by Eve Devon
As they walked, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was busy taking every single detail in. Concentrating so avidly he found himself warning, ‘It’s not looking its best, but I still think it’s beautiful.’
‘I can tell,’ she replied.
‘You were expecting flowers? Not at this time of year. But the formal borders are a riot of colour in the summer. Purple globe thistles, golden rod and crocosmia fill in the gaps and on the other side of this hedge, lavender, roses and hollyhocks.’
‘No,’ she put a hand on his arm to slow him, ‘I meant I can tell you think it’s beautiful. It adds something to see it through your eyes. When you open up to the public will you be giving guided tours?’
He shuddered. ‘Not sure.’
Emma laughed. ‘I think it would be great to have an expert explain how the gardens came to be, which was, how, exactly?’
‘Why do I feel like I’m auditioning for a part? Isn’t that supposed to be your speciality?’
‘Just tell me about this place as we walk. Tell me about the history. And then tell me why what was here, then wasn’t, and why you want it to be again.’
‘You really want to know?’
‘I really do. Come on, Jake, take me to your Zen place.’
Making her see the past, the present and what he wanted for the future, was a tall order when areas were left empty and only the structure of established shrubs and trees gave a clue as to what was where during winter, but her plea was seductive and so was the way she listened with open heart.
‘To begin with then,’ he began as they walked; the cold air somehow unable to penetrate their companionable bubble. ‘The estate was originally purchased by civil engineer John Knightley in 1857. I think he described the place as a handsome house in a handsome village, which back then included Whispers Ford, so was much bigger.’
‘Good description,’ she murmured.
‘To make it more handsome he added Tudor wings and renamed it after himself. Watch your step here,’ he instructed, beckoning for her to climb onto an observation plinth with him so that they could look down on the whole of the knot garden.
‘Wow.’
‘Yes,’ he said, only he wasn’t looking at the gardens, he was looking at her. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes sparkling, and damn, she looked like she fit.
‘It’s like a mini Versailles. Is this your design?’
He shook his head. ‘I altered the layout slightly to include an exit at the far end. The planting within each section has been replaced over the years but it matches what would have been here in Victorian times. There’s an orange tree for the centre that I’ll bring back out after the last frost. It gets replaced with a large yew standard over winter.’
‘It looks so intricate from up here.’ She widened her gaze to the copse at the edge of his land. ‘So how much land makes up Knightley Hall?’
‘Originally ten acres. There’s not much more than four now. As money began running out, more and more of the land was sold off.’
‘That’s sad. Have you had to sell any?’
‘I sold a third of an acre to Oscar Matthews.’ It had been hard to see another parcel of land go but he’d needed the seed money for the gardens. Most of the profit he’d made working in London he’d given to his parents. A thank you for paying for his studies, and a way of replacing the retirement funds they’d used up seeing Sarah and Seth through college years earlier. After last Christmas he supposed he could’ve returned to London to earn more money, but it would’ve meant going backwards not forwards. He hadn’t wanted to bump into his old life with Alice. He’d wanted to let this place heal him. ‘Oscar renovated the barn that stood on it,’ he added.
‘Oh, I’ve been there. He’s done a really wonderful job.’
Jake nodded. ‘I knew he could be trusted to build something in keeping with the area and when he said he wanted to remodel the original barn, I thought that was great. He’s a good neighbour.’ He indicated they should turn around and then he pointed to the fields in the distance. ‘Felix, who you met at the village meeting, he rents the last of the land to the west. He’s a dairy farmer.’
‘That’s where Gertrude lives?’
‘With the rest of the herd, yes.’
‘Hey, Jake?’ Emma said softly.
‘Mmmn?’
‘After we walk through the knot garden can we visit the rose garden?’
When she looked at him like that, he couldn’t wait to show her.
‘Of course.’ Jumping off the plinth he offered his hand. She took it without hesitation and it seemed churlish to let go once she’d stepped down onto the path.
‘So who ran Knightley Hall after John?’ she asked, her hand pulsing in his, or was that his pulsing in hers?
‘That would be his son – also called John, and then came George.’
‘Your smile changes when you mention George,’ she said perceptively.
‘George was my great-great grandfather and he laid the foundations of what you’re seeing now. He wanted to show the progression of how the gardens came to be. A sort of living history. Of course later came the Second World War and work on the gardens ground to a halt again.’
‘He inherited Knightley Hall when his father died?’
Jake nodded. ‘He was twenty-four. It was 1925 and he’d been living in London making a name for himself building theatres for a chain of theatre companies.’
Emma grinned. ‘So you have the stage in your blood? How fabulous.’
‘Would have been an even deeper connection to the stage if he’d had his way. But then he was a Knightley and traditionally, we’re not great at love.’
She burst out laughing.
‘Interesting,’ he said, glancing down at her. ‘I haven’t got to the funny part of the tour yet.’
‘Sorry, but you’re joking, right? This place has been in your family over a century. Your parents had six kids and are still together and you’re saying Knightleys aren’t great at love?’ She stopped at the entrance to the knot garden and watched as he let go of her hand. ‘Wow. You’re actually not joking?’
