Bittersweet herbs, p.2
Bittersweet Herbs, page 2
They exchanged contact details, and then Pru said, “I wonder if I might—”
She was about to explain the article she was writing—would write—when someone tapped a spoon on a glass, calling for attention. The room quieted, and everyone looked to a tall woman with blond hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a short black dress and a long red scarf that swept round her neck and hung to her knees. Her smile was broad and engaging, and Pru, along with others in the crowd, automatically smiled back.
“Please forgive me for interrupting the fun. Thank you all so much for being here. Wasn’t that a wonderful lecture?” She swept her arm toward Acantha as if introducing a new car on the showroom floor. “I certainly don’t want to take anything away from the outstanding talk this evening—”
Acantha smiled back, but under her breath said, “Oh, yes, you do.”
Pru’s eyes darted between the two women, as the blonde continued.
“For those of you who don’t know me, let me introduce myself—I’m Claudia Temple. It’s been only six months ago that I joined the society, and since then, I’ve learned a tremendous amount about medieval times. We have such high hopes for establishing the garden and everyone has been working so very hard, but as you all know, fundraising can be an uphill battle, and costs for the project are high.”
Pru saw many in the crowd nod sadly, and a few shrugged shoulders at one another.
“And so,” Claudia continued, “I wondered, what could I do? What part could I play in moving us forward to our goal? A donation? Of course. But if I encourage you to give according to your means, then so should I. And so”—she took a deep breath and threw out her arms—“it is my pleasure to pledge one million pounds.”
The silence in the hall was deafening, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Then, a second later, came a crash from somewhere in the crowd—a wineglass dropping to the floor—and the silence broke with an uproar of cheers and clapping.
Chapter 2
“Claudia Temple certainly took care of that first level of funding,” Polly commented in the car on the way back. “She must be worth a considerable amount to promise a million pounds in one go.”
“Did you notice how she glowed with pleasure at the cheers and applause?” Bernadette asked thoughtfully. “As if she needed the approval.”
“I’d say the society will put in an offer for that field immediately,” Pru said. “I’m going back day after tomorrow to meet Acantha and find out more. I got the idea Claudia took them all by surprise—either they didn’t know about the money or didn’t realize she would announce it this evening. Did you see the look on Rollo’s face? There were a few others that looked stunned first and happy second. Expected or no, it is remarkable. Think how hard some organizations have to campaign for funds.”
“And she’s been a part of the group for only six months,” Polly added. “But, of course, the tax break will be significant. I wonder if that’s part of it.”
“If they don’t have anyone in charge of finances on the board, maybe you could help out?” Pru suggested. Polly worked as an accountant for a handful of small businesses and volunteered her services for several nonprofits. “And Bernadette”—Pru glanced in her rearview mirror at the vicar in the back seat—“weren’t you talking with the reverend what’s-his-name from the church on the grounds? We should have a combined coffee morning—his church and St. Mary’s. It would help spread the word.”
“Well,” Bernadette replied, “that is my job, after all. Spreading the Word to my flock—on Sundays and throughout the week.”
Pru’s blush went unseen in the dark car. Bernadette had managed to get her on St. Mary’s flower guild and Christopher volunteered with the church-sponsored Scout troop, but their Sunday attendance was spotty, at best.
“You know what I mean,” Pru said, and she caught Bernadette’s smile.
“Yes, I do,” the vicar said.
Polly pointed to the windshield and out into the darkness ahead. “You don’t want to go too fast on the bends along the Straight Mile,” she said. “Could be a bit of ice.”
Pru rolled her eyes. Her sister-in-law drove—as Pru’s dad would’ve said—like a bat out of hell, which in Pru’s mind made any curve dicey. Still, as she drove along the Straight Mile, she slowed her Mini to a crawl.
Smoke curled from one of the chimneys at Greenoak when Pru arrived. It didn’t take her long to shed her coat and seek the warmth. Christopher had a fire going in the library. He had changed out of his uniform, had his sock feet up on an ottoman, and an open book resting on his chest. On the coffee table sat a bottle of wine and a plate of cheese and crackers.
