The House of Hardie by Anne Melville

Easter vacation, Gordon Hardie and his father were moving in the opposite direction. The Marquess of Ross had made it known to Mr John Hardie that he wished to make a generous gift of wine to his eldest grandson, Lord Beverley, on the occasion of his forthcoming twenty-first birthday. Mr Hardie’s advice on the subject was solicited, and at the same time it was suggested that he might check the cellar books at Castlemere with a view to making good any deficiencies found in the stocks.
    Such a service was a routine matter for Mr Hardie, and it had become equally customary for his son to accompany him. One day Gordon himself would be expected to give advice to the aristocratic patrons of The House of Hardie: this was a practical way in which to become familiar with their tastes. In addition, the work was more rapidly accomplished when his father could keep his hands and eyes free to inspect the bins and check the books whilst dictating his comments for Gordon to write down.
    Gordon had a particular reason for welcoming the opportunity to visit Castlemere. He waited until the marquess had come to the end of his instructions and was about to dismiss them.
    â€˜If I might make so bold, my lord … I’ve been told that Castlemere possesses the finest medieval herb garden in the whole of England.’
    â€˜The only one, I wouldn’t be surprised. Can’t say that Iknow much about it myself. Prefer the fruit of the vine to any foul-smelling tisane when it comes to keeping good health, don’t you know. Interested in that sort of thing, are you? Have a word with my head gardener, Curtis. He’ll tell you where to find it.’
    â€˜I’m very much obliged to you.’ Gordon ignored his father’s frown. Any disapproval which Mr Hardie felt would be caused not by the thought that his son’s request was impertinent, but by the reminder that Gordon had not yet outgrown the enthusiasm for unusual plants which he had picked up, like an infectious disease, during his boyish escapade to the South Seas. But no criticisms would be expressed in the presence of either the marquess or his butler, who was ready now to escort them to the cellars.
    At half past three in the afternoon Gordon stepped out of the house for a short break in the fresh air. He blinked for a moment in the bright light, and then set off on his private errand. The herb garden, he was told, could be reached by the family directly from the west terrace of the great house, but Gordon was instructed to approach it from the other direction, by crossing the moat and passing through the walled garden in which soft fruit and vegetables were grown.
    Knowing that his time was short, he hurried along a path lined with espaliered pears and apples towards the twelve-foot-high stone wall on the further side, patterned with the fan-trained skeletons of peaches and apricots. He pushed open the arched door in the centre of the wall and then was forced to stop. Although he did his best to bring his hurrying pace to an immediate check, he almost knocked over the young woman who was sitting in the path with her back to him. For her part, she was so startled to feel a stranger brush against her shoulder thatshe jumped to her feet, clutching a box of paints in one hand and a watercolour pad in the other, but dropping her brush and spilling the jar of water she had been using.
    Gordon began to stammer his apologies while he was still bending down to retrieve what she had dropped. Only as he straightened himself did he see her face for the first time. Long corn-coloured hair, loosely tied back with a blue ribbon, framed a small face with the delicate pink and white complexion of a china doll. But there was nothing doll-like about her lively blue eyes, and her lips were curved and full of movement. So perfect was her beauty that for a moment he was struck dumb by it. But to remain silent would be impolite. ‘Please forgive me,’ he said humbly.
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