Page 90 of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
“He remembers that?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, that’s not embarrassing at all.”
“At least you didn’t live here; all my youthful misdemeanors were played out under the watchful gaze of the castle staff.”
“Okay, you win.”
The lost garden was not so much lost as abandoned. When Lord Abercrombie’s father decided to open the castle to the public in the seventies, the old Dower House wastemporarilytakenover by the newly expanded office staff until more suitable accommodation could be found for them. They were still waiting. And the Dower gardens, tucked away—as was the dowager herself because historically, heirs who inherited country piles did not want their predecessor’s widows hanging about—were out of sight and therefore easy to put out of mind. So they had fallen further and further down the priorities list, until Isaac had become their advocate.
Isaac shoved at a wooden gate in the wall, so perfectly devoured by ivy that only someone who knew the land well would know there was a gate there at all. The gate gave reluctantly, tearing a half-moon hole in a mat of old leaves as it opened. There was no discernible path, and trees had self-seeded and grown up in places the original gardeners would never have intended. Thorny brambles arched over everything like huge green coils of barbed wire. What might once have been topiary were now wild-haired giants blocking out the winter sun. Hollyhocks stooped, brown and withered above the green mounds of next spring’s foxgloves and forget-me-nots. The gardens may have lacked human guidance, but Mother Nature had not sat idle.
“What do you think?” Isaac asked, leading her through an archway into another garden, equally as unkempt. A weeping willow stood at the center, its long, naked branches cascading down like tangled hair to brush the tops of the brambles, which rose up to meet them. The garden was alive with the tinkle of running water courtesy of a mossy gargoyle head on one wall, dribbling lazily into a green pool.
“I love it,” said Nory, looking around. “What will you do with it if you get the go-ahead?”
“What would you do?”
“I’m not a gardener.”
“But if you were given this space, what would you do with it? I am genuinely interested to know.”
Nory looked around her. She could see through the overgrown archway into the next garden, which was as tangled and snarled up as its neighbors. “Do you have access to the original plans?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmmm. You know, I can see the merit of restoring the gardens to what they would have been like. But equally, I kind of like the way they’ve been reclaimed by nature. Obviously, they need cutting back and some serious TLC for their own good, but is there a way that you could give a nod to the old gardens while keeping them a bit more free? Let them be wildly cultivated?”
“Wildly cultivated,” Isaac repeated. “I like that.”
“It feels magical here, and I think other people would feel it too.”
Her eyes did another lap of the neglected garden before settling on Isaac. He was watching her.
“What?” she asked, smiling.
“I was hoping you would say that. The marquis is keen to do a precise restoration, but I want to keep the essence of what it’s become. I needed another opinion, to see if my idea was too out there.”
“And my idea matched yours?”
“Almost as if you’d read my mind. It’s actually a bit unnerving.”
Nory laughed. “Did I not mention I was psychic?”
“How would you feel if I sent you some designs? I know you’ve got the shop and everything, I’m not talking about a full collaboration or anything. But it would be nice to bounce some ideas off someone who feels the energy of the place.”
“I’d love that,” Nory replied.
She felt warm with satisfaction. And not only because Isaac valued her opinion; he was talking about keeping contact after she went back to London. She had tried not to think about her growing feelings for him. She had kept her hopeful little heart tightly bound to protect it from disappointment, telling herself that whatever this was would be a holiday fling, nothing more. But Isaac had just handed her a license to dream.
In the far corner stood a bony hawthorn tree, its thorny branches peppered with bright ruby berries, which were attracting a flock of hungry starlings.
“Is that...?” Nory made her way over to the tree; some of the braver—or hungrier—starlings squawked indignantly at her but remained in the branches. Isaac followed her over. “It is!” she said, grinning.
Growing over one of the bigger branches in a matted ball of pea green leaves and small white berries was a large mistletoe plant. Isaac looked at it and he smiled too.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said.