He shrugged, a little embarrassed and walked around the outside edge of the geometric box hedging until he came to the exit. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about Alice.’
She bent to pick up a piece of box clipping and twirled it thoughtfully in her fingers. ‘So, one failed relationship and you’re not great at love?’
Jake entered the knot garden through the exit and walked a couple of turns through the mini-maze, mirroring her movements. ‘If this was a real guided tour, I wouldn’t be talking about Alice.’
Emma took another few steps towards him. ‘So back to George, then?’
‘Back to George,’ he nodded. ‘I suspect at twenty-four and doing very well in his chosen field, thoughts of ending up here were far from his mind. Especially after meeting an actress called Anna-Rose Banning and becoming besotted.’
‘How romantic. And was she besotted back?’
‘By all accounts,’ he said lightly. ‘You know the chandelier that hangs at The Clock House?’ He could feel her intrigue from where he was standing. ‘George actually commissioned it to grace the entrance of a new theatre he was building for Anna-Rose. It was to be his wedding present to her.’
‘Yet it ended up at The Clock House?’ She wandered a couple of steps towards him. ‘The plot thickens and I’m beginning to worry about Anna-Rose and George.’
‘When George’s father died he was called back here. Anna-Rose visited of course. And they wrote letters back and forth, making plans for their future. As time went by Anna-Rose began to get plays written especially for her and George got more involved in running the estate and more excited about making Knightley Hall his home. A place he could indulge his love for design in both the building and the gardens. Anna-Rose loved coming back to see the progress he was making and take a break from the bright lights. They were due to get married the following year, but on the eve of their w
edding day—’
Emma’s hand went to her throat. ‘Oh no. She died!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh that’s so sad. She never got to see her chandelier? And he couldn’t bear it, so he gave it away?’
‘Wow, you went straight to Shakespeare tragedy,’ he said, a bit awestruck she could be so open and immerse herself so fully in a story. More awestruck still that she could carry him along in the moment, when he already knew the story.
She’d give wonderful guided tours. Different stories for each season. Tales that would resonate and intrigue and have visitors wanting to come back, time and time again.
‘Well you led me there, My Storyteller Guide, with your hushed, grave tone.’
‘You took a wrong turn about halfway through the knot garden because she didn’t die. She simply changed her mind about marrying him.’ The words left his body but didn’t leave his heart. Despite the fact that he wouldn’t be here today if she hadn’t decided Whispers Wood in no way compared to the bright lights of the London stage.
‘That’s still so sad, though.’ Emma reached the centre of the knot garden and put her sprig of yew under the tree he’d planted, as if out of respect for the death of George and Anna-Rose’s relationship. ‘How did the chandelier end up at The Clock House?’
‘George asked Old Man Isaac’s grandfather, William, to take it. George ended up spending every penny he made on the gardens. In fact, he went through his entire fortune in one year. Most of it went on the rose garden.’ Sudden realisation hit him. In all likelihood there was no big secret about not finishing the secret garden – George probably just ran out of money.
Well, that wasn’t going to happen to him, he promised himself.
For a start he was seeing his plans through without the distraction of a broken heart.
He’d already got that out of the way and survived. Remarkably easily as it had turned out. But then he guessed he’d had his entire upbringing to understand that love and Knightley Hall just didn’t work together.
‘Why didn’t George take back the chandelier and sell it to fund the estate?’ Emma asked.
There was no way Jake could bring himself to say because the chandelier had other ideas so he went with, ‘I guess he believed he’d given it to William as a gift.’ He glanced at his watch and then up at the darkening sky. ‘I think we just have time to see the rose garden before it gets too dark.’
Comfortable with the abrupt change of subject, Emma followed him.
‘Can I ask another question?’
‘Of course.’
‘You said you weren’t the oldest in your family, so, this is going to sound crass, but, how did you end up being the one to take it over?’
He led her through the brick archway into the rose garden. As he watched her gaze roam over the bare walls and empty obelisks, he wished she was seeing it for the first time when the buds were on the branches and the heady scent of anticipation filled the air.
‘I was the only one who wanted it,’ he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
‘The only one out of all of you?’ She walked straight to the rose tunnel he’d constructed out of iron posts to hold the weight.
‘Yes.’
‘But why would anyone not want all this?’ She held her arms out and turned in a slow circle.
‘It’s not easy being born into this,’ he said mimicking her movement to indicate the house and grounds. ‘Even your un-ending enthusiasm would wear off if your relationship with this place was predominately based upon how much it all costs to run.’
‘Oh.’ Her hand reached out to follow a twisted thorny stem.
‘Mmmn. When money floods out and only trickles back in, it can all start to feel like a noose around your neck. All this space yet you feel the walls are closing in. Duty becomes synonymous with overwhelming responsibility.’
‘But not for you?’ Her fingers trailed along branches he’d spent years tying-in, long after Sid, their head gardener, had been let go. It was almost as if she was anchoring herself to the beauty so she could dispel the cold reality of running a place like this.
