Five years. She would probably require every moment of that time to find him.
“Mary, will you help me find him?”
“Yes, but there is nothing more that can be done today. Tomorrow we can go and speak to the garden servants. Perhaps one of them will know where he has gone.”
“So, I am to be imprisoned only for today?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Good. So what shall we do till the end of the day?”
“Well, I suppose we could have a game of ‘all-four.’ Have you ever played it before?”
“I do not think that I shall be much of a companion today. I have no spirit left to play cards. I am sorry, Mary, but I shall retire now.” Susan sat down and Mary helped her to disrobe.
Chapter 11
The next day, Susan arose with firm determination and went to the wash bowl on the commode. She poured the water from the pitcher and splashed it on her face. Then she dried her face and called Mary to help her dress to go out into the garden. She was determined to question everyone she met about Mr. Dean’s whereabouts. She still boiled inside at what she perceived to be her father’s injustice, so it would do her good to walk in the fresh air of the garden to cool her overexcited nerves. She put on her bonnet, wrapped a mantelet around her shoulders and went out, ignoring the stares and whispered comments of the servants she passed as she made her way to the door.
She glanced over the colourful display of blooms searching everywhere for some human form as she walked. A movement in a flowerbed caught her eye. She looked more closely and saw the shape of an old woman crouched in the middle of the flower garden under a tulip tree. It was the Widow Hardwick, whom Dean employed to pull the weeds. As soon as the old woman noticed she was being watched, she stood up slowly, her back remaining stooped. Susan walked toward her, hoping that the widow knew where he might be.
“Widow Hardwick, good morning.”
The old woman’s face scrunched up disagreeably. “Morning, madam,” she grunted.
“Do you know where your master has gone?”
“Lost him, have you?”
Susan thought it a strange comment. “Yes. I wonder if you know where he is.”
“No, though I wish I did. From whom can I collect my farthing now that Mr. Dean has been dismissed? Can you tell me that, madam?”
Susan’s face turned as red as the lupin beside the widow. She wondered what she could possibly tell her. It occurred to her again that her own sorrow was just a tiny speck compared with the ripples of grief that would now spread out from Dean’s dismissal from this garden. Poor old Mrs. Hardwick, whose husband had left her no income and who refused to take money from the parish, preferring to crouch in the Kirke Hall gardens making twenty shillings a year pulling up weeds. Only Dean had ever taken pity on her. Who would employ her now if the new gardener was not as charitable as the old?
“Well, I need to know where my next meal will come from.”
“You must speak to the gardener who will replace Dean.”
“Who might that be?”
“I am sorry. I have not been informed, but I am sure that someone will be appointed before long.”
The old woman scowled, a look filled with loathing, and then she turned and spat on the dark earth. “Good day, madam,” she said as she hobbled away.
Susan turned back to her walk. Disagreeable old woman! How saintly Dean had been to tolerate her!
She continued looking for other servants who were doing their early morning chores, but no one to whom she spoke had any knowledge of his whereabouts. Their responses made it evident that they held her responsible for the departure of the well-loved head gardener.
However, it was the garden itself that reproached her most stingingly. She could not turn a corner in the serpentine walk that did not remind her of him. At every moment she expected to see him trimming a hedge or inspecting the new plantings or pulling old blooms off a bush, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. As beautiful as the garden was, without Dean it seemed dull and lifeless, containing nothing to delight her any longer. Susan walked back to the house more downcast and dejected than she had been when she set out.
***
That afternoon Susan decided to resume her letter to Dean. She retrieved the crumpled page from the corner of the room where she had tossed it and copied the words that she could barely discern before she added the thoughts that preoccupied her now.
I walked in the garden this morning, but I am afraid that the sound of the birds and the sight and smell of the flowers did not reach my soul. I received them with my outer senses only, for my soul was deaf and dumb and blind with the loss of your company. I swear that even the garden misses you.
Please forgive my impertinence, Mr. Dean. I know that the sorrow I feel at the loss of your company is but an insubstantial shadow beside your loss of livelihood.
I hope that this missive finds you in good health and that you will send me word of your situation through my maid who delivers this to you. Your proposal to me makes me bold to make a counter-proposal. Since I said yes to you, I have thought of nothing else but our wedding. My mind is still set upon it. Therefore, I propose that we elope at your convenience. Mary will be our go-between in this affair. Please send word through her when you will come for me. I cannot stay under my parents’ roof any longer since they have no regard for my happiness. I anxiously await your response.
Yours in sincere devotion,
Miss Susan Kirke
She placed her pen upon her writing desk and called her maid.
Mary entered the room and curtseyed.
“You are from London, are you not, Mary?”
“You know I am, madam.”
“And you know your way around the city. I daresay you have walked hither and yon by yourself before.”
“Well, yes, up to a point. But there are some parts of London I would not walk by myself. Not if I could help it, begging your pardon.”
“Yes, that is as it should be, I suppose. But what I want to ask you is, if Mr. Dean has gone to London, would you be able to deliver a letter to him for me?”
Mary looked doubtful.
