The Garden of Little Rose

by Suzanne Snow

  ‘Flora! At last, come and try this! Ewan’s mixed the most amazing cocktail with coconut vodka and lime, and it’s utterly delicious. We’ve just ordered another one.’

  Flora smiled at Sophie’s exuberance as she settled onto a stool, her long legs reaching easily to the floor, and took the glass that the young man was already offering and thanked him. Sophie was right: the drink was gorgeous and she sipped it slowly as they chatted together. It wasn’t long before their table was ready, and they headed into the dining room.

  Flora wasn’t sure how she managed to get through dinner without blurting out everything to her friends. They had never kept secrets from one another but what was there to say? That she was surprised by her growing attraction to Mac Jamieson and thrilled by her discovery of the garden? Or that she was certain she’d never see him again after tomorrow, despite the dare? Once the meal was over, and they had ordered coffee and wandered back into the drawing room, she began to feel unsettled, desperate not to let what could easily become a silly crush disrupt her precious weekend with Sophie and Mel. The room was filling up gradually, as guests left their tables; replete and drowsy, they settled down together to chat quietly and enjoy the hotel’s understated hospitality.

  ‘Flora? Look who’s just arrived.’

  Flora heard the glee in Sophie’s comment and saw Mac walking across the room to the bar, nodding at people but not pausing to chat. Although he wasn’t dressed for dinner, Flora couldn’t help noticing how he still turned every head.

  ‘Looks good, doesn’t he? Bet he’d scrub up well for a wedding.’ Mel laughed at Sophie’s observation and they both looked at Flora, testing her reaction.

  She tried to watch him with only casual interest but was caught staring when he glanced across to her. His eyes gleamed as he took in her appearance, and she felt a small thrill that seemed to make the rest of the room disappear. He winked – a gesture so simple and sexy, suggesting an intimacy that words never could. But then he turned away, his attention claimed elsewhere, and the moment was gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘I saw that.’ Sophie’s perfect eyebrows lifted in suspicion. ‘What’s going on? Have you seen him again since last night? Have you made plans to bring him to the wedding?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Flora knew she sounded defensive as she altered the truth. She was saved from having to explain further when Mel suddenly burst in the conversation.

  ‘He’s coming over, Flora!’ Mel didn’t bother to try to hide her delight. ‘Hello, Mac, how lovely to see you again.’

  Flora forced herself to sit still as Mac halted close to her chair and she tried to pretend this wasn’t really the moment she had been waiting for all evening, as well as the reason she had allowed Sophie to style her hair. She raised her head, hoping that the wild thudding of her pulse was not obvious to anyone else. The blonde stubble from this morning had gone, revealing smooth skin, and Flora was already imagining how it would feel to touch.

  ‘Hello again. How was your day – did you enjoy the spa?’

  She heard the cool note in his voice again: the quiet reserve was back, and she wondered if this was his way of maintaining a professional distance from guests; it was quite unlike the boyish enthusiasm she had discovered earlier. She listened to the rush of Mel’s eager chat, content to play no part.

  ‘Oh, it’s been a fabulous day, thank you. The honey-and-milk wrap was exquisite – I feel about ten years younger already! And the radiance facial was amazing, exactly what I needed before the madness of a wedding. And look at Flora’s hands after her manicure: they’re so pretty now; usually she can’t quite scrape out all of the soil from underneath her nails.’

  Flora stilled as Mac examined her hands and, no doubt, her crossed legs underneath them. She shot Mel a filthy look and her friend ignored it, completely unconcerned.

  ‘And have you explored the island yet?’

  Mac was casually addressing all three of them, but Flora was sure the question was meant for her. Clearly, he was trying to find out if her friends knew how she had spent her morning.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ Mel gave him another happy look. ‘Your spa is just so fantastic there’s absolutely no incentive to leave the building, quite frankly. Except perhaps for the hot tub – the view from there is stunning.’

