she really hadn’t planned to speak to anyone but the Lord until she had her problems firmly in hand. One look at Sudbury, however, and she knew he’d planned a long visit.
Robin stabbed the hoe into the ground and leaned against the wooden shaft. “Good day, Mr. Sudbury,” she said as she wiped her brow with the back of her gloved hand. “I trust you’ve brought news.”
“Aye, indeed I have.” He removed an ancient pipe from his pocket and proceeded to tamp a spot of tobacco into the bowl. “And ’tis news you’ll be liking.” Watery blue eyes looked up from his task. A smile tugged at his ancient lips and twisted into full form.
Irritation worked at her manners, causing her to wish she’d not been taught to respect her elders. Finally, when she realized he would say nothing more without prod
ding, she gave in. “And the news you’ve brought would be what?”
He looked up at her through the thick silver fringe of his eyebrows and winked. “The demons have been snagged, Lass. Caught ’em halfway t’Milford Haven.”
In a split second Nigel Sudbury’s stock had risen dramatically. Robin grasped the old man’s hand and shook it with vigor. Tiny specks of tobacco ash landed like confetti on Sudbury’s tweed trousers and marked several spots on the brilliant gold stripe of the racing jersey he preferred on Mondays.
“That’s marvelous,” she said. “Simply marvelous. Now the children will have their trip to camp after all.” Robin lifted her eyes to the pale gray sky. “Thank You, Lord, for Your bounteous mercy.” Ignoring Sudbury’s harumph, she offered a smile instead. “When will the money be returned?”
The security chief slipped the pipe between his teeth and lit it. The warm vanilla smell of Sudbury’s favorite tobacco drifted toward Robin as the old man crossed his legs and made himself more comfortable.
“Never said it would be returned. Only said they found it.”
Her heart sank. “Oh,” she managed as she yanked the hoe out of the ground and picked at the clumps of mud on the blade. “I’d hoped things would move swiftly once the criminals were detained.”
“Now, don’t you worry.” He removed the pipe and inspected the tobacco in the bowl, then fished a slip of paper out of his jacket pocket and thrust the paper in her direction. “These things generally settle quick enough.”
“Do they?” Robin pushed her straw hat back farther on her head and squinted to decipher the old man’s scrawl. After a moment, she had the name and telephone number.
“Told ’em you’d ring forthwith to claim your money.”
“Of course.” She stared at the paper and allowed her hopes to take flight. Dare she believe the Lord had actually answered her prayers as quickly as she’d wanted? “I’ve need of the money for the children in less than a week.”
Sudbury rose from his spot atop the wall and chuckled as he emptied the contents of the pipe onto the marigolds. “Lass, nothing’s done in a week,” he said. “Takes that long t’fill out the paperwork.”
“Oh dear.”
“Rest assured, Miss Locksley,” Sudbury said. “You’ll see your money in due time.” He straightened his cap and looked off toward the east. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment, although why the earl insists on a specialist, I haven’t the foggiest.”
“What sort of specialist, Mr. Sudbury?”
He frowned. “Some Yank. Private security man or some sort of rot, and a waste of time if you ask me.”
“I see.” The wind kicked up and threatened to lift her hat. “Before you go, could you venture a guess as to how long the authorities will hold the children’s money?”
“Expect a fortnight.” Sudbury tucked the pipe into the pocket of his jacket and shook his head. “Anything less’ll be a miracle. Take that up with Him, not me.” He stuck his chin upward toward the heavens.
Robin smiled and clapped her hands together to loosen the dirt on her gloves. “Thank you, Mr. Sudbury. I believe I shall.”
As soon as Sudbury had ambled off, Robin did as he suggested and landed on her knees in the fertile English soil to thank the Lord. She rose and dusted off the knees of her overalls, then cast a final glance at the garden. Overhead the sky had begun to darken and rain threatened, but conversely, her mood had lightened considerably.
Her stomach grumbled a protest as she walked back to the storage room to put away the hoe and her gloves, and she thought of the remaining bit of shepherd’s pie in the staff kitchen. While Mr. Sudbury kept the staff in confusion as to what he actually did around the manor, Mrs. Sudbury’s talents left no room for question. Her job was being the best cook that had ever graced the Lowingham Manor kitchens.
Shoving the gloves into place on the shelf above the tools, Robin dropped her hat atop it and cast one last glance at the disgraceful appearance of her clothing. Dare she appear in the office this unkempt?
“Perhaps it’s not so bad,” she said, turning the new shovel around to its shiny side.
In the shovel’s reflection, corkscrew curls in a horrid shade of red shot out at odd angles, and what little style she’d managed to put into her hair had long since fallen. Her very proper mother would have called her a fright. Quickly Robin put the offending shovel away before her image in it became any clearer.
