Читать книгу The Australian Affairs Collection - Margaret Way - Страница 63

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHELLEY LOVED EVERYTHING about Declan’s garden and was immensely proud of the restoration work she had done. Spring was taking over—the crab apple tree in a froth of delicate pink blossom, daffodils that had naturalised over many years coming up in golden drifts in the lawn, the scent of daphne replaced by that of old-fashioned white freesias.

The restored dry stonewalls and hedges delineated the concept of separate garden ‘rooms’ that made the space such a delight. She had even uncovered a small kitchen garden with an espaliered lemon tree growing flat against a wall, a rosemary hedge and herbs, including sage, tarragon plus three different varieties of thyme. She would plant annual herbs like basil and coriander if she thought anyone would use them in their one season of growth. Declan? He’d told her he rarely cooked but he might have use for fresh herbs. She must ask him.

In the front of the garden, the climbing rose ‘Lamarque’ was covered in hundreds of white buds ready to burst into glorious bloom—as she had promised Declan it would. Those higher rooms in his house must now be flooded with light and soon the delicate scent of the roses. But would she be here to see it?

The more she worked on the garden, the more she appreciated its design, and the work of the gardeners who had come before her. The original design certainly paid homage to Enid Wilson, which was perhaps one of the reasons she’d been so drawn to it.

But on Sunday morning—the day after Lynne’s party—even though she wasn’t officially working, she decided to spend the morning sorting out the shed.

It was a late start. She’d awoken to the surprise of finding Declan in her bed. Well, technically on her bed and fully clothed—as she was too. She’d only vaguely remembered him carrying her into the bedroom the night before. He’d stayed while she’d cooked him breakfast then he’d gone back to his part of the house.

But before he’d gone he’d kissed her and said he would catch up with her later in the day. She’d been itching to ask when but had resisted. Declan was coming from a dark place—if anything important was going to develop between them, it wouldn’t be overnight. Hope, like the spring garden, had blossomed in her heart.

She’d rebelled at wearing her gardening uniform on a Sunday. After all, it was officially her day off and she was going to fit in a ride with Flynn if she could. And, yes, if she was going to catch up with Declan she’d rather be seen in something other than khaki.

She didn’t want to look too eager, either, so compromised with slim-legged blue jeans and a shirt with fine stripes of blue and lavender. Eye make-up and lipstick for working in the shed? Why not? With her hair in a long plait down her back instead of jammed up under a hat. And her favourite French rose perfume liberally sprayed on her pulse spots.

Over the last weeks she’d managed to get some semblance of order into the shed and turned it into a useful workshop. She’d sorted out many of the wonderful old tools and garden implements. Having a wide, clear workbench made it easier to strike cuttings, plant seeds in trays, change the soil and trim the roots of potted plants and was especially useful in wet weather. But there was a large, weatherproof metal chest she hadn’t yet tackled.

Wearing her sturdy gloves, she’d brushed off the dust and cobwebs from the chest and was just about to force open the rusted lid when she heard the door opening. She turned and her heart leapt in delight to see Declan. He came over and dropped a kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ve come down to give you a hand,’ he said.

Shelley was stunned. Never had she expected that Declan would help her in the garden, the billionaire descending from his tower. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She hadn’t expected the kiss either; casual as it had been, it was a real turning point.

He was wearing jeans and a faded grey T-shirt with sleeves that rolled up to his biceps and showed off his impressive pecs and broad shoulders. She wondered if he had left her after breakfast to do one of his gruelling workouts. He had not shaved and she decided she liked the dark stubble on his jaw, the graze of it on her skin.

‘What can I do to help?’ he asked.

‘I’ll think of something,’ she said.

Shelley could think of a number of things she would like to direct Declan to do. None of them had anything to do with gardening. Just looking at him brought a flush of desire.

But she hadn’t changed her mind since the previous night. When she’d woken up next to Declan, she had been relieved they hadn’t made love. It took the pressure off getting to know each other, to take small steps instead of leaping in head first. To be certain.