His eyes popped open when Pru leaned over the sofa and put her cheek against his.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“It was my dash from the car into the house—doesn’t take long in this weather. I checked the thermometer on the way in. It’s minus three.” She scooted up close to him on the sofa. “Let’s see, what’s that in Fahrenheit—about twenty-six degrees, I think. Brrr.”
He poured her a glass and handed it over. “I thought you might want something when you arrived—I wasn’t sure if they would be serving you an actual meal. Or how it would taste.”
“We gave the frumenty mixed reviews. Wheat boiled in broth, I think. But there were a few high spots.” She took a sip of wine. “How were the WI and their families?”
“I believe the PC’s uniform impressed them more than I did,” he replied. “And the lecture?”
“Enlightening. Inspiring. It’s an ambitious project and they need volunteers, and so I’ve signed on. I’ve set up a meeting with Acantha Morris on site to talk with her about it. Not only that, but I’ve decided the medieval herb garden will be the subject for my magazine article. There.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “Now that I’ve landed on a topic, I’m sure the writing will take care of itself. The whole thing will be as easy as … payn puff.”
Pru had lost track of Acantha amid the celebration that broke out after Claudia Temple’s announcement, and so hadn’t actually mentioned the magazine article, but what nonprofit organization wouldn’t love to have its mission splashed across the glossy pages of an upscale periodical? But first, Pru needed to be familiar with the subject herself, and so spent the first half of the next morning seeking knowledge. She began online and, when her brother arrived for elevenses, decided he should know more, too.
“I can’t believe you don’t have any books on medieval gardens,” she said to him, pouring their coffees as Evelyn handed over a plate of warm raisin buns before returning to her work at the kitchen sink.
“I can’t believe the university graduate in our midst doesn’t have a full library on every gardening subject.”
Pru, with a quick glance to make sure Evelyn wasn’t watching, flicked a raisin at her brother.
Although Simon and Pru might easily be identified as siblings—something about the slight frizz to their hair and a certain look about their brown eyes—they had not grown up together and so had not worked through that sibling stage during which the older brother tormented his annoying little sister. Since meeting, only a few years ago, they had tried to make up for lost time, ignoring the fact that Simon, fifteen years Pru’s senior, was nearing seventy.
“Polly used to watch those Brother Cadfael television programs,” Simon replied, retrieving the bit of dried fruit from the floor. “They’re medieval and it’s about gardens. Ask her. She probably knows more than the two of us put together.”
Pru had found the program online and watched one episode before bed, but had became distracted by the murder mystery and how young Derek Jacobi looked, and had forgotten to inspect the garden in the background.
“Did she tell you what we ate at the reception?” Pru asked. “It was all quite interesting. I might try cooking a medieval recipe.”
Her brother laughed.
A massive potato slipped out of Evelyn’s hands and thunked into the sink. She muttered something Pru couldn’t make out.
“What did you say, Ev?”
The cook whirled round and braced herself against the counter, her face flushed and firm with determination.
“No lavender,” she announced in a voice that bounced off the walls of the kitchen, and then added, in a conciliatory tone, “You won’t cook with lavender—will you?”
“I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.”
“Lavender scones, lavender pies, lavender crème brûlée”—Evelyn waved her paring knife in the air—“pretty soon the entire kitchen will smell like a soap factory.”
“Well, then, of course I won’t cook with lavender,” Pru said. “Absolutely not. Don’t worry.”
When it came to the kitchen, Pru did what she was told. She had grown up gardening, not cooking, and so had never been able to do much more than scramble eggs. Now, in her midfifties, she had embraced the world of cookery and, under Evelyn’s tutelage, had recently made it through the shortcrust pastry lesson, which had culminated in quite an adequate treacle tart. She could see a vast new world ahead of her, one filled with sauces and soufflés and crisp yet chewy meringues.
Simon stood and headed for the door. “Right. I’d say those black currant bushes won’t prune themselves—we’d better get cracking.”
