by Ruth Axtell
The remaining lawns had sheep grazing over them. “He introduced the merino sheep from Spain to improve our British strain.”
“Farmer George,” Captain Forrester quipped.
“Yes, he has earned the reputation with his serious hobby of agriculture. Thanks to his patronage, botany as a field of study has flourished in the latter part of the last century and into this. It is sad that he fell ill. The queen still comes out to the palace, but she is getting older and is not as active as she used to be in oversight of the gardens.” Mr. Marfleet sighed. “The regent does not take an interest in plants and farming. If it weren’t for Sir Banks and a few other botanists, we would lose the ground we’ve gained over the last decades.”
“I suppose it’s hard for people to understand why exotic plants should matter,” Jessamine ventured, “unless you are a gardener.”
Mr. Marfleet nodded down at her. “Yes. They little appreciate how much the king has done to promote the farming of some of these exotic crops to raise the income of the British. Tea, indigo, coffee all bring in revenue to British coffers and create new millionaires every day.”
“On the backs of slaves,” she added involuntarily, accustomed to hearing her father’s views on this.
“Yes,” he agreed sadly. “But that will end someday. It must.” There was quiet conviction to his words.
They continued walking along paths that bisected lawns and wound through copses.
“How long is the garden?” Megan asked.
“Almost a mile in length. Of course, we’re traveling a longer distance since the paths are meandering. Are you getting tired?” Mr. Marfleet asked in solicitude. “There are many places we can stop and rest awhile.”
“Not at all.”
“We are almost at the end where there is a Chinese pagoda. It’s quite tall, and if you are up to it, we can climb to the top. It affords quite a view, especially with the day being so clear.”
“I would love to climb it.”
They soon arrived at the tower, which rose up from a stand of evergreen trees. Jessamine craned her neck up the red brick tower, whose octagonal sides seemed to diminish with each story. “How tall is it?”
“Ten stories.” Each story was separated by an overhanging slate eave.
As they approached it, she could smell the piney resin of the trees surrounding it. “What kind of trees are these?” she asked.
“Cedars of Lebanon.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And their official name?”
“It has not been classified separately from other cedars as yet as far as I know, only of the family Pinaceae, genus Cedrus.”
“I see,” she said meekly and followed the others as they entered the tall narrow tower.
They were breathless by the time they reached the top, but the climb was worth their while. They could see for miles around.
“That is London, is it not?” Megan pointed to the hazy distance where a denser cluster of buildings could be made out.
Jessamine leaned against the elaborate red woodwork balcony and looked over undulating green fields and woods, the curving Thames snaking through the landscape.
When they finally returned to the ground, Mr. Marfleet looked for the coachman. He found him with the barouche in a shady spot between some fields just at the edge of the park. He brought back the hamper, and they chose a nice spot on a wide swath of lawn near some thick shrubbery that afforded them privacy. They had seen other small groups of people walking about the grounds, but the park was so vast that they felt isolated from them.
“What about the coachman?” she asked.
“He is going to a local hostelry to have some lunch.”
He was mindful of others, Jessamine noted.
“I am famished,” Megan announced, peeking into the basket as soon as Mr. Marfleet had opened it.
“That’s good. I told our cook to pack a lunch for four, and I know she tends to err on the side of too much food rather than too little.”
“May I help you set things out?” she asked.
“Be my guest. I am not an expert on setting out a repast although I ate my share of meals en plein air while I was in India.”
Jessamine joined Megan as soon as he’d given her leave, and the two quickly set out all the array of foods. “Goodness, there is enough to feed a small militia here.”
Captain Forrester and Mr. Marfleet had already spread out a cloth and now took the dishes and packets of food that she and Megan handed them. “I say keep them coming, I’m as famished as you sound, Miss Phillips,” Captain Forrester joked. “I had naught but a cup of coffee before you collected me this morning.”
“May I say a blessing?” Mr. Marfleet asked when they had settled down with their portions, ranging from thick sandwiches to cooked eggs, small custards, fruit, and cheeses.
“Of course.” The captain immediately sat attentive as Jessamine and Megan bowed their heads.
“Thank You, Lord, for this bounty, not only of the food and refreshment but for allowing us to partake of this beautiful park, to enjoy Your creation. Thank You for the company. Please bless this food to our bodies’ use in the name of Your Son, Jesus. Amen.”
“Amen,” they echoed softly then dug into their food.
They didn’t speak much for a while, too hungry to talk. As their hunger was sated, Captain Forrester began to throw crumbs to nearby birds and squirrels.
Mr. Marfleet lay back and closed his eyes. Jessamine toyed with the rest of her food. She was glad she’d come. She sneaked a peek at Mr. Marfleet. He looked so relaxed in his pose. She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. He had worn his spectacles, but with his eyes closed, she noticed the length of his eyelashes. They were pale red, matching his eyebrows.
She started and looked away. It would not do to have him suddenly open his eyes and find her staring at him.
She brushed off the crumbs from her skirt and threw the remains of her bread crusts to the birds, then began to collect the things.