  ‘Flora did,’ Sophie pointed out with a wicked smile, looking at Mac from underneath long lashes. ‘Disappeared first thing and came rushing back late, all flustered.’

  ‘It was a garden,’ Flora answered hastily, trying to make light of her distracted appearance in the swimming pool. ‘You know what I’m like in a garden; I lose all track of time.’

  ‘Hmm…’

  Flora felt quite sure that Sophie was being deliberately evasive and shot her a scathing look.

  ‘I know you love your job, Flora, but I’ve never known anyone get so excited over a heap of old plants, even you. Are you quite sure it wasn’t something else?’

  Flora reached for her cup, as they all waited for a reply she wasn’t prepared to offer.

  ‘And what did you think of the garden you found, Flora?’ Mac casually tucked a hand on the back of Flora’s chair. She felt the lightest touch of his fingers on her hair, reminding her of the feel of her hand in his earlier. She was quiet as a waiter appeared to distribute whisky and offer more coffee. Once he disappeared, Flora gave Mac a truthful answer, unable to disguise her pleasure in the discovery.

  ‘I loved it. I thought it was extraordinary.’

  She knew he was pleased by her reply and, once again, something passed just between the two of them. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, ladies. Please excuse me.’ Mac smiled as he turned away.

  Flora turned back to her friends after Mac’s polite withdrawal, intending to put the latest encounter with him where it belonged: somewhere far from the simple reality of her life. But after he had left, she was still distracted and distant, and couldn’t stop thinking about the garden – or Mac. She tried to drag her mind back to the purpose of the weekend as she chatted with her friends, reminding herself that it was about spending precious time with Mel and Sophie before the demands of the wedding claimed their attention. But still, Flora wondered, if she got up very early in the morning, might she just manage another hour in the garden before they had to leave for home?

  It’s been untouched for years; it could be important, she told herself firmly, ignoring the other reason leaping around in her mind. She thought of her laptop and books back at home, with all the information she needed to confirm her suspicions. Her phone was unreliable at best and she didn’t want to borrow Mel’s iPad so she could stare at it, doing research, when they should be relaxing together. She sipped her whisky slowly, noticing that it was different from the one Mac had chosen for her last night. They all fell quiet, lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘I know we’ve had a lazy day,’ Mel said sleepily a short while later, nursing her almost empty glass, the alcohol taking effect. ‘But I’m really tired. Sorry to be a bore but do you mind if I go to bed?’

  ‘Oh, Mel!’ Sophie crossly banged her own empty glass on the table and glared at the bride-to-be, and Flora giggled. ‘Surely you can manage just one more drink. I can’t bear the thought of going to sleep so early when I can have a lie-in tomorrow. You’ve no idea what bliss it is to wake up when you feel like it and not have a two-foot toddler landing on your head when you’re still dreaming about Jamie Fraser in Outlander.’

  ‘A drink upstairs?’ Mel said, brightening as another waiter arrived to clear away the empty coffee cups. ‘Let’s take a bottle up to my room, and you can tell me some more about you and Jamie. Does he always wear a kilt?’

  ‘Except when he doesn’t…’ Sophie’s look was dreamy as she stood up decisively, hands on hips, ready to continue with the evening. ‘But your idea’s perfect. We can order from room service. Flora?’

  Flora nodded, and they left the drawing room and crossed the main hall. For her, the excitement of the evening
, its possibilities, had just ended. They were halfway up the wide, thickly carpeted staircase when she heard a voice she recognised.

  ‘Flora? I’m sorry to interrupt. May I speak with you for a moment please?’

  ‘What is it?’ Mel gave Flora a gentle push towards Mac. ‘Have you not been a good girl and given him your number yet?’

