“Yes, the very minute you arrived,” Clarissa finished. “She was absolutely adamant.” She paused and said, “I’d better warn you, she’s looking rather poorly at the moment. She had a nasty bout of influenza a couple of weeks ago, and though she’s recovered, she’s still quite pale and wan, and has lost weight and still tires very easily.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Zoë said. It explained why she hadn’t received any letters from Lady Scattergood in the last few weeks.
“She’s still very much herself, though,” Izzy assured her. “Now, shall we go?”
Zoë glanced at Marie and hesitated.
“Bring her with you,” Clarissa said. “My maid, Betty, will look after her.”
“Does Betty speak French, then?” Zoë knew she didn’t. Betty had been an orphan, like her, and had been in service since she was twelve.
“Ah. No.”
Lucy, coming down the stairs with Lady Tarrant, overheard the discussion. “I will look after Marie for the moment,” she said. “We know each other well, don’t we, Marie?” she said in French, smiling kindly at Marie, who nodded shyly.
“Lovely. So that’s all settled,” Izzy said. “Now come along or the old lady might just explode from impatience.” She and Clarissa linked arms with Zoë and headed out the back gate, entering Bellaire Gardens, the large garden that was entirely enclosed by a square of houses.
All of them—Lady Tarrant, Izzy and Leo, Clarissa and Race and Lady Scattergood—had houses that backed onto the garden, so they could visit one another whenever theyliked. Clarissa’s husband, Race, had bought their home especially so Clarissa could still have her beloved garden and be close to her sister.
Late in the season though it was, the garden was looking beautiful. A few late roses were still in bloom, though most were finished. The leaves of the trees were turning russet and gold and the last of the Michaelmas daisies were blooming in vibrant clumps of pink and lilac and white. In another bed, white and dark red penstemons were nodding their dainty heads, interspersed with spikes of blue and white salvia. Lastly there were shaggy-headed chrysanthemums in gold and pink and bronze. Clarissa pointed them out as they passed, reminding Zoë of the names. Clarissa adored the garden and knew the names of everything.
“I’d forgotten how lovely this garden was,” Zoë said. She’d spent a lot of time out here when she first came to live with Clarissa at Lady Scattergood’s.
“And we’ll soon—Oy, you, Jimmy!” Clarissa broke off, and hurried over to where one of the gardeners was about to prune a rosebush. “Please don’t prune them yet,” she told the man. “I want to harvest the rose hips first. I promise I’ll get them all picked in the next day or two.”
The man doffed his cap and moved away.
“Did you say you wanted the rose hips?” Zoë asked Clarissa when she rejoined them.
“Yes, they make a wonderful syrup that’s very good for winter colds. And a very nice tea, too. And I use them in some of my creams.” Clarissa’s hobby was making all kinds of cosmetic and medicinal creams and potions. They were very good, too. Zoë had used one of Clarissa’s medicinal creams on the cut on Marie’s face and had also applied it to poor Hamish’s rubbed-raw neck.
How was he getting on? she wondered. Would Reynard keep him? He would, she hoped. He was clearly very fond of animals. If only he wasn’t such a…such a…
Catching herself—she wasnotthinking of Reynard atall!—she turned to her sister. “If you like, I’ll help you pick them,” Zoë offered. She’d always enjoyed helping Clarissa with her herbs and flower potions and creams.
Clarissa beamed. “That would be wonderful, thank you, Zoë darling. Meet me out here first thing tomorrow morning and bring an old pair of gloves—preferably kid—to protect your hands.” Zoë nodded and glanced at Izzy.
“Don’t look at me,” Izzy said. “I wouldn’t know a rose hip from a dandelion.”
Clarissa laughed. “You would, too, it’s perfectly obvious, and besides, dandelions are very useful, too. But I want to pick the rose hips first thing in the morning, while the dew is still on them, and I know you’re not an early bird, so I forgive you.”
They walked on, passing the summerhouse, which had been their own special gathering place. The small, pretty glassed-in structure belonged to all the residents, but not many of the other residents used it, apart from Milly Harrington, a nosy girl who often poked her nose in to annoy them. But Milly would be married and gone by now, Zoë reflected. Thank goodness.
They entered Lady Scattergood’s house and were greeted by a pack of excited little dogs, leaping and barking and wriggling with delight. Lady Scattergood collected abandoned and mistreated little dogs—females.
“You’re late!” Lady Scattergood said, presenting a wrinkled, rouged and powdered cheek for Zoë to kiss. “I’ve been waiting here for ages. I thought you’d forgotten me.” She did look even thinner than usual, but the pallor Clarissa had warned her about was well hidden by a thick layer of cosmetics and a lavish application of rouge. She was sitting in her favorite peacock chair, draped with her usual half dozen vibrantly colored and patterned silk shawls.
“Of course I haven’t,” Zoë said, gazing around her, appreciating anew the exuberantly cluttered collection of images and statuettes from far-flung corners of the world thatthe old lady surrounded herself with. It was like visiting some grand potentate from another world. “How are you, dear Lady Scattergood?”
“Oh, struggling along. I’m all alone here now, you know,” the old lady said in a tragic voice. “Nobody cares about an old lady these days.” She heaved a sigh and drooped feebly back in her chair.
Zoë frowned. The pathetic tone sounded quite unlike the Lady Scattergood she remembered, who’d been feisty and assertive. Was it a result of her recent illness?
“What about Mrs. Price-Jones?” An old friend of Lady Scattergood’s, she’d acted as her companion and as chaperone to Clarissa when Zoë had lived there.
“Althea? Gone. Left. Abandoned me,” Lady Scattergood said in a die-away voice. Concerned at the gloomy way the old lady was speaking, Zoë glanced at Izzy, who winked.
“Mrs. Price-Jones got married,” Clarissa explained.
