wanted to touch her. Instead, he sought a way to help. He had his reward. When she smiled, her long, troubled face was transfigured. It was as if the sun’s rays had suddenly penetrated the woodland gloom. He could not prevent himself from smiling in answer.
Thus it began.
WILLIAM
June 15 th , 1914
When William Hatherwick returned home to Garden Lodge his sister, Violet set aside the sock she was darning and chided him for missing supper. As he cut himself a thick slice of bread, she set a bowl of soup before him.
‘Eat it before it gets cold.’
‘It was such a fine evening, I went for a walk. I forgot the time.’ He swallowed some soup, then said, ‘Do we have any brown paper and string?’
Violet went to the wooden dresser and pulled open a drawer. She withdrew several pieces of used string and a creased sheet of brown paper, smoothed flat and neatly folded. ‘Are you sending a parcel then?’ As she deposited the paper and string on the table, she bent and whispered in his ear, ‘Who’s the lucky lady then?’
William ignored his sister’s nudge and said, ‘Would you deliver a book to Beechgrave for me? I’m lending it.’
‘I didn’t think Mr Mordaunt took much interest in the garden,’ Violet said as she settled down again in her chair. ‘Doesn’t he leave everything up to Father?’
‘Yes, he does. The book isn’t for him. It’s for Miss Mordaunt. She’s interested in horticulture. Unlike her father.’
Violet looked up from her mending, wide-eyed. ‘You’ve spoken to Miss Mordaunt?’
Scraping up the last of the soup from his bowl, William avoided her eye. ‘We discussed plant collecting. I was able to satisfy her curiosity on a point and suggested she should read one of my books. I propose to lend it to her. It’s very informative,’ William added, finishing the last of his bread and butter. ‘And entertaining. I think she’ll enjoy it. So would you take the parcel up to the house for me? Tomorrow. Miss Mordaunt’s expecting it.’
‘Very well, if you’ve promised it to her. But William—’
‘And I don’t see any need to mention this to Father. The book’s mine. There’s no harm in lending it to an interested party, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Violet answered cautiously.
He rose from the table and said, ‘The soup was very good, Vi. Thank you.’
‘I baked jam tarts. Strawberry. Your favourite. Will you have one with a cup of tea?’
‘Not now. I’m going upstairs to read.’
‘You’ll wear out your eyes with all your studying! On a fine night like this a young man should be walking out with his sweetheart.’
The criticism was familiar, but William knew his sister spoke with affection. She was also expressing her own frustrations. Since the death of their mother, Violet had had little opportunity for leisure.
‘As you’re well aware, Vi, I cannot marry until I’m appointed to the position of Head Gardener. The path to advancement is study and the increase of scientific knowledge. I must make my own way in the world. No one else can do it for me. Goodnight.’
~
In the spartan seclusion of his room, William gazed out of the window towards the beech wood. There was not enough light to read, but he postponed the lighting of his candle by taking a volume from his bookcase, which he proceeded to wrap. He made a neat parcel, taking care with the corners, then tied it up with string. He took a pencil and wrote
Miss H. Mordaunt
Beechgrave
Setting the book aside, he lit his candle and placed it on the table. Overwhelmed suddenly with exhaustion – his twelve-hour working day had started at six in the morning – William yawned, then dragged a callused hand through his thick dark hair, greasy now with sweat. He opened the window wide, leaned out and inhaled the scents rising from the garden below: lilac, honeysuckle and night-scented stocks. He closed his eyes and almost reeled. A man could get drunk on their perfume.
As he
Thus it began.
WILLIAM
June 15 th , 1914
When William Hatherwick returned home to Garden Lodge his sister, Violet set aside the sock she was darning and chided him for missing supper. As he cut himself a thick slice of bread, she set a bowl of soup before him.
‘Eat it before it gets cold.’
‘It was such a fine evening, I went for a walk. I forgot the time.’ He swallowed some soup, then said, ‘Do we have any brown paper and string?’
Violet went to the wooden dresser and pulled open a drawer. She withdrew several pieces of used string and a creased sheet of brown paper, smoothed flat and neatly folded. ‘Are you sending a parcel then?’ As she deposited the paper and string on the table, she bent and whispered in his ear, ‘Who’s the lucky lady then?’
William ignored his sister’s nudge and said, ‘Would you deliver a book to Beechgrave for me? I’m lending it.’
‘I didn’t think Mr Mordaunt took much interest in the garden,’ Violet said as she settled down again in her chair. ‘Doesn’t he leave everything up to Father?’
‘Yes, he does. The book isn’t for him. It’s for Miss Mordaunt. She’s interested in horticulture. Unlike her father.’
Violet looked up from her mending, wide-eyed. ‘You’ve spoken to Miss Mordaunt?’
Scraping up the last of the soup from his bowl, William avoided her eye. ‘We discussed plant collecting. I was able to satisfy her curiosity on a point and suggested she should read one of my books. I propose to lend it to her. It’s very informative,’ William added, finishing the last of his bread and butter. ‘And entertaining. I think she’ll enjoy it. So would you take the parcel up to the house for me? Tomorrow. Miss Mordaunt’s expecting it.’
‘Very well, if you’ve promised it to her. But William—’
‘And I don’t see any need to mention this to Father. The book’s mine. There’s no harm in lending it to an interested party, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Violet answered cautiously.
He rose from the table and said, ‘The soup was very good, Vi. Thank you.’
‘I baked jam tarts. Strawberry. Your favourite. Will you have one with a cup of tea?’
‘Not now. I’m going upstairs to read.’
‘You’ll wear out your eyes with all your studying! On a fine night like this a young man should be walking out with his sweetheart.’
The criticism was familiar, but William knew his sister spoke with affection. She was also expressing her own frustrations. Since the death of their mother, Violet had had little opportunity for leisure.
‘As you’re well aware, Vi, I cannot marry until I’m appointed to the position of Head Gardener. The path to advancement is study and the increase of scientific knowledge. I must make my own way in the world. No one else can do it for me. Goodnight.’
~
In the spartan seclusion of his room, William gazed out of the window towards the beech wood. There was not enough light to read, but he postponed the lighting of his candle by taking a volume from his bookcase, which he proceeded to wrap. He made a neat parcel, taking care with the corners, then tied it up with string. He took a pencil and wrote
Miss H. Mordaunt
Beechgrave
Setting the book aside, he lit his candle and placed it on the table. Overwhelmed suddenly with exhaustion – his twelve-hour working day had started at six in the morning – William yawned, then dragged a callused hand through his thick dark hair, greasy now with sweat. He opened the window wide, leaned out and inhaled the scents rising from the garden below: lilac, honeysuckle and night-scented stocks. He closed his eyes and almost reeled. A man could get drunk on their perfume.
As he
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