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Authors: Marty Wingate
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room,” Kitty said. “If I didn’t tell her it was time to round up the flock, she’d leave them to roam all the way to Dunbridge.”
—
Pru pulled up her hood and kept her head down crossing the field—the better to keep the rain out of her face. She arrived home as Evelyn and Peachey finished packing up the van with meals for the pensioners.
“No sign of your boy, now,” Peachey said with a smile, “but Christopher arrived. The kettle’s just boiled.”
“We don’t want to be late for the pensioners, Albert,” Evelyn said from the passenger seat.
“Right-o, my love. We’ll be seeing you, Pru.”
Christopher, quick-change artist that he’d become, stood in the kitchen wearing an old sweater and well-worn trousers. “The garden looked deserted when I arrived,” he said, meeting her in the mudroom.
Pru hung her dripping waterproof coat on a peg. “Simon volunteered to take Orlando shopping for work clothes, and I went off to the Blackbird on Christmas fête business,” she explained. She took out her hair clip and combed it through.
Christopher took the clip from her and slid his hand around her waist, his fingers slipping inside her waistband. He began softly kneading that low spot on her back. “You mean we’re alone in the house?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Now that you mention it, I suppose we are.”
His gaze penetrated her very being. “Upstairs.”
She caught her breath. “I’ll be right there,” she said. “I’ll just get out of my muddy shoes.”
He patted her bottom. “I’ll get you out of more than that,” he said and left.
Damn shoelaces,
she thought as she picked at a stubborn, wet knot that was covered in mud. She really should dispense with shoelaces and wear something that could be pulled off instantly. And why had she tied them so tightly? She got them off just as she heard tires on the gravel. Muddy shoe in hand, she cast a longing glance toward the stairs as Simon and Orlando came in.
“Hello, you two,” she said, smiling. “How was the shopping?”
“These ought to hold Evelyn off for a day or two,” Simon said, holding up an assortment of bags from charity shops. “He can muck about all he wants now.”
“Thanks, Simon,” Orlando said, relieving Simon of the bags.
“It was no trouble,” Simon said, digging his hand in his trouser pocket. “You did your part, you sorting out my—”
Orlando cut him off. “We met the fellow who trims the hedges. In Romsey. Simon was explaining to me about yew and how you can cut it down to the wood and it’ll sprout again—what did you call it, Simon, breaking from old wood? And that’s why there are so many ancient yew trees. Is that right?”
Simon looked pleased, Pru suspicious at Orlando’s sudden interest in the physiology of yews.
“I’ll take these up now,” Orlando said, grabbing the bags. “Aunt Pru, I’m not sure if I should use the wardrobe or the chest in my room. Can you come up and show me?”
Pru eyed this compliant, helpful Orlando, sensing a dodge, but wouldn’t argue with a teenager who wanted to tidy his room. “Sure. Thanks, Simon,” Pru said to her brother. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 8
The three gardeners gathered on the parterre lawn Friday morning, well wrapped up for the cold and exhaling clouds of fog into the chilly air. Orlando wore a new, charity-shop wardrobe—a purple coat over green trousers and jumper. Pru turned for a sweeping view of the hedged garden, taking in the generously planted corners and the gravel paths lined with neat boxwood. Two paths cut the large space into quarters; at three points, arched entrances had been sheared into the yew. In the center, a large circle had been defined with boxwood, planted in an intricate Celtic-knot design. Deep planting beds in each corner of the garden held a mix of shrubs and perennials.
“Hebe topiaria.”
Simon nodded to several small gray-leaved shrubs among the fading autumn flowers in one of
—
Pru pulled up her hood and kept her head down crossing the field—the better to keep the rain out of her face. She arrived home as Evelyn and Peachey finished packing up the van with meals for the pensioners.
“No sign of your boy, now,” Peachey said with a smile, “but Christopher arrived. The kettle’s just boiled.”
“We don’t want to be late for the pensioners, Albert,” Evelyn said from the passenger seat.
“Right-o, my love. We’ll be seeing you, Pru.”
Christopher, quick-change artist that he’d become, stood in the kitchen wearing an old sweater and well-worn trousers. “The garden looked deserted when I arrived,” he said, meeting her in the mudroom.
Pru hung her dripping waterproof coat on a peg. “Simon volunteered to take Orlando shopping for work clothes, and I went off to the Blackbird on Christmas fête business,” she explained. She took out her hair clip and combed it through.
Christopher took the clip from her and slid his hand around her waist, his fingers slipping inside her waistband. He began softly kneading that low spot on her back. “You mean we’re alone in the house?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Now that you mention it, I suppose we are.”
His gaze penetrated her very being. “Upstairs.”
She caught her breath. “I’ll be right there,” she said. “I’ll just get out of my muddy shoes.”
He patted her bottom. “I’ll get you out of more than that,” he said and left.
Damn shoelaces,
she thought as she picked at a stubborn, wet knot that was covered in mud. She really should dispense with shoelaces and wear something that could be pulled off instantly. And why had she tied them so tightly? She got them off just as she heard tires on the gravel. Muddy shoe in hand, she cast a longing glance toward the stairs as Simon and Orlando came in.
“Hello, you two,” she said, smiling. “How was the shopping?”
“These ought to hold Evelyn off for a day or two,” Simon said, holding up an assortment of bags from charity shops. “He can muck about all he wants now.”
“Thanks, Simon,” Orlando said, relieving Simon of the bags.
“It was no trouble,” Simon said, digging his hand in his trouser pocket. “You did your part, you sorting out my—”
Orlando cut him off. “We met the fellow who trims the hedges. In Romsey. Simon was explaining to me about yew and how you can cut it down to the wood and it’ll sprout again—what did you call it, Simon, breaking from old wood? And that’s why there are so many ancient yew trees. Is that right?”
Simon looked pleased, Pru suspicious at Orlando’s sudden interest in the physiology of yews.
“I’ll take these up now,” Orlando said, grabbing the bags. “Aunt Pru, I’m not sure if I should use the wardrobe or the chest in my room. Can you come up and show me?”
Pru eyed this compliant, helpful Orlando, sensing a dodge, but wouldn’t argue with a teenager who wanted to tidy his room. “Sure. Thanks, Simon,” Pru said to her brother. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 8
The three gardeners gathered on the parterre lawn Friday morning, well wrapped up for the cold and exhaling clouds of fog into the chilly air. Orlando wore a new, charity-shop wardrobe—a purple coat over green trousers and jumper. Pru turned for a sweeping view of the hedged garden, taking in the generously planted corners and the gravel paths lined with neat boxwood. Two paths cut the large space into quarters; at three points, arched entrances had been sheared into the yew. In the center, a large circle had been defined with boxwood, planted in an intricate Celtic-knot design. Deep planting beds in each corner of the garden held a mix of shrubs and perennials.
“Hebe topiaria.”
Simon nodded to several small gray-leaved shrubs among the fading autumn flowers in one of
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