“The soup is cream of winter veg with crème fraîche,” Jo said. Pru could live off soup, as Jo well knew; there was no point in looking at the menu. “I ordered wine—just glasses— we must keep our heads about us.” She reached across the table and squeezed Pru’s hand. “How is everything going? What have you accomplished?”
Pru had been reading a transcription of letters that morning. “Oh, Jo, Mr. Menzies seems like such a lovely man.” She scrambled in her bag and brought out a scrap of paper. “Listen, this is what he wrote to his mother in 1791, just before he sailed away on the Discovery. ‘May the guardian hand of Divine Providence long, long continue its protection toward you.’ Isn’t that sweet?”
“Oh, Pru,” Jo said, laughing. “You’re about to be married. What about those plans?”
Pru had started making mental lists. Wedding: date, time, place, would Simon give her away? Every day she added another few items. She had a separate list for Mr. Menzies: layout of an eighteenth-century ship, surgeon’s duties, how did they keep the rats away from the seeds? Her head began to spin.
“You are helping me with the wedding, so I don’t have to worry,” Pru said. She could see a light in Jo’s eyes. “What have you accomplished?”
Jo practically levitated off her chair. “I’ve had an amazing idea.” She stopped long enough for the waiter to serve the wine. “Cheers!”
Pru took a sip, kept her eyes on Jo, and sighed with relief. Jo had been Pru’s first acquaintance in London, now more than two years ago. At the beginning, it was all business—Jo managed the town house in Chelsea that Pru had sublet. But soon it went beyond business: Jo showed her around the neighborhood, invited her for Christmas, and became her best friend.
“I’m ready—what’s your idea?”
“Have you thought about having the wedding in Scotland?”
“Where” and “when” were unanswered questions for Pru; it was only “who” that Pru was sure about. “It’s awfully far away, isn’t it?”
“You know that we would all go up for it. I’m sure that Simon and Polly would love a little holiday up north. Harry and Vernona would certainly be there. And”—Jo blushed as she continued— “if you got married in Edinburgh, Alan could perform the ceremony.”
“Alan? Your Alan?” Jo and her husband, Alan, were still married, but lived apart—she in London, he in Edinburgh. Pru knew only that much and had yet to muster the nerve to ask about the particulars.
“He would love to do this for you.”
“Your Alan is a minister?”
“Yes,” Jo said, nodding and smiling and nodding some more. This was followed by a tiny shrug. “Well, he doesn’t have his own church, you know, but he is ordained—everything is in order.”
Ordained? Pru thought. By what power…the Internet? An image of her wedding day flashed in Pru’s mind: Alan, whom she’d never met, with long, stringy hair, dressed in a tie-dyed kilt. She tried blinking away the picture. “Jo,” she said, looking down at her soup, reaching for a piece of bread, and busying herself with the butter, “If Alan doesn’t have a church, what does he do?”
“He runs a shelter in Old Town near St. Mary’s.”
The wedding image changed, and this time she was being walked up the aisle by men carrying large black plastic bin bags and pushing abandoned shopping trolleys. “Well,” Pru said, but couldn’t think of anything to follow.
“It’ll be a proper ceremony, Pru—really it will—and it would be so good for him.” Jo picked up her fork and toyed with a cube of roasted beetroot at the edge of her wilted rocket salad. “It would be good for us.”
Pru glanced up. “Are you and Alan…getting back together?”
Jo tried brushing away the statement with a small wave of her hand, at the same time smiling. “Well, we might be a step closer.”
And Pru and Christopher’s wedding could be the reason? Pru could see it now—Alan and Jo standing on the steps of the church, arms around each other, waving as Christopher watched Pru throw the bouquet over her shoulder…God, was she going to have to throw a bouquet?
“Jo, that’s wonderful.”
Jo blushed, not a common sight. “Oh,” she said, giving a small laugh, as if to cast a casual nonchalance over the topic; but then she grew still. “It’s been eleven years—almost twelve. After what happened, it’s been a long road to get to where we are now.”