“Oh, you need not be alarmed. It is a perfectly respectable letter. I only mean to apologize to him for my part in his dismissal. It was so imprudent of me to speak with him in the first place, even if it was done in the open, where suspicious and evil eyes could observe us and idle, lying tongues could report on us.”
“It was never me. I certainly did not report on you.”
“And whoever said you did, Mary? If I thought for one moment you had, I most certainly would not charge you with the task of finding him now, would I?”
“No, but how am I to find him?”
“Perhaps you will have more luck speaking with the gardening servants than I did, for they will not talk to me.”
“I will try.”
“And when you have found out where he has gone, please come to me; I will give you the letter to be delivered into his hand personally. Then you are to wait for him while he writes a reply. Do you think you can accomplish that?”
“I shall do my best.”
Mary was happy of an errand that sent her out into the garden. She enjoyed the opportunity to walk out in the pleasure ground, but she rarely had time in her busy day to glimpse out the window. She strolled leisurely among the green trees and shrubs, observing the ornamental statues and wondering what they signified. Occasionally, she encountered a garden servant and stopped to pass the time of day, but whenever she broached the topic of the gardener, they would shy away from the conversation.
One cantankerous old woman said, “You are Miss Kirke’s servant. I’ve already told her that I know nothing,” and then spat upon Mary’s shoe in disgust. Mary had endured enough insolence and was set to give up on her mission when she noticed a young man watching her.
“Why do you gawp at me, boy?”
“Pardon me, but I heard you were looking for Mr. Dean.”
&
nbsp; “That’s right, I am. Do you know where he is?”
“I might have that information. What will you give me for it?”
“I shall give you the time of day, if you’re not too impudent.”
“Me? Impudent! Never.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“’Tis Andrew, and I’m not a boy.”
“I say you are, Andrew.”
“What’s your name, madam?”
“Mary. Now is that enough chit-chat? Will you give me Mr. Dean’s address?”
“I have not agreed to such terms, Mary. I think the information is more valuable to you than that. I also think that you have something that would be just as valuable to me.”
“Name your price, Andrew.”
“I’ll give you the address for a kiss.”
“I knew you were naught but an insolent boy.”
“What do you say?”
“A kiss, is it?” A quick one would do no harm and should satisfy such an innocent as this boy. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss on the lips.
He blushed bright red and seemed unable to speak for a moment.
“So, will you pay me now, or are you dishonest as well as insolent?” she asked.
“Yes, Mary,” he stammered. “I’ll give you the address. Mr. Dean has written it on a piece of paper that he left in the greenhouse. I’ll fetch it for you.”
Andrew ran off, his feet scarcely touching the ground in his joy at receiving his first kiss.
***
Susan waited impatiently for her maid, installing herself in a window seat where she would be able to see Mary returning from the garden. There she was, her pale white skin turned rosy from the exercise of walking in the fresh air. Mary looked up at the house and Susan waved to her. Mary blushed even redder. Susan opened the door to greet her and the maid walked in, a little short of breath.
“Well? Were you able to discover Mr. Dean’s address, Mary?”
She replied between pants. “Let me catch my breath first, madam.”
“You could have said yes or no in the time it took you to say all of that. You were not gone very long. Did you give up too easily?”
“Patience, madam. I have it.” Mary reached into her bodice and withdrew a paper.
“Good for you. What a good servant! But tell me, how did you manage it?”
“Ah, madam, as to that, you should always acknowledge me the best friend you ever had after I tell you what I did to obtain this paper.”
“What do you mean? What did you do?”
“I had to pay for the information. That is what I did.”
“Do you wish me to reimburse you?”
Mary laughed. “Not at all, Miss Kirke. I would rather you did not.”
“So what was the payment then?”
“I was obliged to kiss one of the garden hands.”
“Oh, Mary!” Susan giggled. “Who was it? Tell me.”
“It was Andrew.”
“Andrew! Well then it was not too unpleasant, I think.”
Mary laughed along with her mistress. “He is a sweet boy, to be sure, but a little childish for my taste.”
“Come along. Give me the paper, then.”
“You are such an impatient lover, madam. Here it is.”
Susan opened the paper and read out the address. “Do you know where this is?”
“I believe so, but I shall ask the coachman tomorrow to be certain. If I am right, it is south of the River Thames, so I should be able to return before the end of the day if I leave early tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
“You ought to thank me, madam. I do not think it is a very respectable part of London.”
“Nonsense. We are talking about Mr. Dean, are we not? Everything about the man is respectable. You must be mistaken.”
“On this, we shall see.”
***
After Mary left for London, Susan waited for word from her with great impatience. As usual, she channeled her restlessness into her morning walk in the garden, ignoring the scowls of the workers and concentrating for the first time in a long time on the beauty of the flora that surrounded her. Walking along the serpentine path through the flower beds, she amused herself by naming the flowers as Dean had taught her. The English daisy, lobelia, and forget-me-not. (She would not forget him, she would not). And behind them, alyssum, bergenia, and love-lies-bleeding. (She would not forget him, she would not). Bright yellow calendula, wall-flowers yellow and red, white candy-tuft, and the little purple flowers of heliotrope growing scattered everywhere. Painted daisies, Sweet William. The song popped into her head: Sweet William died of love for me, and I will die of sorrow. She wanted to prostrate herself on the grass and bury herself in tears again, but her pride would not let her. She would have to be satisfied with an inward suffering with the music of the flowers’ names as an echoing refrain.