They were halfway across the gravel yard heading for the potting shed when Simon added, “Next time she makes a pan of shortbread, sneak a bit of lavender in and see if she can even tell.”
Pru stopped in her tracks. “I would never do that to Evelyn,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair.” And because she’d seen Evelyn angry.
A sly grin crept across her brother’s face. “Afraid of the cook, are you? Go on, I dare you.”
The following morning, Pru dressed for her meeting with Acantha as if preparing for battle. Working out in the garden in below-freezing weather was one thing—at least you could gin up some inner heat—but to stand and discuss garden design in the cold was asking to be chilled to the bone. Layers were the answer, and so she laid out each piece of her outfit on the bed—camisole, long-sleeved T-shirt, thin pullover sweater and, to cover it all, a woolly cardigan. She stood wrapped tightly in her tartan robe with her back to the cold fireplace getting up her nerve. Then, she counted to three, threw off her covering, and pulled on each layer, gasping when cold fabric hit her warm skin. She struggled into tights, a thick pair of socks, and heavy corduroy trousers and headed downstairs, where her boots and coat waited.
“It’s on-the-ground research for my article,” she explained to Evelyn as she buttoned her coat and added a red beret, forcing it over the large clip that held her hair at bay. She gave herself a quick check at the mirror in the mudroom loo and saw that her head had taken on the shape of a lopsided mushroom. Comfort over fashion—it was any gardener’s first rule.
Evelyn paused from her task of cutting up chickens and turned, meat cleaver in hand. “This article—is it the one you’ve been writing for the past fortnight? And it’s on medieval gardens?”
“Yes, that article. Now that you mention it, this is a change of topic—” from nothing to something “—and so, I suppose I’d better run it by Nate Crispin. He’s the editor, you know.” As if mentioning the man’s name meant they were the best of friends. “I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.”
Or the next day, Pru thought as she motored over to Winchester under leaden skies. Nate didn’t seem to care what she wrote about, only that he would be able to publish an article by her. Again, that niggling thought surfaced briefly that her name meant more to him than her talents. She would prove him wrong.
Pru parked along St. Cross Back Street, got out of her Mini, and pulled on mittens. Across the road, Acantha emerged from an old plum-colored VW Polo, turned up the collar on a deep-purple wool coat, and tucked a large, thin portfolio under her arm.
“Good morning,” she called. “Ready for your tour?”
“I am,” Pru replied. “Can I carry that for you?”
“No, dear, I’m fine.” But when she opened the oversize folder, several colored-pencil drawings slid out and drifted to the ground.
Pru pulled off a mitten, retrieved the sheets, and held them out to get a better look. A few were plan views—showing the layout of beds and paths from above—and the others were elevation drawings, seen from eye level. Those gave a sense of the scope of the garden, including trees and fruiting plants trained against high brick walls. Details of herbs in flower had been included as a border around several pages, and in the corner of each sheet, the boxed legend read “Winchester Medieval Garden Society.” It had been written in what she assumed was script from the Middle Ages, but what she would call calligraphy.
“These are quite good. I believe my sister-in-law saw them at the lecture.” Pru hadn’t had the time that evening. “Did you have them professionally done?”
“No, Rollo drew them up,” Acatha replied. “He trained as a landscape architect before he went into the family business. You see, we each of us on the board have our own talents to bring to the endeavor.”
She led Pru out into the empty field across from the Hospital, their feet crunching on the frozen ground. There, Acantha took an elevation drawing, held it up, and swept her arm across the empty landscape. “Here it is—or will be. Our medieval herb garden.”
Acantha launched into what sounded very much like a lecture on the definition of a walled garden and how the structure protected plants from wind and extreme temperatures. Pru squinted into the distance, comparing the bare expanse to the landscape in the drawing. It was always an exciting and hopeful time in garden-making, but she could not ignore the cold seeping through her many layers.
