It hardly seemed possible that the day was nearly gone. There had been no rain; in fact, the sun had stayed warm and high all day. Now, though, there was a chill coming off the Thames, and the light had gone gold and low. The house was empty and still, but the kettle sat on the Aga, and Sorrel found that there was nothing she wanted more than a cup of tea. I’ve gone native already, she thought. Waiting for it to boil, she looked in the cupboards for the biscuits Andrew had fed her. Jaffa Cakes, they were called, an odd name but a decidedly delicious cookie covered in chocolate, filled with bittersweet orange marmalade.
Sorrel sat at the kitchen table with her laptop and returned to her research on Kirkwood Hall, her tea steaming beside her, her third Jaffa Cake nothing but crumbs on a chalky gray Wedgwood plate at her elbow. There the house was, with its very own page on the National Trust site. Spreading across a park-like setting, Kirkwood Hall seemed part castle and part farm, which, she supposed, was how it had all begun. It was open to the public at certain times of the year, the gardens as well, and Sorrel realized that when she was finished, her as-yet-to-be creation would be a part of history too. This was pleasing to Sorrel; she was happy that the Sparrow name would live on in the English countryside even though the Sparrow Sisters were the last of their line in America. She pulled her plate closer and used her thumb to gather the crumbs.
“I cannot bear those plates,” Poppy said as she threw her bag on the table. She shook two biscuits out of the box and ate them together, like a sandwich. “The texture, scratchy and dusty,” she shivered. “Bah, makes my teeth itch.” She swiped at the chocolate on her lip. “How was your wander, Sorrel?”
“So wonderful,” Sorrel answered. “This city is like a nesting doll, one unexpected treasure inside another. I wish I had more time.”
“Perhaps you’ll come back, or at least whiz in while you’re working on the gardens in the country. Me, I can’t stay too long out there or I go a little mad. Mum almost never comes into town anymore unless it’s for Andrew or the season.”
“The season?” Sorrel asked.
“We still have a ‘season,’” Poppy drawled. “You know, parties, dinners, the occasional orgy, just kidding. Most of my set has been raised not by wolves, but by overbred show dogs.” She laughed. “While the fathers mint money in the City, the mothers gather in the conservatory to embroider themselves a better life. Then everybody gets drunk on Dubonnet and gin.”
“Not really, not this family,” Sorrel said. “I mean you certainly don’t seem like a cartoon out of Punch.”
“Punch! Excellent, Sorrel,” Poppy said. “No, we are the Kirkwoods, bastions of sensibility and honor, charming eccentricity and also, goats! You’ll see.” Poppy picked up her tea and another biscuit. “Sadly, the oxymoron of the tragic hero in classic Greek literature calls. I’ll be in the library if you need me.”
Sorrel showered and repacked her suitcase for the trip to Wiltshire, leaving out only what she’d need for her visits the next day. As she did so, she found herself wondering if Andrew would be back for dinner that night and if so, what he would cook. Sorrel caught herself. Andrew had a life, and a fine one at that. Surely he had better things to do, better people to be with than this motley bunch; a slightly shell-shocked garden lady from New England, a clever college girl, and a bear of a lord whose warmth was enough to melt the ice in everyone’s gin and tonics. Wait, she thought, we’re a perfectly pleasant crew on a spring evening. Why wouldn’t Andrew want to join in? Then again, if he brought the grumpy along with the groceries, was it worth it? Perhaps his story would unfold in time. She wished Nettie and Patience could see her in this cozy house, try the shepherd’s pie and the Jaffa Cakes. She could just hear Nettie cooing over Andrew’s forlorn edge and Patience cracking up at Poppy’s snark.
As it turned out, Andrew came for dinner and with it, too. And, yes, he came trailing grump. Sorrel was intrigued by the hints her hosts dropped about Andrew, and truth be told, by the sadness that hid in those dark eyes. But she knew from her own experience that secrets and stories only revealed themselves when you weren’t looking for them.
It was unclear to Sorrel what Graham did all day long but whatever it was, he arrived just before Andrew, full of his customary good cheer. What he did, in fact, was sit in the House of Lords and irritate all the other peers who wished that the modern age had never arrived. Graham Kirkwood was the burr beneath the saddle of the English aristocracy, a role he relished. While it was true he was clever with the Kirkwood fortune and enjoyed the privilege it afforded his family, he was also generous. He and Stella were patrons of so many charities and supported so many causes the tabloids called them Lord and Lady Give-a-lot. Graham’s true passion lay in the land, and not just his own: he charmed additional monies out of his colleagues for important preservation work.
If they were regulars in the glossy pages of Tatler, it was only because the flash of a camera came along with the writing of a check.
Poppy burst forth from the library as soon as she heard her father’s voice. Sorrel loved how affectionate they were with each other, how freely they laughed and teased. She couldn’t remember her father, Thaddeus, as ever having been so open or easy. Poppy rummaged around for silverware and glasses and tossed pressed-smooth damask napkins in a pile on the kitchen table. Sorrel noticed that she set out four of each and felt an unreasonable delight. Soon after, when Andrew came through to the kitchen with a canvas bag in each hand, Sorrel hastened to help him. Carrots, celery, a sturdy green and white leek as long as a cutlass, a net bag of potatoes, a tangled bunch of herbs, and a knobby stalk of brussels sprouts tumbled out onto the table. Andrew pulled a chicken wrapped in butcher paper, four perfect pears, a block of French butter, and a pint of cream out of the other bag. Sorrel whistled.
“I so hoped you’d be back to cook,” she said.
“And why not?” Andrew asked. “I’ve nothing to eat in my flat, and certainly no company.”
“Gee, I feel so special,” Sorrel said.
“Listen,” Andrew started and then stopped. “Someone get the wine for us, yeah?”
Poppy and her father exchanged a look that Sorrel knew very well. When Patience was at her most prickly, everyone tiptoed, and now Sorrel was going snip for snip with Andrew. Unreasonably, her eyes burned and her lip threatened to tremble.
Graham and Poppy began shuffling papers and books around to make room for dinner, getting the wineglasses out of the cupboard. It was a scrum of affection and purpose and served to move everyone away from further tetchiness. There was a flurry of activity; Sorrel pulled the cutting board over and began chopping while Andrew made a great show of checking the Aga, opening and closing the heavy iron doors with much clanking and slamming. He peeled the pears and filled a heavy Dutch oven with red wine, anise, and cinnamon sticks and set it simmering with the pears. Poppy pulled out the roasting tin, and Graham dug around in a glass-fronted drinks fridge for some wine.
“Let’s hear,” Graham said. “Tell us all about your day, Sorrel.”
Sorrel told her wandering story again and got approving nods from Graham.