‘Sometimes. The difference is the love affair I have with this land outweighs that feeling every single time.’
‘You said you were once plugged-in but that that world fell out of love with you. Did you not always want to be at the Hall, then?’
‘I wanted to be here from the moment I was fourteen and the head gardener caught me smoking and drinking in one of the potting sheds. He decided manual labour would curb any propensity for extending my repertoire of bad habits. He hooked me well and good. Somehow with my hands in the soil I felt—’ he broke off not knowing how to explain.
‘Nourished?’
‘Yes.’ God, how was it that she got it? ‘I went on to study horticulture and ended up working for a small design company in London. We grew really quick. Mostly because we said “yes” to every opportunity and worked demanding hours without complaint. I always knew that to come back here I needed skills and capital. Mostly capital,’ he finished with a smile. ‘I racked up both but it was getting to a time where I needed to commit fully to the company or cut ties and come back. There was no halfway-house. I hated all the networking to get more business and the company deserved someone who could put their soul into it.’
‘But it was in London that you met Alice?’
‘I was invited to do a garden for Chelsea Flower Show and she was the representative from the sponsor.’
He didn’t provide any more detail and Emma’s usual curiosity and enthusiastic questions seemed to dry up.
Either that or she was inwardly dissecting how similar his path to Knightley Hall mirrored his ancestor’s.
In the middle of the rose tunnel, Emma turned to him. ‘So when these are all in bloom, what colours will they be?’
He wanted to tell her she’d have to hang around and find out for herself, but instead he said, ‘A mix of blousy bubble-gum pink, purest white – so white they’ll almost look pale green, and a deep, velvety, plush purple.’
‘And they’ll trail down in a shower of scent?’
‘That’s the general idea.’
She sighed. ‘It’s so beautiful, Jake.’
And then as if too much for her, she picked up her pace, hugging her arms to herself.
‘Hey,’ catching up with her he gently turned her around to face him, ‘what’s up?’
‘Sorry. Lost in memories, I guess. I rarely think about the house I grew up in over here when my parents were still together. As a kid I thought the garden was endless. As an adult I realise it was an average suburban garden. But there were roses. Lots of roses. I used to pick up all the rose petals that had fallen from the rose bushes.’ She reached out as if she was picking a rose, and her smile was wistful, as she admitted, ‘and some petals that hadn’t technically made it to the floor. I’d pop them in a bucket and add water. Then I’d grab a stick and squelch it all together and with a funnel fill up some old perfume bottles mum let me have. I’d stick on my own labels and make her use my incredible rose perfume.’
The way she set the scene, he could see it all so perfectly. ‘That sounds like a nice memory to have.’
‘Yes.’
‘But?’ he murmured when her eyes turned all misty.
With her smile still in place she shook her head as if to say it was nothing and walked a determined couple of steps ahead out of the rose tunnel, and towards the new part of the garden he’d been working on.
He saw her hesitate and then step through the once bricked up entrance.
Eager to see what she made of the space he let her have a few moments to herself and then followed her. When she didn’t immediately turn around to face him he reached out to stroke a hand gently down the length of her hair.
‘You know,’ she said, turning around, ‘I’d forgotten it was my dad who used to get me the bucket, and the funnel, and the piece of lint cloth to use as he helped me strain my perfume into tiny bottles.’ She shook her h
ead a little as if upset she’d done him some sort of disservice. ‘For years I’ve always thought of him as the unimaginative one of my parents.’
‘Maybe you brought out the creativity in him,’ he offered.
‘Seeing this – well, it’s a timely reminder. I’ve been second-guessing every Christmas present idea I come up with for him but all this has made me think I should go outside the box. That maybe surprising him doesn’t always have to be a bad thing.’
‘This place has made you think all those things, huh?’
‘It’s—’
He found himself leaning closer, wanting to catch her praise because she was maybe the only person who seemed able to bring his plans to life in a way that made him feel that anything he wanted to do with these gardens was possible.
‘It’s enchanting,’ she whispered, looking around at the bare brick walls that needed re-pointing and had tiny ferns growing out of cracks. ‘Magical. Beautiful.’
‘You’re very good for motivation,’ he told her. ‘Already I’m now looking for the first shoots of growth when I know it’s way too early.’
‘No, I mean, yes, later it’s still going to look enchanting, magical and beautiful, but I actually meant it does now. Even this secret space you’ve unearthed. It would be perfect for small weddings, but right now … can’t you imagine a little café table and chairs, and a patio heater, and lanterns and tea lights and fairy lights and candles? And gorgeous blankets to snuggle into while you drink mugs of hot chocolate and read from your favourite book? A secret family space, private and away from the public. Can’t you see it?’
He nodded because she made him see it.
Want to live it.
‘You know this is how you could set it out for those photos. You could borrow things if needs be. I’m sure everyone in Whispers Wood would love to help.’
He turned so that she wouldn’t see how much her scene creation disturbed him.
At some point Knightley Hall would have to be about family again – it would be criminal to see this land not loved. Not used. Not passed on.
But he wanted a few years first.