‘What’s in the chest?’ he asked. It still bemused her that he owned this wonderful garden and yet knew so very little—and cared even less—about the treasures it contained.

‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘If I can get the lid off we’ll find out.’

‘Let me do that,’ he said. With one firm wrench he had the lid up.

They were met with the musty scent of old paper. She peered into the depths of the chest. There was a number of what looked like old diaries and a bundle of papers wrapped in oilskin and tied firmly with sturdy string.

She didn’t need Declan’s warning to watch out for spiders. Tentatively she reached into the chest and pulled out two of the diaries, flipped through their pages. ‘They’re garden diaries,’ she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘Can you get the rest, please?’

Declan pulled out all the diaries and put them on the desk. It only took him a few minutes to stack them in chronological order. ‘They date right back to pre-World War Two,’ he said.

She picked one up randomly and flicked through the pages. Then another. And another. ‘This is gardener’s gold,’ she said. ‘Daphne and before that her mother, Lily, kept meticulous dairies about their work in the garden. What they planted, what worked, what didn’t. When the first tomatoes ripened. When they sprayed for bugs. How they dealt with water restrictions in times of drought.’

She turned to Declan. ‘It’s the history of your garden. One of the grand old gardens of Sydney. A hidden gem.’

‘That’s quite a find,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you just the littlest bit excited?’ she asked.

‘Why would I be?’ he said. ‘But I’m glad you’re excited.’

‘Of course I’m thrilled,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to read through them all.’

‘Remember, it was Lisa’s garden not...not mine. She...she would have been excited.’

Shelley gripped the edge of the diary in her hand. Lisa. Lucky Lisa in one way as she had had Declan’s love, yet so very tragic that she had died so young in such sad circumstances. Yes, Lisa probably would have been excited to find the diaries. If things had been different she and Lisa might have been working together on the restoration of this garden with doting husband Declan occasionally dropping by to check on the progress of his wife’s project. Vivacious Lisa, remembered now in the garden with a planting of roses that would every year in late spring be a blaze of vibrant colour.

But Lisa was gone and, no matter how he grieved, Declan could not bring her back. Shelley as a gardener knew only too well about the cycle of death and renewal of life. The shrivelled autumn leaves making way for the fresh green shoots of spring. The perennial plants that died right down in winter only to shoot gloriously to life when the days got longer. The caterpillars she let chew holes on some of the leaves so they survived to transform into butterflies. All around her in this garden she was witnessing that everyday miracle.

From what she had heard about Lisa, she doubted she would have wanted her husband to spend the rest of his years alone, to live a shadowy half life with a shrivelled husk of a heart.

Shelley made a silent vow to the dead woman: if she had the chance she would rescue Declan from his blighted life, make him happy and— She fought against using the word love. Not now. Not yet. She had jumped too soon into love before and suffered heartbreak. But if she were granted a future with Declan, she would allow herself to love him and cherish him. He’ll be in good hands, Lisa.

But if she and Declan had any chance of that future together she had to ask. ‘Declan, why do you blame yourself for Lisa’s death?’

The colour drained from his face, leaving it as grey as his T-shirt. ‘Because I should have got her to the hospital quicker. The doctors said it wouldn’t have made any difference but I’ve asked myself over and over if those ten minutes I took to complete my work might have made a difference. I let my work come before her.’

‘Wh... What exactly happened? I know you said she...she died in childbirth but...how exactly?’

She had never seen him look so bleak and drawn. ‘The baby was premature but that apparently wasn’t what caused it.’

He paused and she waited to let him gather his thoughts, stomping down on her usual urge to fill a blank silence.

‘Tiny Alice had to be put on a ventilator—her lungs weren’t properly developed. I went with the doctors to see what was happening. But while I was in the neonatal intensive care unit with her one of the other doctors came to find me. Lisa had complained of feeling faint. They were concerned. By the time I got back to her bed she...she’d slipped away.’

Shelley closed her eyes. She wished she hadn’t asked. Could scarcely comprehend his anguish and pain. But she had to know.

‘How? Why?’