Pru still had no clue as to what caused the break, but she couldn’t help liking the idea of being part of such a reconciliation. “It sounds lovely,” she said. “I’ll talk with Christopher.” She couldn’t imagine that he would say no when Jo and Alan’s marriage could be at stake.
“Yes, you talk with him about it, and you can meet Alan when you get to Edinburgh. There’s no need to make a decision now,” Jo said.
Dear Jo—she would not steer Pru wrong. “I look forward to meeting him. I’m sure that we’ll work something out.”
Jo seemed ready to leap over the table and drag the white linen cloth with her to hug Pru, but had to be satisfied with patting her hand. “You’ll love Edinburgh,” Jo said, “I know you will. And it will be so easy for me to help with planning.” Jo reached into her handbag, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “And now, for my other news…I’ve found someone to design your dress.”
This was more like it. Jo’s excellent taste would shine here—not that Alan wasn’t in good taste, Pru reminded herself. But clothes, Jo understood clothes. The only dress Pru owned Jo had bought for her.
The card had no decoration, drawing, or detailing. It read simply:
Madame Fiona
Haute Couture
Stockbridge Edinburgh
An address and phone number ran along the bottom of the card.
“A client of mine has a friend who has used her. She’s very cutting-edge—sophisticated designs, excellent fabric, exquisite fit. This is my gift to you. She’ll take you through the whole process from measurements to the last-second fitting. You’ll be a proper bride.”
Pru’s heart warmed. “What a wonderful gift, thank you so much. I’ll ring her next week.”
“You do that. I’ve already spoken to her—I just wanted a word to let her know the circumstances. She asked about your work and the kinds of things you love. She takes all this into consideration in her designs—that’s how attentive she is. I can’t wait to see what she creates for you.”
They sat quietly over coffee. Pru thought about Jo and Alan. She glanced at Jo’s left hand; she wore no ring. Had she kept it in a jewelry box for the last twelve years? Pru glanced at her own hand. Rings—another decision to make. She had no idea weddings took so much time and effort.
Pru took a quick breath. “Jo, why is it that all this time you and Alan have stayed married, but you don’t live together?”
Jo smiled and sighed. “Oh, Pru, it was so long ago, it isn’t worth going over. But who knows? Maybe it’s time to put all that behind us.”
Jo took the linen napkin out of her lap and carefully refolded it, her eyes far away. When she saw the longing in Jo’s face, Pru decided she would do anything to help bring them back together. When you’re in love, you want the whole world happy. Christopher would understand.
Chapter 4
They kept to themselves on her last evening in London and had a quiet meal in an Indian restaurant near Christopher’s flat. Would it be “their” flat after they married? Put that on the list. At least she’d broached the topic of rings.
“Would you like to pick something out, or will you let me find one for you?” Christopher asked.
Her hand went up to the necklace he’d bought for her, and she ran her fingers around the fan shape of the pendant. “You find one.” She took his left hand. “Will you wear a ring?”
He held her gaze with a solemn look except for that smile that played about his lips. “Yes, I will wear a ring.”
She looked down at the table and back up at him. “Did you wear a ring when you and Phyl were marri
ed?”
He shook his head. “No. I was young and foolish.” They didn’t speak. He caressed the palm of her hand. She shivered.
“Would you care for…” The waiter had appeared.
“The bill,” Christopher said. “We’ll take the bill.”
They paid and left.
—
She lay in darkness—well, not real darkness. It was never completely dark in the city. She looked over to find Christopher watching her. He rested his hand on her hip, and she scooted closer and sighed. Stiff upper lip, she thought, it’s only three months. She already missed him.
“Would you like to come with me to Edinburgh?” she asked.
“Yes, I would,” he said and smiled. “Would you like to stay here with me in London?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “I would.”
—
“You haven’t met Alan, have you?” Christopher asked as Pru took one last look in her bag for phone and train ticket. She shook her head.
“What church?” he asked. “Did Jo say? Church of Scotland? Presbyterian?”