  Flora glared at Mel and she heard Sophie’s gleeful laugh. ‘You go on,’ she said casually. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’

  Mac was waiting at the foot of the stairs, and she was utterly conscious of the way her body responded to the weight of his look as she walked slowly towards him. His shirt was damp and drops of rain were trickling through his hair, and she realised that he must have been outside since they had spoken earlier. He brushed a hand across his face, wiping the wetness away with impatient fingers.

  ‘Thank you for waiting. I apologise for keeping you from your friends; this won’t take long.’ He pointed to the reception desk. ‘Come through, we can talk in there.’

  He opened a door behind the desk and waited for her to go through into a small office. Two computer screens perched side by side; above them, a row of closed-circuit television screens discreetly monitored the guests’ movements as they made their way to and from the hotel and around reception. Mac propped himself against a desk and pointed to a chair nearby. Flora shook her head, happy to remain standing. She didn’t know what he could possibly want with her, certain that the need for privacy had nothing to do with telephone numbers or silly invitations to a stranger’s wedding.

  ‘You were right, Flora, this morning. Both the house and garden were designed by Rupert Lassiter.’

  Her eyes widened in thrilled surprise, as she realised what he was telling her. Being right mattered much less than stumbling upon the abandoned remains of such an extraordinary garden. So many questions leapt into her mind and she didn’t know which to ask first.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I knew, of course, that Lassiter was the architect, but I remembered finding this in the house and wanted to share it with you when I confirmed your suspicion.’ He reached into a pocket. ‘Your understanding of what you saw today and what might still remain astonished me.’

  Mac passed her a photograph, his fingers brushing hers. Flora looked at the picture, holding it carefully. Taken from the south lawn and facing the house, the photograph showed the terrace and herbaceous borders in perfect summer glory, filled with plants spilling onto the path and trailing over the stone walls. An older girl and boy, together with two smaller boys, were picnicking on the lawn and Flora instantly understood that the big, old house had once been a much-loved home and not always the silent shell she had seen today. Thoughts and ideas were racing through her mind so quickly that she lifted a hand to her face, as though to help decipher them, and words leapt out in a rush before she could stop them.

  ‘It really was beautiful!’ she exclaimed, still holding the photograph. ‘Do you have any original drawings left? Or copies of Lassiter’s planting plans? Have you thought about professional restoration or contacted any of the relevant associations?’

  ‘Hey, slow down – one question at a time!’ Mac lifted his hands in mock protest as he took the photograph from her, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘Okay, I’ll try and keep it short. Róisín House and its garden, which you saw today, were built in 1908 for the family who had owned the island for generations. There were two children: a son, who married and moved away, and a daughter who lived there with her parents until they died.’

  He paused, as a telephone on the desk rang but was quickly silenced by someone unseen in reception. Flora waited for him to continue, impatient to hear more of the island’s story.

  ‘When the son died suddenly, not long after his parents, the island fell into dispute between his son and the daughter, and there was a court case to resolve ownership and decide whether she could remain at Róisín. When the nephew eventually won and took possession of the island, his aunt was forced to leave, and the house was abandoned until his descendants sold everything thirty years later. I do have Lassiter’s original plans for the house and just one of the formal gardens.’

  ‘What a remarkable story. So sad, really.’ Flora tried to imagine the people who had loved and lost the house, only to see it abandoned by someone who clearly hadn’t cared about its future. She brought the subject back to the original family. ‘Who were the children in the photograph, do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure… probably the son and daughter, and perhaps cousins or friends; it must have been a wonderful place to grow up. I don’t know very much about the family who lived in the house; they died so long ago and most of the people who are left on the island don’t remember them. I’d like to research their history properly at some point; I’ve found boxes of personal stuff in the house but haven’t had time to go through it yet.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing this with me – I really appreciate it. It’s been a privilege to have a glimpse of the garden as it used to be.’

  Flora saw a flare of curiosity in Mac’s face. ‘May I ask you something? Your friends mentioned your job earlier. What is it that you do?’

  ‘I’m an assistant head gardener with the Garden Heritage Trust; my interest has always been in the conservation and restoration of historical gardens.’

