The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf by Stephanie Barron Page A
Authors: Stephanie Barron
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whether it’s Woolf’s?”
Llewellyn took the notebook from Jo’s hand. He peered at the soiled brown cover.
“You can’t imagine what this process is like, can you? I’d have to formally accept the manuscript with all sorts of papers you’d be required to fill out, proving your ownership of the article in question and your right to request such an analysis. Only you and I both know you don’t own the article in question. The notebook would be entered in our computers. Submitted with forms to the correct departments. It would be catalogued and known . Then Marcus Symonds-bloody-Jones would be all over it. Ringing up his friends in the press, contacting private collectors—universities and libraries all over the world…”
“Who is Marcus Simmon-Jones?”
“Symonds,” he corrected. “A perfectly loathsome individual who orders my life and half of Sotheby’s. The point, Miss Bellamy, is that if your notebook’s in the system , it automatically moves right out of your control , do you understand?”
“Which means?”
“That if this notebook is indeed what you think—if Woolf wrote it when she was believed to be dead—if she was alive after she left Leonard and came to her end in a different manner than history records—if this journal is not a fake , as I admit I’m beginning to wonder—”
“Why?”
He halted in mid-speech and studied her.
“Because you’re so damnably plausible,” he said at last. “Nobody invents a suicidal Kentish grandpa. Because I want to believe you’re as honest as you seem. Which is the very worst reason to doubt my judgment that I can think of. It’s pathetically subjective. And a Book Expert ought to be objective , always—”
“Thank you.”
He nodded brusquely. “As I say—if any of this is remotely true, then you have the find of the century on your hands.”
“We,” she corrected, springing to her feet. “We have the find of the century. And you don’t want to lose control of that?”
“Do you?”
“Not until I know what part Jock played in all of it,” she answered decisively.
“And if the truth is something you don’t want to hear?—the truth about your grandfather, I mean?”
“It can’t be worse than what he’s already done. I’ll deal with whatever comes.”
“Very well.” Llewellyn rose from the park bench and held out the notebook. “If you go back to Kent, you might as well advertise this little item stark naked in Piccadilly Circus. The Family at Sissinghurst will pursue this themselves.”
He was right. He was absolutely right. The book wasn’t hers. She had no right to it. But she couldn’t just…
“I can’t just steal this!”
He glanced at her sidelong as he sauntered back toward the Green Park gate. “I thought somebody’d lent it to you.”
Twenty-four hours , Imogen had said. No more. I’m jolly well not going to lose my place over you . Imogen would be furious if Jo failed to appear, notebook in hand. She’d wonder. Become suspicious. But should Jo trust Imogen? What if the Head Gardener had deliberately used her?
“The notebook was lent to me—but only in a manner of speaking.”
“Good. That’s settled, then. I’ve a car in Sotheby’s garage. We can be off in minutes.”
“You’re driving me back to Kent?” But what about Gray—the Connaught—all the unanswered questions…
Llewellyn turned at the edge of Jermyn Street. “I’d rather drive to Oxford, actually. The best Woolf expert in England is there. Will you come with me, Miss Bellamy?”
Another expert. Who might tell them, once and for all, that the notebook was nonsense. But she would have to risk it; she had to know.
“I think you’d better call me Jo,” she told him.
31 March 1941
Sissinghurst
“I MUST WRITE SOMETHING IN REPLY,” VITA PROTESTED this morning, when we had taken our tea and bread in the Priest’s House, with its trestle table and painted cupboard, its heavy drapes of velvet. Watery sunshine through
Llewellyn took the notebook from Jo’s hand. He peered at the soiled brown cover.
“You can’t imagine what this process is like, can you? I’d have to formally accept the manuscript with all sorts of papers you’d be required to fill out, proving your ownership of the article in question and your right to request such an analysis. Only you and I both know you don’t own the article in question. The notebook would be entered in our computers. Submitted with forms to the correct departments. It would be catalogued and known . Then Marcus Symonds-bloody-Jones would be all over it. Ringing up his friends in the press, contacting private collectors—universities and libraries all over the world…”
“Who is Marcus Simmon-Jones?”
“Symonds,” he corrected. “A perfectly loathsome individual who orders my life and half of Sotheby’s. The point, Miss Bellamy, is that if your notebook’s in the system , it automatically moves right out of your control , do you understand?”
“Which means?”
“That if this notebook is indeed what you think—if Woolf wrote it when she was believed to be dead—if she was alive after she left Leonard and came to her end in a different manner than history records—if this journal is not a fake , as I admit I’m beginning to wonder—”
“Why?”
He halted in mid-speech and studied her.
“Because you’re so damnably plausible,” he said at last. “Nobody invents a suicidal Kentish grandpa. Because I want to believe you’re as honest as you seem. Which is the very worst reason to doubt my judgment that I can think of. It’s pathetically subjective. And a Book Expert ought to be objective , always—”
“Thank you.”
He nodded brusquely. “As I say—if any of this is remotely true, then you have the find of the century on your hands.”
“We,” she corrected, springing to her feet. “We have the find of the century. And you don’t want to lose control of that?”
“Do you?”
“Not until I know what part Jock played in all of it,” she answered decisively.
“And if the truth is something you don’t want to hear?—the truth about your grandfather, I mean?”
“It can’t be worse than what he’s already done. I’ll deal with whatever comes.”
“Very well.” Llewellyn rose from the park bench and held out the notebook. “If you go back to Kent, you might as well advertise this little item stark naked in Piccadilly Circus. The Family at Sissinghurst will pursue this themselves.”
He was right. He was absolutely right. The book wasn’t hers. She had no right to it. But she couldn’t just…
“I can’t just steal this!”
He glanced at her sidelong as he sauntered back toward the Green Park gate. “I thought somebody’d lent it to you.”
Twenty-four hours , Imogen had said. No more. I’m jolly well not going to lose my place over you . Imogen would be furious if Jo failed to appear, notebook in hand. She’d wonder. Become suspicious. But should Jo trust Imogen? What if the Head Gardener had deliberately used her?
“The notebook was lent to me—but only in a manner of speaking.”
“Good. That’s settled, then. I’ve a car in Sotheby’s garage. We can be off in minutes.”
“You’re driving me back to Kent?” But what about Gray—the Connaught—all the unanswered questions…
Llewellyn turned at the edge of Jermyn Street. “I’d rather drive to Oxford, actually. The best Woolf expert in England is there. Will you come with me, Miss Bellamy?”
Another expert. Who might tell them, once and for all, that the notebook was nonsense. But she would have to risk it; she had to know.
“I think you’d better call me Jo,” she told him.
31 March 1941
Sissinghurst
“I MUST WRITE SOMETHING IN REPLY,” VITA PROTESTED this morning, when we had taken our tea and bread in the Priest’s House, with its trestle table and painted cupboard, its heavy drapes of velvet. Watery sunshine through
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