Page 16 of The Untamed Heart

As they grew nearer, Eustacia could see the peeling black paint, and the gate gave an ear-splitting shriek of protest as Marcus forced it open. She winced, once again weighed down by the enormity of the work needed.

“Ah,” he said with obvious satisfaction as he gazed around at yet more disorder. His eyes lit and he hurried away from her, looking as excited as a child on Christmas morning. “Here are the cold frames you drew. How many there are, and so large. I’ve never seen the like. Splendid. Simply splendid. And look there, the espalier fruit trees are laden despite the neglect. You’ve a good supply of apples and pears. That there is a peach tree, though the birds and the wasps have had the fruit long since.”

Eustacia nodded, hardly recognising the usually taciturn man as the garden drew him in. “Yes, Neil has been coming to see what he can gather. We’ve certainly been using the apples, but he’s city bred and hardly knows a pear from a potato,” she said contritely, suddenly feeling foolish that they’d not realised the extent of the bounty on their doorstep.

Marcus frowned, appearing displeased by this information, and Eustacia bit her lip with dismay but followed as he made his way around the garden, stopping at intervals to release her skirts from thorns and prickly leaves. When she looked up again, she saw him studying a rather dilapidated brick potting shed in the far corner, but he moved on, concentrating on the overgrown beds, identifying those things that were there by design.

“This was the herb bed. The rosemary is rather leggy, but we can take cuttings. The sage is doing well but has taken over the space. Damn, there’s sycamore. The blasted things take root everywhere.” He tugged a half dozen small trees up with ruthless efficiency, casting them down with annoyance.

Eustacia smiled encouragingly but said nothing, riveted by his inspection of the garden.

“Currant bushes,” he murmured as they passed. “These are gooseberry. And rhubarb. Ha! Look at this. Potatoes!” He crouched down and hauled a plant out of the ground with an exclamation of delight, potatoes clinging to the roots.

“Good heavens,” Eustacia said, astonished.

“They’ve self-seeded and not been properly tended, but there’s a good few here all the same.” His large hands gently sorted the potatoes, making a small pile. Then he reached for the soil and squeezed it in his palm, watching as it fell like breadcrumbs. “Excellent soil. Not sandy, nor too clay. A touch of chalk, but that’s to be expected in these parts. It’s been well-manured and fed for years, by the looks of it. This was once a highly productive garden. You’ll grow more than you can eat yourselves in such a place. The wall is good and high to protect it from the wind, but not so high to block the sun. Whoever the man was who created this, and whatever his temperament, he knew a thing or two about gardening.”

“How wonderful.” Eustacia looked around at the swathes of grass and weeds and nettles, at the overgrown hedges, and the trees that threw down their leaves like so much confetti, the gold and bronze flashes tumbling on the breeze as they fell to the ground and could not help feeling a touch sceptical.

“Over there are the remnants of geometric beds, and there are brick edged paths,” he remarked, standing and using his boot heel to remove the thick, damp moss and reveal the herringbone pattern beneath.

They walked back through the open gate, and he gazed up at a vast thicket of tangled rose.

“Good heavens,” he said, crouching down to inspect the base of the impenetrable greenery. “That’s a rosa gallica. Somewhat ironically, it is also known as the Gallic or French rose. It must be nigh on eighty years old, going on the size of it, maybe even a hundred. Well, what a beauty you are.”

He spoke to the rose with such genuine affection Eustacia found herself increasingly charmed by his enthusiasm.

“A gallica,” Eustacia repeated. “Well, I did not know its name, but it flowers splendidly, a riot of bright pink, and the scent… oh, the scent is the most divine in all the world. It drifts up through the open doors of my studio on sunny days and is quite intoxicating.”

Marcus smiled, a faraway look in his eyes. “Yes, there’s nothing like it. It was one of my grandfather’s favourites, though the very devil to prune. This will be quite the ordeal,” he said, though he sounded delighted by the prospect of doing battle with dense, needle-like covering of thorns that bristled over the stems. “Do you have tools?”

Eustacia shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

Before she could say a word, he’d hurried off, back into the kitchen garden.

Eustacia sighed, seeing her chance to sketch him slipping away. She followed a tortuous wrenching sound and was just in time to see the door fall off the shed and hit the floor. Marcus gazed at it resentfully.

“I’ll, er… fix that,” he said, and ducked inside.

Eustacia laughed despite herself and picked up her skirts, trying to avoid the brambles that kept snatching at her. From inside the shed, the sound of clanking and a muttered oath reached her, and a moment later he reappeared and began leaning tools up against the brick walls of the potting shed.

“They need a bit of sharpening and cleaning, and that hoe needs a new shaft, but everything is there, right enough.”

To her astonishment, he began stripping off his coat.

“What are you doing?”

He turned to stare at her in surprise. “Well, there’s no time like the present,” he said impatiently, and disappeared back into the shed.

Chapter 5

The Garden Offensive

Darenth Knoll, Sevenoaks, Kent, 22nd September 1816

Hawkney nodded to Sheringham as they met on the landing and made their way downstairs. Sherry was not a morning person, and being forced to rise before midday was bound to put him in an ill temper, but he seemed in remarkably good spirits as they headed for the breakfast parlour.

“Do you think our host has remembered we are here, as he forgot to turn up for dinner?” Sheringham mused as the butler appeared to greet them.