Pru shrugged. “I know it sounds a bit dubious, but I couldn’t say no without a reason—it seemed to mean so much to her.” She touched his arm. “They could be getting back together.”
“And why…have they lived apart?” Christopher stumbled over the question and Pru smiled. He could be relentless when seeking out the truth in a police investigation, but when it came to someone’s personal story, he was reticent to push. It was sweet.
“I’m not quite sure, but it must’ve been quite a break for Alan to end up in Edinburgh—and for it to last this long. He left the ministry and runs a shelter.”
“So why would he want to go back to the church now?”
“For Jo? For us, because we’re friends with Jo?”
“You don’t have to agree just because Jo’s a friend,” he said. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. They were edging toward the topic of her gullibility—although that wasn’t the word he used. Where Christopher leaned toward caution, Pru took leaps based on the trust she had in those around her. True, he had had to pull her back from the brink occasionally, figuratively speaking. Except for that one time, when she’d been pushed out onto a window ledge three stories up. That was literal.
“I won’t make any decision until you’ve met Alan. I’ll get in touch with him and we’ll just…take it from there.”
She was packed. There was nothing else to do but leave. They stood in the flat, the air about them heavy with farewell.
“I’ll be up soon,” he said. She nodded. Hadn’t they been here before?
—
Her train left from King’s Cross. They allowed time for a visit to St. Pancras Station next door and coffee in the Booking Office Bar. While Christopher took a phone call—Sunday afternoon, back to his old work schedule—Pru stood looking up at a towering bronze statue. It was a larger-than-life yet intimate piece called The Meeting Place. A man and a woman stood close. The woman had her hands up to the face of the man, whose arms wrapped around her waist, their foreheads almost touching. Christopher came up behind Pru and wrapped his own arms around her waist. A tear leaked out the corner of her eye. “Do you think they’re saying ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’?”
Chapter 5
Sure, the train took four and a half hours, but she needed the journey to think—let her mind wander and her heart race along tracks of their own to the many destinations ahead. She bought a sandwich off the tea trolley when it rolled down the aisle and stared out the window, blind to the British landscape flitting past. Her thoughts were exhausting—when they pulled into Waverley Station, she felt as if she’d run the whole way.
Where the platform spilled out into the station, stood a tall, thin woman with owl-like eyes, slightly prominent front teeth, and brown hair marked with silver and secured in a thick braid down her back. She held a small sign close to her chest, her eyes darting from arriving face to arriving face. The sign read: “PARKE.”
“Victoria Findlay,” she said, pumping Pru’s hand. “Welcome to Edinburgh. Your first time here? How was the journey? Did you catch sight of the Angel of the North? Alastair told you I’d be here to collect you, didn’t he? Now then, let me get those bags for you. Is this all? You travel quite light, don’t you? I’m just out the exit ahead, plenty of room in the boot for all your things.”
Pru scurried after Victoria, who walked as fast as she talked. After a few attempts, Pru gave up trying to answer and instead responded in nods and eyebrow raising, which seemed sufficient. “We’ll pop along to Alastair’s first thing,” her escort continued. “He’s asked a few people from the garden over for a small Sunday supper, nothing fancy, you know, don’t worry a fig about how you’re dressed. It’s kind of Alastair to do this with Rosemary out of the country. Rosemary—Alastair’s wife—is visiting her sister in Australia. Alastair was there himself until a fortnight ago. So we’ve all pitched in with the meal. I’ve a treacle tart just behind you there. Later I’ll run you to your flat. You know about the flat, I suppose? It’s lovely that the garden can offer accommodations to visiting faculty or researchers like yourself. Why, once we…”
Victoria didn’t stop talking the entire—and thankfully short—journey to Alastair Campbell’s home in New Town on a street of Georgian terraced houses. Victoria parked and whisked Pru up to the door, which was opened with a flourish.
“Come in,” Alastair said, leading them in and sweeping his arm across the formal sitting room where his guests stood, all eyes on Pru. “Welcome to Edinburgh.”