“We’ll have the traditional square beds, naturally,” Acantha said, “with wild areas nearer the walls. Of course, we’ll include not only infirmary plants, but also there will be a small orchard and a kitchen garden.” The description abruptly halted, as Acantha’s eyes widened and she laughed.
“How silly of me,” she said. “You know all about medieval gardens, don’t you? Wasn’t your degree in garden history? You see—I looked you up.”
“I’m certainly no expert on this time period,” Pru replied, pulling her mitten back on. “I fashioned my own degree at university and concentrated mostly on the eighteenth century and on. But, I’m eager to learn.”
“Horehound rock?” Acantha secured the portfolio under an arm, rummaged in her handbag, and came up with a small, crumpled paper bag filled with dark-brown chunks of what did, indeed, look like rocks. “Most people know it only as a boiled sweet today—and an old-fashioned one at that. Horehound—the plant—grows wild throughout much of Britain, so no one would think of including it in a modern garden. But in medieval times, it was indispensable. Made into a tea, it would loosen phlegm, you know, so that you could cough up all that thick mucus and be rid of it. We’ve forgotten that today.”
Pru would like to forget it now. “Yes, I’d love one, thanks.”
She pulled off the mitten again, and—not wanting to look finicky—put her hand in the bag and grabbed the first piece she touched, which turned out to be the size of a jawbreaker.
“Oh,” Acantha said with a smile. “You’ve got a gobstopper there.”
Pru popped it in her mouth politely, at the precise moment Acantha asked, “How do you feel about the Doctrine of Signatures?”
Her response—more gargle than words—sent Acantha into peals of laughter. “Don’t I have the worst timing?” She looked over Pru’s shoulder and added, “Oh look, here are Rollo and Finley. I asked them to come along to meet you today.”
“Ahglee,” Pru replied, aiming for “lovely.” A bit of sticky drool escaped out the corner of her mouth.
Acantha gave the two arriving cars a wave. “You’d better spit that out. Go on, I don’t mind. I don’t really care for it, myself—I’m more of a rhubarb-and-custard girl. Just chuck it into the grass.”
Pru did as she was told, and then dug in her pocket for a tissue, looking up to see Rollo Westcott standing behind a navy Renault. Only his head was visible until he walked round the front of the car. Then she saw he wore a plaid hunting jacket adorned with an array of straps, buckles, and pockets. He paused to pull on a fleece-lined trapper hat with earflaps that hung down to his shoulders.
A little cornflower-blue sports car with a black convertible top had nosed up behind the Renault, and a man Pru did not recognize emerged. He secured a Cossack hat over his bald head and buttoned up a gray coat, then leaned over and—with a sleeve of his coat—dusted off the car’s bumper. Meanwhile, Claudia Temple climbed out of the passenger seat. She wore a gold puffy coat that swept to the ground. Another woman wearing such a thing—Pru counted herself foremost—would look as if she’d crawled inside a sleeping bag. On Claudia the coat accentuated her height and her elegance and made her look like the angel atop a Christmas tree.
Claudia threw one end of her long red scarf over a shoulder, where it dangled to her knees, and waved enthusiastically at them. Acantha dropped her hand and said, “Oh, of course—wouldn’t you know it?”
When the trio reached them, introductions were made. Board members Rollo Westcott and solicitor Finley Martin gave Pru single, businesslike handshakes. Claudia Temple grasped both Pru’s hands—one mittened, one bare—in hers.
“We’re so very happy to meet you,” she said, flashing that wide, engaging smile Pru had seen at the lecture. “Isn’t this a thrilling project?”
From a distance, Pru had guessed Claudia to be in her midthirties, but on closer inspection, she saw fine lines at the corners of her eyes and noticed the long blond hair had a few streaks of gray in it. Pru adjusted her guess to nearer fifty.
“Has Acantha shown you round?” Rollo asked Pru. “Have you seen the plans?”
“I’ve had only a glance. You did a fine job on them, I can tell that.” Rollo bobbed his head in acknowledgment, and Pru continued. “This is a wonderful space, and what a great addition to the medieval Hospital and Almshouse across the road.”
