Love in an English Garden

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Need a gardener?’

  She laughed at his opening line. ‘I need one, but I can’t afford one.’

  ‘Jonathan,’ he said, holding out a big strong hand. ‘Jonathan Dacre.’

  ‘Vanessa.’

  He nodded. ‘You live up at Orley Court.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘Not officially, but I’ve visited your gardens a few times on open days. They’re wonderful.’

  ‘They’re overgrown,’ she said. ‘We used to have a full-time gardener but we – we don’t anymore.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s a lot of work. We get by with a part-timer who mows the lawn and trims the yew hedges, but it isn’t the same. I feel so guilty that the place just doesn’t look its best these days. I’m sorry I can’t offer you work. Good luck, though.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Vanessa opened the shop door and was just about to enter when the man spoke again.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘maybe we could be of some use to each other.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve got a group I work with twice a week. Our current project’s just coming to an end and we need something new to tackle.’

  ‘They’re horticultural students?’

  ‘Er, not exactly.’

  Vanessa frowned.

  ‘They’re’ – he stopped as if gauging her likely response – ‘young offenders.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Vanessa said.

  ‘I need to find a project for them. There are a lot of gardens around here, but most of them are too small or the owners – well – they wouldn’t exactly welcome us. They’re hard-working youngsters who just need a bit of guidance and some inspiration.’ He paused and Vanessa realised that he was waiting for her response.

  ‘Right,’ she said again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jonathan said, ‘it’s a lot to ask.’

  ‘No, no – I admire what you’re doing, I really do. If everybody ignored these problems and didn’t help then where would the world be?’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said.

  ‘It’s just that – well – Orley is a delicate place.’ She grimaced. ‘Delicate’s not the right word. It’s—’

  ‘A house stuffed full of valuables?’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Yes!’ Vanessa gave an embarrassed laugh.

  ‘I totally understand your reservations, but I would hold myself personally responsible for my team. I work with an ex-policeman and we monitor the group at all times, and I’m insured for any damage done. Not that there’s ever any damage,’ he quickly added. ‘And, of course, we’d be based in the garden, so nowhere near the house.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Vanessa said, ‘this is all so unexpected. I only came out for a book of stamps.’

  He grinned. ‘It’s a lot to spring on you. Why don’t you have a think about it? I’ve got a card.’ He reached into the pocket of his gilet and brought out a small business card with a muddy fingerprint across the back. ‘Sorry. Occupational hazard.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it from him.

  He nodded. ‘I’ll – er – leave you to your stamps. It was nice meeting you.’

  ‘You too,’ Vanessa said, watching as he walked towards a beaten-up old van.

  ‘Mr Dacre!’ She wasn’t sure what caused her to shout the way she did, but she had the strangest sensation that she shouldn’t let this man walk out of her life – that there was something about this meeting that was meant to be.

  ‘Why don’t you come out to Orley?’ she said, shutting the shop door and crossing the pavement towards him.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Have a look around. See what you think?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I am. I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Great.’ He gave her a wonderfully warm smile.

  She watched him drive away and then wheeled her bicycle onto the road and began the ride back home.

  It wasn’t until she caught the first golden glimpse of Orley that she realised she’d forgotten to buy her stamps.

  Chapter 7

  Laurence was so cross with himself. He’d upset Tilda, hadn’t he? He hadn’t meant to; he’d only meant to encourage her because it was strikingly obvious to him that she was an incredibly talented young woman. But he’d obviously hit a nerve and brought back nothing but bad memories for her. Whatever had happened must have been pretty traumatising for her to write off all thoughts of giving the business another go, and how he wished there was something he could do about it.

  After making a quick call to a new client, Laurence left his rooms and went to see how his father was getting on, but there was no reply when he knocked on the door.

  ‘Dad?’ he called as he went into the living room. The chair was empty and his father’s book was lying on the windowsill. He called again and checked the bedroom, but Marcus wasn’t there. For a moment, Laurence looked at the sparsely furnished room and wished that his dad had come antique shopping with him. There was just a bed and a wardrobe and a little nightstand, which Laurence walked towards now. Sitting on top of it was a guidebook to South America and a small round photo frame. Laurence swallowed hard as he took in the smiling face of his mother, Tara. It was a pre-Laurence photograph and he had no idea where or exactly when it had been taken, but he knew that it had travelled all around the world with his father like some kind of talisman, crossing seas and oceans with him.

  After his father had taken up a position with the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall, he’d worked long hours away from home, but it was a definite improvement on his deployments while part of the Royal Navy and he’d been home for weekends. Laurence remembered with affection the time his parents had spent in the garden together. Tara had always been begging Marcus to take early retirement, but he’d loved his job too much. Was that something he regretted now, Laurence wondered, that he hadn’t spent more time with his wife?

