Quiet Meg Read Free

itself was imposing, with its weathered gray
stone and sturdy formality. Chas appreciated that it was
properly scaled for its site. In the shape of a flattened H,
with east and west wings, twinned chimneys and limited
ornamentation, the house had clean, pleasing lines. Jones
was said to have designed at least part of it; the family was
not certain. It had been built for the ages, regardless. But
the best views at Selbourne, as Chas had reason to know,
were from inside the house-to this promontory in the
east, across the park to the river in the south, past the
rolling fields and farms westward, and back to the flanking
wooded hills of Burley to the north.
    He asked Bertie about the uses of the property-the
paddocks and stables, the farms, and the family’s own
entertainments-all of which he supplied with humorous
asides and a degree of frustration.
    “‘Tis a bit of a ruin, Cabot. I told you so in town. You
must consider it yours ! No one has done much to the place
since the lanes and gates went up with the house. The head
gardener is elderly and tyrannical. I await his abdication. Anything you find acceptable is probably mere happenstance”

    “Does your father take a daily constitutional? He says he
cannot run the chair out on the lawn”
    “He goes to the stables, to see his pets. On occasion he
has ventured down to the river gate, but he is otherwise restricted to the house. His confinement is a great distress to
him, Cabot. He was always a vigorous man, and a devoted
horseman.”
    On the way back to the stables they passed the entrance
to the kitchen garden at the northwest corner of the house.
Though the light was fading, Bertie suggested they take a
quick look. Chas handed his reins to a groom, then followed Bertie to an iron gate set in a high stone wall.
    He was astonished by what lay beyond-easily five thousand square feet of carefully plotted parterre, lime and dwarf
fruit trees, clipped box hedges, trellises for vines, a small
central pond and, along the north wall, a tiny teahouseshielded from stronger winds, but open to the sun. The
kitchen garden, cradled within the old walls of a former stable yard, was a surprising, welcome relief from the rest of
Selbourne’s spare setting. Even now, in early March, low
bulbs and sweet peas bloomed amidst subtly hued cabbages
and herbs, adding vitality and color to the gray surroundings.
    “You say your sister Margaret designed this?”
    “Every inch of it, except the walls of course. But she laid
out the planting beds and the pond, and had the teahouse
and trellises built, and has instructed cook and anyone who
will lend an ear in how to keep it up. ‘Twas her project, you
see-though it has not seemed to give her as much pleasure since-well, for some years” His lips set grimly. “You shall
have some difficulty wresting it from her.”

    “I shouldn’t wish to. ‘Tis charming.”
    Chas thought he must revise his opinion of Margaret
Lawrence. Her garden had been artfully arranged. Perhaps
her seemingly self-indulgent ways had a positive side; he
valued that kind of determination in himself. But he still
wondered what the young woman had done to so unsettle
her worthy family.
    With a promise to Bertie that he would have men out by
the end of the week, Chas returned to town in the Selbourne
coach. As was usual at the start of any endeavor, he was intensely focused. That night he made notes and scribbled letters to growers whose stock he knew he would wish to
guarantee. But such activity did not entirely absorb him. Visiting his grandmother’s house in town the next afternoon, he
broached a subject that was beginning to annoy him.
    “Sir Eustace Lawrence has several daughters, Grandmere, in addition to his son, my friend Bertram” He gazed
out at the rainy London streets. “The eldest is married-to
Thomas Ferrell, the MP for Kitchley. The youngest, Lucinda, will be out this season. Do you know anything of the