There were two daily mealtimes at Eversby Priory: a hearty breakfast and a hedonistic dinner. In between, an artful miscellany of leftovers was arranged in a sideboard buffet. There was no end of cream, butter, and cheese made from summer grass milk. Juicy, tender bacon and smoked ham were served at nearly every meal, either on their own or chopped into salads and savory dishes. There were always abundant vegetables from the kitchen garden, and ripe fruit from the orchards. Accustomed as Garrett was to the quick and Spartan fare at home, she had to force herself to eat slowly and linger at the table. In the absence of any schedule or responsibilities, there was no need to rush.
While Ethan slept in the afternoons, Garrett fell into the habit of taking a daily walk through the estate’s formal gardens. The summer-flowering beds had been beautifully maintained but intentionally left just a bit disheveled, lending offhand charm to the otherwise disciplined design.
There was something about being in a garden that made thinking easier. Not just regular thinking, but the kind that went a few layers down. This, she mused on her walk one day, was why Havelock had advised her to go on holiday.
As she passed a bronze fountain of frolicking cherubs, and a bed of chrysanthemums with curled and tangled white blossoms, she recalled something else Havelock had said on that occasion: “Our existence, even our intellect, hangs upon love—without it, we would be no more than stock and stones.”
Now she had done both things he’d advised: gone on holiday—although it certainly hadn’t started that way—and found someone to love.
How extraordinary this all was. She had spent most of her life running from the guilt of having caused her mother’s death, never slowing enough to notice or care what she might be missing. This was the one thing she’d never bargained for. Love had appeared mysteriously, taking root like wild violets growing in the cracks of city pavement.
Havelock would probably caution her that she hadn’t known Ethan long enough to be sure of him, or of her own feelings. Most people would say it had happened too fast. But there were a few things about Ethan Ransom that Garrett was absolutely certain of. She knew he accepted her flaws as readily as she did his: they could do that for each other when they couldn’t do it for themselves. And she knew he loved her without condition. They had each arrived at a crossroads in life, and this was their chance to go in some new direction together, if they were brave enough to take it.
On the way back to the house, Garrett took a detour on a winding path that led to the estate’s kitchen gardens and poultry house. Instead of the standard shed with an attached wire pen, the Eversby Priory chickens lived in a poultry palace. The central brick-and-painted-wood structure was topped with a slate roof and openwork parapets, and fronted by a colonnade of white pillars. Two wings curved outward from the main building, encompassing a paved court and a small pond for the birds’ use.
Garrett walked around to the back of the building, where the wire exercise pens had been planted with fruit-bearing trees. At one of the corner posts, an elderly gardener was standing and talking, while a younger man sat on his haunches to mend a fencing panel.
The younger of the two was big-framed and very fit, his hands deft as he spliced broken wires together with a pair of pliers. Even before Garrett saw the face beneath the battered hat, she knew it was West Ravenel from the deep resonance of his voice.
“God help me, I don’t know what the damned things need,” he was saying ruefully. “Try taking them out of the cold frame and putting them back into the glasshouse.”
The gardener’s response was muffled and fretful.
“Orchids.” West made the word sound like a profanity. “Just do what you can. I’ll shoulder the blame.”
The older man nodded and shambled away.
Noticing Garrett’s approach, West rose to his feet and made a motion of touching his hat brim respectfully, pliers still in hand. Dressed in work trousers and a rumpled shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms, he appeared far more like a salt-of-the-earth farmer than a pedigreed gentleman. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”
Garrett smiled at him. Despite West’s high-handed act of dosing her tea with valerian, she grudgingly acknowledged that he’d been well-intentioned. Now that Ethan was recovering so well, she had decided to forgive him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ravenel. Please don’t let me interrupt your task, I just wanted to have a look at the poultry house. It’s quite spectacular.”
West ducked his head to blot his perspiring face on his upper shirtsleeve. “When we first took up residence at Eversby Priory, the poultry house was in far better condition than the manor. The order of precedence around here clearly favors hen over human.”
“May I ask what the pavilions are for?”
“Laying nests.”
“How many—” Garrett began, but was startled into silence by a fury of sound and motion: a pair of large geese were rushing at her with wings outspread, hissing and honking and making earsplitting whistling sounds. Even though the aggressive birds were on one side of the fencing and she was on the other, instinct caused her to jump back.
Quickly West interposed his body between Garrett and the irate creatures, gripping her arms lightly to assure himself of her balance. “Sorry,” he said, his blue eyes alive with amusement. He turned to the geese, warning, “Back off, you two, or I’ll use you both for mattress stuffing.” After he guided Garrett a bit farther away from the fence, the geese quieted but continued to glare at her. “Please forgive the ill-mannered beggars,” West said. “They’re hostile to any stranger who isn’t a chicken.”
Garrett straightened her straw sunbonnet, which was little more than a flattened circle with a small knot of ribbons and flowers at the side. “Ahh, I see. Guard geese.”
“Precisely. Geese are territorial, and they have keen eyesight. Whenever a predator comes near, they raise the alarm.”
She chuckled. “I’ll vouch for their effectiveness.” As she meandered along the enclosure fencing, taking care to keep her distance from the suspicious geese, she said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the gardener. I hope you’re not having difficulty with Helen’s orchids?”
One of the estate’s four glasshouses had once housed an extensive collection of bromeliads, cared for by Helen. Most of the exotic plants had been transported to London, where Winterborne had built a glass rooftop conservatory for Helen in their home. Some of the orchids, however, had been left behind at Eversby Priory.
“Naturally we’re having difficulty with them,” West said. “Orchid keeping is nothing but a desperate effort to delay the inevitable outcome of dry sticks in pots. I told Helen not to leave the damned things behind, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Surely Helen won’t scold,” Garrett said, amused. “I’ve never heard her say a cross word to anyone.”
“No, she’ll merely look a little disappointed, in that way she has. It won’t bother me personally, but one hates to see the entire gardening staff weep.” He leaned down to pick up a hammer from the carpenter’s tool basket next to the fence post. “I assume you’ll check on Ransom when you return to the house?”
“No, he’s been sleeping in the afternoons while I walk.”