  He’d retired shortly before her death, but it had been too late then. It was a bleak and desperate year after she died. Marcus had been paralysed with grief and Laurence took some time off work to be with him, moving into the house in Kent and helping to sort things out. His father hadn’t said a word – not about anything important anyway – and Laurence had the feeling that he was holding something back. But what?

  ‘What happened, Mum?’ he asked the photograph, wishing that, somehow, she could tell him. At that moment, he sincerely believed he had as much chance hearing it from his mother as he did from his father.

  Laurence retraced his steps, grabbed his coat and headed outside. The sun had come out and it was possible that his father had taken a walk. Or maybe he was pottering around the garden somewhere. He did hope so. One of the reasons Laurence had wanted his dad to move to Orley with him was because of the beautiful gardens. He hoped that Marcus would show an interest in them and that they would work alongside each other like they’d used to do.

  It was as Laurence was walking through the north garden that he heard a car coming up the driveway and he soon saw that it was Tilda.

  ‘Hello,’ he said as she got out of the car.

  Tilda turned around; her long hair was loose and blowing back from her face in the light breeze and the sight almost took his breath away. She really was a beautiful young woman.

  ‘Did you want something?’

  A beautiful young woman who was always on the defensive, he thought.

  ‘I’ve been looking for my dad. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him, have you?’

  ‘No. I’ve been out.’

  ‘Of course,’ Laurence said. ‘I guess it’s going to be harder keeping tabs on him here than in our old flat.’

  ‘Do you need to keep tabs on him?’

  Laurence was surprised by the question. ‘Well, I don’t suppose . . .’ He looked around as if trying to spot him. ‘I guess I like to know where he is.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if I see him.’


  ‘Thanks.’ He watched as she retrieved her bag from the car. ‘Listen, I wanted to apologise for before.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You were nothing but kind to me – coming shopping and helping me choose pieces for my rooms. It was really nice of you.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘But then I went and upset you.’

  ‘You didn’t upset me.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I . . .’ she paused. ‘I overreacted.’

  ‘It’s been eating me up,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t let it worry you,’ she told him. ‘It’s just that I don’t like talking about that part of my past now. Ancient history.’

  ‘Right,’ Laurence said. But it obviously wasn’t ancient history because he could see the pain etched across her face and the echo of it in her eyes at the mere mention of the subject. Her ancient history was still very much a part of her present, wasn’t it?

  ‘I was thinking about doing some gardening,’ he blurted.

  ‘Really?’ She gave him a look as if to say, why are you telling me this?

  ‘But our north garden isn’t great for growing things, is it?’

  ‘What do you want to grow?’

  He shrugged. ‘Thought I might try my hand at cabbages.’

  ‘Cabbages?’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ he said, remembering how proud his father used to be at growing produce for the dining table. ‘I envy you that walled garden. I don’t suppose you’d want to sell me that, would you?’

  Tilda looked at him aghast. ‘No!’ she cried.

  ‘Or a portion of it, perhaps? What about half? I could probably run to ten thousand pounds.’

  Tilda’s eyes were nearly out on stalks. ‘Ten thousand—’ she stopped. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s not for sale. You can’t just wave your London money around and expect us to want to sell.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, holding his hands up, acknowledging defeat. ‘But let me know if you change your mind.’

  ‘I think we’ve sold you every last bit of Orley that you’re going to get,’ she said, locking her car and making her way to the front of the house. Laurence fell into step beside her.

  ‘Just as well, really. I haven’t got my business running properly yet. I’d better stop furniture shopping and wondering whether to grow cabbages and start thinking about getting some clients. Know anyone who needs a financial consultant?’

  Tilda gave a little smile. ‘You could advertise in the shop window in Elhurst.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘I’m totally serious. Everyone knows that all the best businesses advertise there. It’s how I started my piano teaching.’

  Laurence smiled back. ‘I’ll get a postcard written at once.’

  ‘See you later,’ she said as they walked into the house and she disappeared into the living room in the south wing.

  Once again, Laurence wondered if he’d been too pushy with Tilda, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. The idea for the walled garden had just occurred to him. It would be such a fabulous project for him and his father to tackle together. But perhaps they could make something of their more modest and challenging north garden.

  What Tilda had said had made him reel inside too. He did just think that he could wave his London money around and get what he wanted. He’d been wrong to do that and he’d been wrong to think that money could automatically buy him and his father a little bit of their past back. It couldn’t, could it? And buying the north wing wasn’t necessarily going to make his father suddenly open up to him, was it?

  When Laurence got back to the north wing, he noticed his father’s boots in the hall.

  ‘Dad?’ he called, walking into his father’s living room. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where?’

  ‘Just around the garden.’

  ‘Really? I was out there myself just now and didn’t see you.’

  ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Yes. I’d – I’d really like to talk to you sometime.’

  Marcus frowned. ‘What about?’

  Laurence took a deep breath, dreading saying the words and yet knowing that he had to. ‘You know what about.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘Dad, there’s everything to talk about. You’ve never told me what happened that night. Not fully. Where was Mum going? Why was she on that road at that time? All I’ve got is the police report and it’s not good enough. I’ve waited for you to tell me, given you space and time. I’ve been patient until I can’t take it anymore. I need to know, Dad! You owe me.’