Eight people—not all that small a dinner crowd. Pru attempted to keep everyone straight. Alastair, thick gray hair with a slight wave—he kept combing his fingers through it—and dapper in a blue jacket; her driver, Victoria, head of volunteer activities; Angus Something, development director—having worked in a public garden before, Pru knew the importance of fund-raising; several other people whose names she didn’t remember a minute later—head of this, director of that; and Murdo Trotter, who looked to be in his forties and whose buzz cut could not disguise how red his hair was.
“Murdo is one of our gardeners,” Alastair explained.
Introductions out of the way, Pru worked hard to keep up with each conversation, the odd woman out in a group of people who knew one another well. Most of the talk was about the inner workings of the garden, although several people made polite inquiries about where she had been living—Sussex, most recently—and what her job had been—didn’t they know that already? Skirting the topic of the murder of one of her crew, she talked about Humphry Repton instead.
After a brief exchange with a man to her left at the dinner table—he was in plant collections, she thought—he turned and said to their host, “Alastair, Pru is from Texas.”
“Yes, isn’t that lovely?” Alastair said. The man beside her opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted.
“You’ll tell Rosemary we missed her this evening?” asked Angus Something, from the far end of the table.
“I will, of course,” Alastair replied.
“We wouldn’t have been at all surprised if you had stayed out there with her, Alastair. You weren’t using your holiday to do a bit of job hunting now, were you?”
Alastair blushed, but before he replied, a woman—the librarian?—said, “I thought Iain would be here this evening.”
“Ah, Iain,” Alastair said. “He wasn’t able to join us. But no matter, Pru will meet him tomorrow.”
“Iain is a walking history book,” the woman said to Pru. “Anything you need to know about Menzies or any of the others, ask him.” Pru had known another walking history book—old Ned, now deceased, from Primrose House. Perhaps Iain was like Ned: gathering up stories and tales through his life and rattling them off in conversation.
“Well, we won’t bother Pru with all that this evening,” Alastair said.
Pru swallowed a bite of her treacle tart. Time to prove herself. “I’m so
looking forward to the project. Mr. Menzies accomplished a great deal for us in horticulture, but he was such a kind, mild-mannered man—it’s obvious that others were allowed to walk all over him.” She raised her eyebrows at those around the table. “Look how so many of his plants were lost onboard the Discovery due to negligence—and certainly not his own. Although Sir Joseph Banks was a great advocate for him. Surely that couldn’t have hurt Mr. Menzies’s career.”
Heads nodded and the discussion moved off in another direction, but Pru noticed Alastair, to her right, watching her.
“Well done, Pru,” he said, nodding. “Do you think his family was an influence on his career?” An exam, was it? Compare and contrast…
“As all his brothers were gardeners, I’m sure he couldn’t quite escape it,” Pru said, hoping to get back to her pudding.
Her host smiled. “Good, good,” he said. “Now,” to the group, “who’s for coffee?”
—
On the brief drive to her accommodations, Victoria picked up where she’d left off. “Too bad it was dark when you arrived, you couldn’t quite see the castle—although they had the lights on, and I should’ve pointed it out to you. Will you do some sightseeing at the weekend? You might want to wander off on your own—it’s lovely to have a bit of space to yourself—but if you need someone to show you around, just give me a ring. Oh, look now, here we are—there’s no room to drive up the lane, so I’ll just stop here at the corner.” Victoria yanked on the hand brake, jumped out, and was marching up the walk before Pru could get her seat belt off. At the sixth gate, Victoria turned up a path and set the bags down to unlock the door.
The flat, in a row of terraced houses up a stub of a street, was a one-bedroom about the size of Pru’s cottage at Primrose House; the neighborhood, Victoria said, was called the Colonies. Living room off the hall; long, thin kitchen with a tiny table; bedroom; and bath; comfortable enough for one—or two, when Christopher came to visit. “You’ve a ‘low door,’ you see,” Victoria said, indicating the ground-floor entrance. “This whole terraced block has low doors facing one direction, and ‘high doors’—up a set of steps to the flat above you—facing the opposite direction.”
Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) Page 3
