The Weeping Ash by Joan Aiken Page B

’baccy, an’ plays his fiddle; but he still danders over to the big house, now an’ now, just to make sure all’s well wi’ the garden. Lord Egremont, he do set great store by my da’s opinion; anything new that’s to be done, he likes my da to come and talk it over. Tending a garden, ma’am, be like to rearing a child, I reckon. You do grow mortal attached. Seems you’re bound up, forevermore, to a plot where you’ve once set your spade in the marl—like as if you been tethered to it with bass bark—and you can’t noways forget it.”
    In demonstration of his point, he pulled a hank of bast from the pocket of his apron and wound a twist of it around two of his fingers.
    â€œI can quite understand that,” said Fanny. “You have made a very beautiful place out of this one, indeed.”
    She looked about it with simple pleasure. On the level area between the house and the long yew hedge there was a formal garden, flower beds intersected by narrow brick paths. Although it was late in the season, the beds, between small clipped box hedges, blazed with color and were beginning, now the sun grew warmer, to give off sweet, aromatic odors. Beyond the formal garden beds the turning leaves of two small sturdy cherry trees growing in the lawn made splashes of red-gold; a shrubbery of lilac bushes and evergreens lay between the house and the stone barn; fruit trees were carefully pleached against a distant high wall; climbing roses grew up the side of the house and against two small summerhouses at either end of the yew-tree walk, their tendrils still smothered with late blossoms. Bees hummed in a lavender hedge, which had been clipped once and was flowering again. Although it was no great estate, the garden, perhaps half an acre, had been carefully planned so as to give the greatest possible variety and to seem larger than it was.
    â€œThe kitchen plot an’ orchard’s over yonder behind the wall,” Talgarth said, pointing toward the barn. “There’s aplenty late beans yet, do you fancy ’em, ma’am—artichokes—medlars—pears—an’ some fine Ribston pippins. ’Tis time they were picked; if the master sees fit, I’ll be setting to that today—”
    His voice died as a door slammed behind Fanny, and he glanced past her, politely touching his black forelock. “Morning, sir!”
    Thomas’s voice exclaimed angrily:
    â€œ Frances! What in the world are you doing out here? I have been seeking you all over the house! Did you not hear the gong? Why do you not come to morning prayers?”
    Through his indignant tones the church clock could be heard chiming eight. Fanny had spun guiltily around at the first sound of his voice. She almost slipped again on the greasy flagstone; but this time Talgarth made no move to assist her, and she recovered herself by laying a hand against the house wall.
    â€œI—I am sorry, sir. I was just coming, indeed—”
    Thomas looked both incensed and mistrustful; he held his watch in his hand; his mouth was set in a hard line; his suspicious gaze moved from Fanny to the gardener, as if he had detected them plotting against him.
    â€œTruly I had no notion that it was so late,” faltered Fanny.
    â€œAnd yet you can clearly see the church clock from the garden! Go indoors at once; I will speak with you presently. As for you,” Thomas said to the gardener, looking at him with a marked lack of liking, “you are Talgarth, I infer?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWhat you are doing so close to the house at breakfast time I do not know, but since I see you here I may as well tell you now—your first task for the day shall be to cut down that tree there.”
    He gestured toward the ash.
    â€œCut it down, Captain Paget, sir?” Talgarth’s voice was startled; he looked as if he could hardly believe what he had heard.
    â€œOh no !”