“All right, so I looked abysmal,” she said under her breath as she closed the shed door soundly behind her. “But fashionable or not, a girl’s still got to eat something.”
And that something absolutely, positively had to be shepherd’s pie a la Sudbury.
Outside the sky rumbled along with her empty stomach and the first few drops of rain began to splatter the stone walkway. Still the pie beckoned. A quick glance at her watch told her that all but the most foolhardy staff members should be home at their hearths by now.
The hearty potato and meat pie couldn’t be good for her hips. Better she dine on salad and a slice of crusty bread. She jammed a fallen hairpin back into her unruly mop and tried to think. Two more pins fell out and landed at her feet, where she left them without a second thought.
Suddenly the smell of rain in the air rearranged and became the scent of savory roast and creamy white potatoes. If she left off the sugar from her tea, perhaps the savings would make up for the difference.
Weak as a lamb in the face of her desire for Mrs. Sudbury’s heavenly concoction, she strode quickly across the courtyard and pressed the ancient doors to the former gatekeeper’s house where the staff offices were currently situated. The low rumble of men’s voices rolled along the thick walls toward her, so she quickly slipped into the stairwell leading to the south tower.
“No, it’s quite the mystery. Nothing’s amiss in the manor house and the staff apartments. Even the more rare pieces were left untouched,” she heard Sudbury say as two pair of footsteps came closer. “Only the cash and computers were taken. Of course, the demons did substantial damage in the process.” He chuckled. “Looks like London after the war, if I do say so.”
Deep laughter echoed down the hall and bounced around the bell tower entrance. “So they passed on the real treasures and went for the replaceable items?”
The voice, lower than Sudbury’s by an octave, sounded slow as molasses and nearly as sweet. Instantly Robin thought of the American actors she’d seen at the cinema. When the stranger spoke again, Rhett Butler came to mind and stuck there.
“Frankly, Mr. Sudbury,” Rhett said, “I’d hoped you would offer. I know in my line of work I’m not supposed to play favorites, but I’ve got a soft spot for medieval weapons. Imagine being able to document the ownership back nearly six centuries. But then I suppose that’s. . .”
The Yank’s voice faded and somewhere nearby a door closed. Robin peered around the corner and found the hall clear. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Surely a proper English lady like herself wouldn’t dare slink around like a common criminal, especially when there were visitors about. Logic and good breeding told her to take the nearest exit and the walk to the safety of her apartment above the mews.
Hunger, however, drove her to square her shoulders and start for the staff kitchen. Rounding the corner she pressed as close to the wall as she could in her race to the last door on the left. Twice, she looked back over her shoulder to make certain she hadn’t been spotted.
Finally, with the door in sight, she slowed to a walk and breathed a sigh of relief. Then the doors crashed open, and she ran directly into a wall of denim and black leather. The last thing she saw before the lights went out was two red-haired Medusas reflected in a pair of silver mirrored sunglasses.
Chapter 2
Robin shook her head, and the leather-clad image swirled and faded, replaced by a sharp pain centered directly above her left eyebrow. Somehow she rose of her own accord, pulled to her feet by a strong tug.
> “What happened?” she muttered as she extricated herself from the stranger’s grasp and took an inventory of the damages. Other than her pride, she seemed to be intact and no worse for wear. Who would have thought a simple wish for shepherd’s pie would end in such a kerfuffle?
“It was my fault, Ma’am.” The Yank folded his mirrored frames and slid them into the pocket of his jacket. Startling blue eyes twinkled with what looked like amusement. “I get in a hurry sometimes. Bad habit of mine.”
Stunned, Robin reached for the hairpin that dangled near her nose and pushed the tangled mass of hair away from her face. Somehow, though her hands shook, she managed to capture her curls into some semblance of order. As she stared at the stranger, a memory danced nearer. She pressed it away and jabbed the hairpin into the thick of her ponytail.
“Miss Locksley, this is the specialist,” Sudbury said, jangling his outrageously large key ring. “Meet Mr. Gentry.”
The American thrust a hand toward her. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Locksley.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, Mr. Gentry.” Robin clasped his hand in what she hoped would pass as a firm handshake while she cast about for an exit from the unpleasant scene.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said. “And call me Travis.”
The words flowed warm as honey and curled into a tight ball in Robin’s stomach. Her empty stomach. Some-how, even after the collision and corresponding headache, she still felt famished. But mostly, she felt quite the fool.
“Lass, are you ill?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Sudbury,” she lied. Her gaze collided with the Yank’s, and her knees threatened to give way. Strange, this silliness she felt. Must be for want of Mrs. Sudbury’s pie.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want Sudbury to fetch a doctor?”
Again the man’s voice did strange things to her insides. Again, she blamed it on being totally humiliated and completely famished.
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