Ailie seemed anything but disappointed. Mildly shocked, aye. But unfailingly in control. “Maisie, please. You must admit you were the first to call the insults. I’m sure none of it’s of any consequence. Let’s finish our tea, then we’ll take to the fresh air. I think we’ll all benefit.”
The Morrisons, all on their feet now anyway and with plates entirely emptied of their contents, seemedto agree. Ailie, Christie and I—along with the slightly wide-eyed Munro sister, whose name I’d learned last night was Ainsley—stood. With clear friction sparking the air between myself and Maisie, we retreated to the out-of-doors. And I was wildly pleased to do so. We began our tour, soothed somewhat by the warm sun.
I caught Ailie, briefly. “Forgive me, Ailie,” I said. “My behavior is inexcusable.”
“Don’t be silly, Roses. They asked for a response.” She squeezed my hand sincerely. “Your past matters not to me. You are what Wilkie wants, we can all see that.” Her words gave me some comfort, but still I felt remorseful. I also felt distinctly separate from the group. I knew I didn’t belong among their noble company, and now they knew it, too. I regretted my impetuous outburst.
Maisie shot me fiery glances, until I wandered off slightly from the gathering, wishing for solitude and a moment to drink in the air and the bright light and the refreshing scent of the fruitful earth. I wanted some distance to collect myself.
So I set off along a different path, farther into the orchard.
I knew exactly where I was going. I remembered the sweetness of the pears and where to find them. Fergus didn’t question me but continued to follow me from a slight distance, like a silent giant. The few times I’d attempted to engage him in brief conversation, he’d grunted an abrupt answer. So I respected his apparent desire to concentrate on his vigilance, or whatever it was he was doing, in peace. His brief grin at my earlier outburst, though, had lightened the mood between us,and I sensed we both found an element of camaraderie in our forced companionship.
The beauty of the garden struck me anew. I thought of my first trek through it, under the edgy gleam of darkness. That silver-lined night seemed a thousand lifetimes ago. And I could fully appreciate the golden splendor of the garden now, in the glow of the early-autumn sun. I thought of all that had transpired in the weeks since that dark night. If I’d attempted to dream such an outcome, I could not have come close to the magnificence of my new reality. Even my brief catfight with Maisie couldn’t dampen the real spirit of my happiness as I thought of Wilkie. Of the long, languorous beauty of our night together.
The fruit trees were stooped with age and character, dotted together like old men discussing days long past. Fat fruit hung from their branches as jewelry might hang from a queen: colorful, plentiful and richly desired.
I picked the largest pear I could find and took a bite. I ate all of it, then ate two more.
I moved to the next tree and was surprised to hear a voice.
“Who is this who harvests my prize tree, and early?”
I turned to see a man standing there. His expression was friendly, and his gleaming reddish-brown hair caught the sunlight. He was a handsome, upright, earthy-looking man. I glanced at Fergus, who stood with his arms folded across his chest nearby, taking little notice of the stranger; it was obvious the man was a Mackenzie and therefore offered no threat to me.
“My name is Roses,” I began, still startled by his presence, which caused me to fumble slightly with mywords. “I’m a guest here. I’ve been told I could have a pear or two, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all, lass. Take three, if you like.” He paused, as though sensing my unease. “The name’s Fyfe. I’m the orchardist. I tend these trees and work these gardens.”
I felt my eyebrows lift. “You tend these trees?”
“Aye.”
“You’re greatly talented,” I said. “I’ve been admiring your work. These are the best pears I’ve ever tasted.”
“I thank you for that.”
“And how do you get your beans to fruit so high up the vine? I’ve never been able to do that.” It occurred to me, only after I’d blurted out my question, that I shouldn’t have known about his beans. I’d stolen them in the dark of night. But he didn’t appear fazed by my question.
“Ah,” he said. “A fellow gardener. I’ve found a kindred spirit, I see. Come, I’ll show you.”
He chatted easily as we walked, glancing once at Fergus but not ruffled by the appearance of a guard; after all, there were many about.
I found Fyfe’s conversation riveting. It was clear that his thoughts, for a lifetime, had been focused heavily on intricately planned designs, experiments, inventions, schedules, and all on the subject of horticulture. It had been many years since I’d had a conversation like that.
“You see this bean plant here,” he said, holding the stringy stem between two fingers. He picked a bean and handed it to me.
I put it in my mouth, savoring the taste as I chewed. The just-under-ripe fruit pod was perfect. Crispy, and the little peas burst on the tongue. “Oh, Fyfe, this isexactly what I was trying to do when I grew them myself. But they always tasted slightly bitter.”
“The stem must be secured much more tightly than you might think. And the peas must be picked earlier than you might expect. I’ve made that mistake myself—leaving them too long on the vine. Here, have another.”
He held out the bean, placing it close to my mouth, so I had to bite from his hand. But when I bit, he didn’t immediately let go of it. He looked at me intently, and he was close enough that I could see that his eyes were a very dark brown, like the earth he tended. “Your hair catches the sunlight in a most extraordinary way,” he said. Then he released the bean.
“Yours does, too,” I commented. “’Tis the color of copper.”
“How long will your visit extend, Roses, if I may?”
“You may. My visit...will extend indefinitely.”