‘An embolism. A blood clot. It lodged in her heart. There was nothing the doctors could do. There was no warning.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘Declan, I am so, so sorry. Thank you for telling me. It...it helps me to understand you better.’

‘I wish I could understand it better myself,’ he said savagely, his mouth a bitter twist.

She had to tread lightly. ‘But seems to me that there can be absolutely no blame attached to you.’

‘So they told me. But I should have been able to stop it.’

‘How? If a team of highly trained doctors couldn’t have saved her and your baby, how could you have?’

‘I know all that,’ he said. ‘But I... I... Lisa wanted to wait a few more years. If I hadn’t cajoled her into starting a family earlier it...it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘How can you say that? Something else might have taken her. An accident. Disease. Anything. It was out of your hands.’

In response he made some inarticulate sound that speared her heart.

A millionaire at age eighteen. A billionaire in his twenties. Here was a brilliant man used to making things happen his way. Yet he had not been able to save his little family. And had turned it all back on himself.

Was Declan really ready to move forward? Would he ever be ready? And did she have the strength to be the one to help him? To keep on shining her light—as he put it—into the shadowy recesses of his soul?

She would darn well try.

She put her arms around him and was mightily relieved he didn’t push her away.

‘It’s dusty in here,’ she said. ‘Let’s go outside. Maybe I can make you a coffee.’

His face was set like granite. ‘I don’t need to be babied, Shelley. I’ve been living with this for two years. I can deal with it.’

Yes—if locking yourself away from the rest of the world meant dealing with it.

‘If you’re sure you’re not letting misplaced guilt—’

‘Maybe I am.’ He looked deep into her face. To her relief there was a softening of his features, a dawning warmth in his eyes. ‘But...but for the first time I’m beginning to believe I can forgive myself. You. My mother. You’re helping.’

‘And you’re letting yourself be helped. That’s the first step.’

‘But I have to do it at my pace. I don’t want to talk about it any more. Not now. Not ever.’

Shelley shook her head so vehemently her plait flew around to the front. ‘There you go, being so black and white about it. You can talk about it. You should talk about it. And when you’re ready I’m here to listen.’

She held out her arms to him and he came to her, holding her close against the solid wall of muscle that was his chest. She felt him take a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Thank you, Shelley. I’m glad you’re here,’ he said simply.

Her heart soared at this first recognition of her place in his life. ‘I’m happy to be here for you.’

They stood like that for a long time until Shelley pulled away. She looked up at him. ‘I’m not going to talk about bats or vampires, I promise.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t mind them. It’s the slugs I don’t like being compared to.’

‘And rightly so,’ she said. ‘It’s plants I’m thinking about—plants that thrive in the shade. If you dig them up and plunk them straight away into the bright sunlight they shrivel up and die. Moving them from the shadow to sun is a gradual process. It might be the same with you—too much light too soon might mean—’

He tilted her chin so she looked straight up into his face ‘If you’re the light, Shelley, I don’t think I could have too much of you,’ he said.

She met his gaze for a long moment as the import of his words ticked through her. ‘That...that’s good,’ she stuttered. ‘You don’t mind being compared to a plant? I’m talking plants that can live indoors like hosta and spathiphyllum and—’

There she went, deflecting anything emotional when it came to her. Why did she do this?

‘Baffling me with Latin again,’ he said.

‘You might know a spathiphyllum as a peace lily. At least I’m not comparing you to mushrooms,’ she said. ‘They love living in the dark and they feed on sh— Well, they feed on manure.’

Declan laughed and she loved the sound of his rare laughter. ‘I’ll add mushroom to the list of my attributes,’ he said in a voice choked with mirth. Then he sobered. ‘You really are adorable, Shelley. Don’t change.’

She looked up at him. ‘Just be honest with me, Declan, that’s all I ask. I... I so want to be the light in your life.’

He pulled her to him and kissed her. For a long time they kissed in the filtered sunlight coming through the dusty windows of the old shed. Kissing, touching, exploring.

The pile of papers wrapped in oilskin would have to wait.

Nothing was more important than this.