  ‘Where are you based?’

  Curious, wondering why he wanted this information, she decided to answer him. ‘Middlebrook Hall, in Yorkshire. It’s a Georgian estate still undergoing restoration, and I’m one of a team of five full-time gardeners.’

  ‘So, you must have lots of experience and qualifications?’

  ‘Some, yes. I joined the Trust two years ago after working in private gardens. I specialised in historic garden management for my horticulture degree and I have a master’s in garden and landscape history.’

  ‘Actually,’ he said thoughtfully, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘That hardly matters, after what I saw today.’ A pause, then he continued. ‘Flora, do you think you would—?’

  The door from reception sprang open, startling them both. The night porter burst in, clutching a handful of jangling keys and a small case.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said awkwardly, looking at Mac and then Flora as rain dripped from his coat onto the floor. ‘I didn’t realise there was anybody in here.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Mac assured him, giving a friendly nod to emphasise his point. ‘We were just about to leave.’

  The porter held open the door and, once back in the hall, Mac hesitated, seemingly caught by indecision as they faced one another. They were alone, temporarily, the soft murmurings from the drawing room as faint as the evening light.

  ‘I should go,’ Flora said, realising with shock that, yet again, she had left her friends’ company for Mac’s.

  ‘Let me walk you to your room.’

  ‘There’s no need, really.’ She was already turning away and heading for the stairs. ‘Thank you for letting me see the photograph.’

  ‘Flora?’

  Flora ignored the crazy impulse to spin around and rush back to him, to discover what it was that he wanted, aware her ability to remain composed when she was with him quickly diminishing.

  ‘Will you come back tomorrow, to the garden? I’d really like to show you around properly.’

  This time she did pause, her excitement growing as she thought of exploring the whole garden and making more discoveries. But she feared making a fool of herself again, and squirmed as she remembered the dare, barely twenty-four hours ago, that had led to the flustered invitation to join her at Mel’s wedding. She liked her life just the way it was, and she knew that a man such as Mac could disrupt her carefully ordered days in ways she was desperate to avoid.

  ‘I can’t.’ She swung around, not quite able to disguise the dismay that the decision to refuse him had caused. She had turned down a marvellous opportunity and she hoped he would assume her regret was all
because of the lost garden. ‘We’re leaving in the morning; I should really be with my friends. I don’t have time.’

  ‘Of course, I should have realised.’ Mac’s hand fell away from the banister. ‘So… about the wedding?’

  ‘What about it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Obviously, I don’t know the date so I’d have to check my calendar. Does the invite still stand?’

  ‘Why would you even come? It’s not like we’re friends or anything.’

  He grinned. ‘I’ve been to a few weddings in my time but I’ve never received an invitation quite like yours. You’re daring and funny, as well as beautiful. And passionate. I only had to see you in the garden this morning to know that.’

  He thought she was beautiful? Daring? Flora felt a rush of pleasure, swiftly followed by alarm. She needed someone she could love and trust with her heart, not a man like Mac, with his confidence and curiosity, that keen gaze unsettling her every time it landed on her. ‘You won’t know anyone,’ she said quickly. ‘Why would you want to spend a day with strangers?’

  ‘I know you, Flora, and I’ve met your friends. My table manners are acceptable, and I can do small talk when I have to. I have a nice suit. And I promise not to step on your feet when we dance – I’m told I’m good at it.’

  A sudden image of dancing with him at the wedding popped into Flora’s mind: a picture of being in his arms, holding him, her height making it easier for her lips to reach his mouth. She shook her head, trying to send away the tantalising thought. ‘This is crazy! The wedding is hundreds of miles away!’

  ‘I have a car. I’m generally punctual.’ A wry smile was still there as he countered every argument with a simplicity she couldn’t refute. Flora was conscious of the moments ticking by again, her best friends waiting upstairs.