Megan helped her, and soon they had put everything back in the basket. Mr. Marfleet had sat up. “You should have told me. I didn’t expect you to clean everything up.”
Megan laughed. “We are used to helping out at home. After all, I’m just a cit, don’t forget, and Jessamine is but a poor vicar’s daughter.”
Captain Forrester said immediately, “Well, you both outrank me, who am nothing but an orphan rescued from the streets.” He spoke the words simply as if unashamed of his origins. “It’s only by God’s grace that I have anything to call my own at the ripe old age of seven-and-twenty and can appear as a gentleman.”
Jessamine stole a look at Mr. Marfleet. “It seems you are the only one of gentle birth among us.”
“And if he’s gone off to India as missionary,” Megan put in, “he has lived poorer than any of us.”
They laughed. “He’s the only saint among us then,” the captain added.
“Saint Marfleet.” Megan bowed her head his way.
Mr. Marfleet looked truly pained at the joke. “Please, I’m no saint.”
Jessamine’s heart squeezed with compassion. She knew what it was like as a vicar’s daughter to be expected to be “good.” “Why don’t we continue our tour? I don’t know about all of you, but I need to walk off some of this food. It seems we’ve only seen one side of the park.” She inquired of Mr. Marfleet, “What about the other side?”
He looked at her with gratitude, and she felt a spurt of pleasure well up in her chest. She turned away, not wanting to feel more than a casual goodwill toward him.
15
Lancelot stared at Miss Barry, sensing her withdrawal. Up to that moment, she’d seemed so amiable. He had not dreamed the outing to Kew would go so well. She was all he could desire in a companion, enjoying the plants and trees as much as he.
As the others teased him about being a saint, she was the one who’d sensed how uncomfortable the undeserved praise made him. But when he’d tried to convey his thanks, she’d turned a
way from him.
“There is a very nice walk along the river—the remains of Capability Brown’s landscaping,” he told them, attempting to regain her interest in the tour of the park.
As they displayed their willingness to continue the walk, he picked up the basket and took it back to the barouche. When he returned, they continued on their way. This time the walk led them through a thicker wood. In a clearing the ladies both gasped at the sight of a timbered Elizabethan cottage with a thatched roof.
“This is Queen Charlotte’s cottage,” he told them. “The king had it built for her in the middle of the last century.”
It was fenced off from the public so they enjoyed the field of bluebells growing in a sunny meadow surrounding it. Butterflies fluttered among the flowers, and bees hovered over the blue mass.
Lancelot then led them to a path along the banks of the Thames. “This is called the Hollow Walk. It will take us back to where we began, where we can finish our day with a tour of the botanical gardens.”
“What a perfect time of year to visit Kew,” Miss Barry said, admiring the profusion of white blossoms covering a thick laurel hedge along the path.
“Yes. I enjoy it any time of year, but for an avid gardener, spring and early summer are best, I must admit.”
Miss Phillips and Captain Forrester moved ahead of them on the path, and Lancelot began to relax again, seeing Miss Barry’s enjoyment in her surroundings.
After a few moments of companionable silence, he glanced sidelong at her. “You are enjoying yourself?”
“I can’t think of a better day I’ve had since arriving in London.”
He was gratified by her words, which seemed heartfelt. Without thinking, he patted her hand in the crook of his arm. “I’m glad. It’s worth more than one visit. There is too much to see for one day.”
“I can well believe that.”
His hopes rose that perhaps she would agree to come with him again, though he remained silent for now.
They arrived at the unfinished castle they had seen from across the river and rejoined Miss Phillips and Captain Forrester, who were standing admiring it. “How sad to see it so empty,” Miss Phillips said. “It could be from a gothic novel.”
“The Prince Regent has not been interested in completing the palace his father started some years ago,” Lancelot explained.
“I’m afraid the government isn’t disposed to spend any more money on palaces, not when we were at war so many years,” Captain Forrester said. “Carlton House and the Royal Pavilion have strained the national coffers sufficiently.”
“I’ve heard the king already spent a hundred thousand pounds on this one,” Lancelot added.
The captain whistled.
“It’s a good thing there are sheep around to keep the grass tidy,” Miss Phillips said as they turned away from the lonely castle. “Imagine how forlorn it would appear if the yard around it were left to wrack and ruin.”
Next they passed a pair of red-coated soldiers standing guard at a small gatehouse in front of Kew Palace, the three-story red brick structure with three Dutch gables across the roof. “There’s a pretty formal garden at the rear, but it is for the queen’s private enjoyment,” Lancelot told them as they paused to admire the palace a moment.
They had made a full tour of the park and now arrived at a brick-walled area.
“The physic garden and arboretum are in there,” Lancelot said. “If you are not too tired, I can give you a tour and show you some of the exotic plants. There are over five thousand specimens, many started from the seeds brought back from all over the world.”