  His father glared at him. ‘I owe you nothing!’ he said. ‘What happened that night had nothing to do with you. You know all you need to know. Now, just leave it at that.’

  There was a thread of menace in his father’s tone and Laurence felt himself die a little inside. Why wouldn’t his father open up and talk to him? What the hell had happened that night?

  ‘There’s something I should tell you,’ Tilda said. She was in the living room in the south wing with her mother, who was sewing up a cushion that Reynolds had done his best to destroy in one of those mad terrier moments Vanessa couldn’t abide and which she felt sure Dolly actually encouraged in the little dog.

  ‘What is it?’ her mother asked.

  ‘It’s something Laurence said. I thought he was joking at first, but I think he’s quite serious.’

  ‘He’s not unhappy here, is he?’

  ‘No, of course not! He’s only just got here!’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Vanessa said. ‘I thought you were going to say that he hates the north wing and wants to sell it.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to sell. He wants to buy.’

  ‘What does he want to buy?’

  Tilda looked at her mother as if gauging if she could take the shock. ‘The walled garden.’

  Vanessa’s face drained of all colour. ‘Well, he can’t have it.’

  ‘Or a part of it. He offered us ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Who offered us ten thousand pounds?’ Grandma Dolly asked as she walked into the room.

  ‘Laurence,’ Tilda said. ‘He wants to buy the walled garden.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds?’ Vanessa cried as if just registering the amount properly.

  ‘Apparently, he wants to grow cabbages.’

  ‘That’s some very expensive cabbages,’ Grandma Dolly said. ‘Can’t he just go to the supermarket like everyone else?’

  ‘I know it sounds like a lot of money,’ Tilda admitted, ‘but it isn’t really.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Vanessa said.

  ‘It’s our walled garden, Mum. Our beautiful, private garden where we wander around at dawn in our nightgowns.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I like to sunbathe topless there too.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  ‘What? It’s the best place for it. Those walls really hold the heat and it’s a lovely private spot.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be if Mr Laurence Sturridge bought half of it,’ Tilda said. ‘I don’t want you sunbathing topless there when the Sturridge men turn up with their forks and spades. Honestly, he’s got some nerve. Just because he’s got big pockets and is handsome, he thinks he can get away with anything!’

  ‘You think he’s handsome?’ Vanessa asked, jumping on her daughter’s words.

  ‘No!’ she said quickly. ‘Well, a little bit. But we’re still not accepting his offer.’

  There was a moment’s pause and then Vanessa cleared her throat and spoke.

  ‘Anyway, we can’t sell it.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to suggest that we did,’ Tilda said.

  ‘Good. Because I have plans for the walled garden.’

  ‘What plans?’ Dolly and Tilda asked in unison.

  ‘Plans that don’t concern either of you at this stage.’

  ‘Anything that happens at Orley concerns me,’ Dolly said. ‘And, after the north wing fiasco, I wa
nt to be told everything in advance of any decisions being made.’

  ‘Yes, well we don’t always get what we want in life, do we?’ Vanessa said and, with that, she left the room.

  Marcus really hated himself sometimes. He hated the way he was around his son. This was the one person on the planet he should be closest to, especially after the loss of Tara, and yet he felt such a chasm between them – one that he feared he could never cross and that it was all his fault. He could see that Laurence was doing his very best in moving them to Sussex, but that didn’t mean Marcus was just going to suddenly divulge everything to him. At least in London, Laurence had spent each weekday away from the flat with his work. Here, however, he had yet to get himself up and running. He’d got a few clients on his list and would no doubt be commuting to London on occasion, but more often than not he would be working from home, which meant he would no doubt be poking his nose into Marcus’s business.

  Suddenly noticing that he had paint on his wrist, he walked through to his en-suite to wash it off. His morning with Jassy had been so much fun – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced anything like it. She’d been wonderfully bossy, barking orders at him like an admiral – and he’d loved it. He wasn’t quite sure if what he’d produced could be classed as art, but he’d enjoyed himself nevertheless. When was the last time he’d done anything remotely creative? It had been a truly freeing experience and certainly one he’d like to repeat if Jassy was accommodating.

  He smiled as he thought about her. There’d been a time in his life when he’d longed to have a daughter. Tara had wanted a girl too, to make their family complete, but a series of miscarriages had left her raw and unwilling to try again. Watching Jassy had made Marcus think about what it might have been like to have a daughter. A sister for Laurie. Marcus would have liked that.

  Yes, he’d felt really good after his painting session with Jassy. Then Laurence had showed up and dispelled the mood. He had a knack for doing that even when he wasn’t so direct as he had been today. Sometimes, his son only had to walk into the room for Marcus to experience that awful feeling of dread and guilt because he knew he couldn’t give him what he wanted.