The House of Hardie by Anne Melville Page A

young woman’s startled expression melted into a smile. ‘It was foolish of me to sit so near the door and in the middle of the path,’ she said. ‘But the gardeners never come here except with me, so I was not expecting …’ She paused for the explanation which she had every right to demand.
    â€˜I have a particular interest in old species of plants,’ Gordon told her. ‘His lordship was kind enough to give me permission to inspect the herb garden. But of course I don’t wish to intrude on your privacy. If you’ll allow me to fetch some water for you, I’ll leave you to continue your work.’
    â€˜No need. It’s finished already.’ Now that he had explained his presence, a new warmth came into her smile and her voice was friendly: she held out her water-colour as though to prove that she was telling the truth.
    Gordon accepted the invitation to study it. Instead of the general garden view which he would have expected a young lady to attempt, she had depicted a group of crocuses in the bottom left-hand corner of the page, andabove them had painted an enlarged and meticulously detailed representation of a single flower and its leaf.
    â€˜But it’s not completely finished,’ he pointed out. ‘You haven’t signed it.’
    â€˜This is not a painting to hang in an exhibition,’ she said, laughing. ‘There’s no need for a signature.’
    â€˜Except that it would allow me to know your name.’
    She flushed delightfully. ‘I’m Lucy Yates.’
    It took Gordon only a second to realize that she must be the sister of Archie Yates, whom he had met at The House of Hardie; so the Marquess of Ross would be her grandfather.
    Gordon knew that he ought to withdraw at once – but she was clearly waiting for him to complete the introductions.
    â€˜My name is Gordon Hardie.’ He was anxious that there should be no misunderstanding about his status. ‘My father and I are here to advise your grandfather on his cellar.’
    Instead of dismissing him, Lucy held out her hand. She was still young, he realized, as he bent over it: society had not yet been given the opportunity to make her haughty.
    â€˜Your subject is an unusual one,’ he commented.
    â€˜This is the saffron crocus,’ Lucy told him. ‘You can recognize it by the long stigmas. It’s the stigmas which are dried to make saffron. To produce one ounce of saffron, more than four thousand flowers are needed.’
    â€˜You know a great deal about it, Miss Yates.’ Gordon, as it happened, knew even more, but he was nevertheless sincere in his admiration.
    â€˜My grandmother loved this garden. She died three years ago, but when I was quite young she taught me to recognize all the herbs and to know their uses. Nowadays saffron is only used in cooking, to add colour. But in theolden days it was a specific for jaundice, and prescribed in cases of measles to speed up the eruptive state. My grandmother kept a book of old receipts. I thought it would be interesting to interleave it with illustrations.’
    â€˜Do you know how this crocus came to England?’ Gordon asked her. Almost certainly she – like himself as a boy – would have assumed that it was native to the country. As he had expected, she looked puzzled. ‘A pilgrim returning from the Holy Land in the reign of Edward II collected some seeds as he travelled through Asia Minor,’ he told her. ‘Had they been discovered, he would have been killed. So he hollowed out his pilgrim’s stave to make a secret place for them. He carried them to his home in Walden, where they grew and multiplied so successfully that it has been known as Saffron Walden ever since.’
    The effect of his story was all he could have wished. Lucy’s eyes widened with astonishment and regret.
    â€˜How exciting it must have been to live in those times,’ she sighed. ‘If only