It was a waste of time to be miserable anyway. She should think of the good times when he had tried to teach her the Latin names of all the plants. She had refused to learn, and even now she did not feel the need to know them. English names were good enough. English names said all they needed to say. Think of Scotsman’s Purse. How they had laughed together at the name. Again, as she had done every day since he had left her, she tried to conjure up his presence. She prayed that Mary had managed to find him.
Chapter 12
Dean was in the middle of writing a difficult letter to his mother, telling her of the change of course in his career. He was chewing on the end of his quill, trying to decide if he should leave anything out or tell her everything when there was a sturdy knock on the door. He recognized that knock. It belonged to his landlady, Mrs. Clark, a fellow Scot whose name had been recommended to him by an acquaintance back home. She had been living in this house for thirty years, but since her husband had died, she had been obliged to take in lodgers.
Dean got up and opened the door. Mrs. Clark’s pinched scowl greeted him. “You have a visitor,” she said.
“A visitor!”
“Aye. A young lady.” Mrs. Clark’s disgust was evident. “I have told you that you are not to have young ladies in your apartment alone with you. I run a respectable lodging house here, in spite of the neighbourhood.”
“Aye, Mrs. Clark. Dinna fash. I am well aware of that.”
“Come then,” she said, leading Dean down the stairs to the vestibule as if he did not know the way.
Dean followed, his heart full of mixed emotions. With the exception of Susan, he could not imagine who it might be. Although he was longing to see her again, he prayed that it would not be her. Oh, please God, let her not be so foolish as to follow me, he prayed. The vestibule door opened, and he saw the young lady visitor.
“Mary,” he smiled warmly. “‘Tis a pleasure to see an acquaintance from Kirke Hall.”
“’Tis good to see you also, sir.”
The landlady continued to stand beside Dean and made no move to leave.
“Mrs. Clark,” he asked. “Is there somewhere in the house I might invite Mary to sit and rest? She has come some distance.”
“You may not entertain a young woman in your dressing room, sir. I made that clear when you let your apartment.”
“Aye, madam. I was inquiring of another possibility. Perhaps the servants’ quarters?”
“That would be acceptable.”
The dour Mrs. Clark led them to the back of the house to the kitchen where the housemaid was preparing the next meal. They sat at the table, and once Mrs. Clark had left, Dean leaned forward and whispered, “Please tell me you have only good news to report of our friend, Miss Kirke.”
“Yes, sir. She is quite well. Or at least she has no physical complaints, although she is pining, sir.”
“Give her my regards, and tell her that I miss her, also.”
“I have brought you a letter from Miss Kirke, if you will be so good as to read it.”
He leaned forward, eager to take the letter but even more conce
rned to make Mary aware that there must be no more. “Mary, I must warn you that it is foolhardy for you to act as a go-between between your mistress and myself. I do not think Miss Kirke is aware of the risk to you, or she would not ask it. I do not want another person to suffer the loss of an employment in this affair. I shall accept this letter since you have been so bold in delivering it, but I must insist that you do not attempt such a feat again. I willna accept any future missives from your hand.”
Mary looked sincerely frightened by his words. “Yes, sir,” she said, but made no move to give him the letter.
He continued, “Since you are already here, you may give me the letter.”
“Yes, sir,” she repeated and reached into her pocket to retrieve the letter and hand it to him.
Dean took it from her and perused it lovingly. He imagined Susan as she wrote it in her tidy, delicate school-girl hand. It was like her. Then he had to reread it to truly catch the meaning. It was as he feared. She was considering an elopement. How could he dissuade her? At last he became aware of Mary’s stare and put the letter down with reluctance.
“Do you expect a response?” he asked.
“Why, yes, sir. Miss Kirke led me to believe there would be one.”
“I cannot in good conscience write a letter to her. If you are intercepted and the letter is found on your person, you will undoubtedly find yourself in need of new employment, and I do not wish to be responsible for such an outcome.”
“Are you also still without employment, sir?”
“You may report to your mistress that I have found work at the Vauxhall Gardens, a pleasure ground for Londoners. It is but a short walk from here.”
“Oh! That is why you live in such a frightful neighbourhood. I was afraid to walk here alone from the coach station, except that it is daylight and the ladies of the evening are all abed. Anyway, I braved it for my mistress’ sake.”
“Well, Mary. I am much relieved that you arrived here safely. But I am trying to tell you that you have more to fear from those you know than from total strangers. Take care, and do not return on a fool’s errand for Miss Kirke.”
“She will not be satisfied with no message from you.”
“Do your best to persuade her not to try to contact me again. Tell her she must be patient. When she has reached twenty-one, we may be married without her parents’ consent.”
The Serpentine Garden Path Page 8