They marveled at the number.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“As amazing as that sounds,” Captain Forrester said with a smile, “I should very much like to see this Archimedes’ screw you were telling us about earlier. I feel if I’ve seen one tree, I’ve seen them all.” His grin broadened. “You may be an amateur botanist, but I fancy myself a frustrated engineer. I find it fascinating that all these gardens are watered by this one pump.”
Feeling a sense of relief that he would be able to show the botanical gardens to Miss Barry alone, Lancelot pointed to the east. “It is over that way, not far from the orangery we passed.”
Captain Forrester turned to Miss Phillips. “Care to accompany me, or do you prefer the exotic plants in the physic garden?”
“I shall accompany you to this engineering marvel, and perhaps we can still see some of the gardens before we leave?” She lifted an inquiring brow to Lancelot.
He agreed readily. “I shall inform the gardener on duty to allow you entry. I’d be glad to show you the most valuable species before we go.”
The afternoon had waned, and Lancelot knew they needed to be getting back in the next hour or so. As soon as Captain Forrester and Miss Phillips had walked off, Lancelot led Miss Barry to the walled garden area.
He spoke to an older man at the gate who greeted him in recognition and waved them through with a curious look at Miss Barry.
She stopped as soon as they’d entered the garden. “It’s enormous! I never imagined . . .” Her gaze roamed over neat beds of labeled plants. “I’ve never seen botanical gardens so immense.”
He felt almost a pride of ownership. “The biggest in the world to my knowledge, though the Germans have started a garden to rival it. This one is about nine acres.”
“Goodness, we’ll scarcely get to see a portion of it.”
“We can always come back,” he said, warmed with the notion of returning with her.
“Oh yes, I should like that.”
Encouraged by her enthusiasm, he began walking toward the beds. “I thought you might like to see how decorative the herbs are.”
They walked along the paths between the beds. She stooped down to peer at the various metal plaques stuck in the soil, though the names were all in Latin. She’d worn her spectacles on this outing—a fact he had refrained from commenting on but which had pleased him. It showed him she was interested in seeing everything clearly and that she did not feel embarrassed wearing them in front of him.
She stopped before a bush with spindly yellow flowers. “Hamamelis virginiana.”
“Witch hazel from the American colonies.”
She touched a rough leaf. “Yes, I recognize it.”
Many of the herbs were beginning to flower; others had the fresh, bright shoots of new growth. There were a couple of weathered wooden benches beneath some apple and crabapple trees.
But she ignored these and continued examining the different plants. “Seeing so many varieties puts my own herb garden back home to shame. We have but the most ordinary herbs.”
“You don’t have the advantage of having world travelers bringing back every species they find.”
She smiled and conceded his point.
“It’s a pity I can’t show you the physic garden in Chelsea. It, too, has a fine collection.” He wrinkled his brow. “Unfortunately, ladies are not permitted to enter its hallowed acreage.”
She made a face. “How archaic. Is it run by monks?”
“No, just men of science,” he said with a smile.
“I would think they would be more progressive.”
“Perhaps not in everything.” When she returned his smile, he said, “Would you like to see some of the things Dr. Banks has brought back?”
“Oh yes.”
“We’ll go to the arboretum portion of the gardens just beyond the Temple of the Sun over there.”
She scarcely spared a glance at the round, colonnaded Grecian temple with a domed roof, her attention on the various trees and shrubs planted beyond it.
“Here is something your father would doubtless recognize.” He stopped at a flowering bush. “Paeonia moutan, tree peony, a native bush of China first introduced to England from one of the first collectors commissioned by Dr. Banks at the end of the last century.”
“It’s beautiful.” She touched one of its large pink blossoms so like a ca
bbage rose.
“It has become very popular in Europe since its introduction.”
“I can well believe it. My father has planted several bushes.”
They examined the varieties around them. “They have followed a very scientific arrangement of plants as you may have noticed, the different species of the same genus and family arranged together,” he pointed out to her.
“Yes, I noticed that in the herbarium.”
“Here is another ornamental bush. Hydrangea hortensis. First named by Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus and brought over from Japan by another of Banks’s collectors, in the late 1780s.”
She smiled at the beautiful pink clusters. “I adore hydrangeas. We have one in our garden, though we must protect it from the cold.”
“Yes, they cover this one in winter.” He motioned her forward. “Come, there are more plants in the glasshouses.” They reached the first greenhouse and he held the door open for her.
He showed her the pretty pink flowers of the fuchsia first introduced by Banks, as well as other plants from New Holland and New Zealand from the voyage of Captain Cook.
“This is one of the most exotic looking, Strelitzia reginae, or bird of paradise.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, gingerly touching one of its sharp, pointed leaves. “It truly looks like a waterbird ready to take off in flight.”
He enjoyed watching her pleasure at each new exotic plant. It was like seeing them for the first time himself.
Eager to see her reaction to one of Sir Banks’s most illustrious acquisitions, he led her to the glasshouse that was full of pools of water.
She looked around in wonder. “Are they water lilies?”
He smiled at what most people surmised when they first saw these waxy, pale, pinkish-white flowers floating on the water among lush green foliage. “I saw many of these in India. They call it the ‘sacred bean.’”
