It was only seven thirty the following morning when Flora slipped through reception and out of the hotel. Mel was most likely fast asleep, and she knew that Sophie intended to spend a few extra hours in bed whilst she was here. As their first treatments in the spa weren’t booked until ten o’clock, Flora decided that she could take an hour or so to explore, taming her hair into a ponytail tugged through a baseball cap.
The weather had changed again and instead of rain pelting the hotel and smothering everything in mist, the skies had cleared to reveal a bright sun. Once outside, Flora paused and breathed in the first scent of the day. It smelled of spring and the promise of life emerging from the winter slumber, even later up here than back in Yorkshire. It was absolutely her favourite time of day and most definitely her favourite time of year.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she set off and she heard the noisy growl of a delivery van heading around the back of the building, as her gaze took in the beautiful and carefully planted garden surrounding the hotel. But she would explore this later, if time allowed. She wanted to head around the tiny island and make her own discoveries, not those which came presented in a handy leaflet and kept tourists on the beaten track.
From the map she had found in her room, Flora knew that a footpath in front of the hotel eventually widened into a track that wound its way to a pier on the north-eastern side of the island, the furthest point from the ferry. She wasn’t expecting to see many people at this hour and she settled into an easy pace, quicker than a stroll but allowing herself enough opportunity to savour the magnificent views all around. She loved walking. It was part of her day job as well as her favourite way to unwind. And since she had given up athletics at a competitive level years ago, when illness had struck and changed the course of her life, it was all the exercise she now took.
The island was stunning, and Flora knew that she was seeing it not quite yet at its best. Having grown up with the beauty of Yorkshire around her, she was used to spectacular landscapes, and working for a heritage charity had only enhanced her love of history. This morning, any attempt at walking purposefully was soon abandoned, as she kept pausing to stare at another mountain in the distance, still topped with snow, or drop to her knees to examine a young plant hidden amongst the bracken, just beginning to unfurl itself from the harshness of winter. She had to dodge free-roaming cattle a couple of times and they ignored her as she passed by.
After almost thirty minutes Flora thought that she must have missed the coastal path to the pier some way back and must now be heading inland instead. Cross with herself, she realised she had also left her phone behind. Ahead, she thought the mountains in the distance were on the mainland and so she carried on, hoping that she might complete a circuit of the entire island if she kept up a good pace.
Ten minutes later, hot and beginning to think she would never find the hotel again, Flora hurried downhill on a rough footpath and saw a house tucked between trees, perched above ground sloping down to a tantalising glimpse of the sea below. She paused to glance at her watch, intending to carry on. But there was still a little time left before she ought to return. She stepped off the footpath and crossed a field, dodging rocks and nervous sheep alarmed by her presence. In places the ground fell away so steeply that she had to grab clumps of heather to steady herself, as she clambered over the craggy terrain. When she reached a low stone wall, she hopped onto it and dropped down on the uneven and weed-filled driveway below. She turned to look properly at the house.
She knew at once it was empty. There were no visible signs of life – no cars, noise or people in sight. It was big but not grand, and from its location near the sea, Flora guessed that it might have been built as a holiday home. A few windows were boarded up and weeds were clinging to the wide slate roof, hanging down over the dirty glass beneath and tapping against the sills as though trying to get in.
Flora was quite certain that she was trespassing so, despite her desire to look closer and perhaps discover a few secrets, she turned around to leave. But then she saw a door. A tatty, faded green door tucked into a wall beside the house and she knew immediately it would lead to the garden. Flora also knew she would have to negotiate clumps of nettles and weeds tangled across the door, but still she lingered.
It’ll probably be locked, Flora told herself as she walked towards the door, a sudden swirl of excitement fluttering in her stomach. She reached out and twisted the wobbly iron handle. It wasn’t locked and the door creaked eerily but gave no other sign of protest, and she pushed it aside, kicking at the nettles.
She was standing on the edge of a terrace stretching across the back of the entire house, and her heart began to pound as she turned full circle, trying to absorb every detail, as though she would see it only once. Silently, Flora crossed the terrace until she was in the centre, facing the main garden.
A row of yew trees either side of three flights of steps led to more terraces and she carefully planted her feet onto the first one, which was smothered in damp moss and crumbling into pieces. She followed the steps slowly until she reached a weed-filled gap at the bottom of the second terrace and looked up. She was staring at the remains of a formal garden, sweeping down the hill towards a narrow beach beyond the hedge. What must once have been a lawn had disappeared into a sea of grass waving gently in the breeze.
Flora crouched down, pushing her fingers through weeds and soil until she could feel the rough stone beneath. Slowly, she stood up, hardly daring to indulge her exhilaration as she began to realise what she might have stumbled upon. She hovered for a moment, envisaging in her mind how the garden must once have looked, until she caught sight of her watch. She groaned, knowing she ought to return to the hotel and not at all sure that she knew the quickest way back. Reluctant to leave, she turned around and sneaked another peek at her watch, hoping she might have been wrong about the time. She was certain that there would be other areas of the garden, besides this formal one she had discovered.
She walked carefully back up the terrace and had almost reached the south-east bay window when she heard a thudding noise. She froze as her heart jumped in alarm – there it was again. It sounded like a door banging and she made her way along the uneven terrace as fast as she dared, until her feet found a patch of slippery bittercress. She skidded on it, crashing to the ground with a muffled shriek that she tried to conceal, as her arms flew out to break her fall. She winced as she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, listening for a sound from the house. Nothing. Carefully, she climbed to her feet and crept along the terrace, wondering if unseen eyes were watching her. She had almost reached the drive, when the clatter of a door behind her made her yelp in horrified surprise.
‘Hey! Wait!’
She knew that voice and had no intention of waiting. She hurried on, picking up speed as the throbbing in her ankle began to ease, but escape wasn’t going to come easily. He was quicker, and seconds later he had caught up and reached for her arm, gently drawing her to a halt.
‘Morning. I didn’t expect to find you here, Flora Stewart. You’re quite some distance from the hotel.’ Mac sounded surprised rather than annoyed, but Flora had no desire to make a fool of herself again.
She turned to face him and began to apologise. ‘I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to pry.’ She withdrew her arm from his hand and continued, ‘I was just leaving.’
She hoped the baseball cap was hiding most of her blush from his scrutiny. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and shorts, revealing legs that were exactly as she had imagined: lean, strong and tanned. Sunglasses were tucked into his T-shirt and his chunky work boots were covered in pale dust. The golden blonde stubble was longer, and he seemed totally different from the cool and composed businessman that Flora had met only last night. Inexplicably lost for words at his changed appearance, she couldn’t think of anything else to add.
‘I don’t mind.’ He pushed his hands casually into his pockets as he watched her. ‘Not many people find their way up here and go wandering around the garden.’
She glanced at her watch. Perfect. She was going to be really late now. Gesturing carelessly across the garden, as though Mel and Sophie were lurking nearby, she explained, ‘I should’ve brought a map. I have to go; I’m meeting my friends and I’m running behind. I am sorry, Mr Jamieson, I should have appreciated this isn’t part of the hotel grounds.’
‘Mac,’ he replied, one shoulder rising to bat away her apology. ‘Just Mac. Please don’t apologise, it’s really not necessary. This is a nice surprise, after meeting you last night.’
Flora ignored that last comment and the flick of pleasure it brought. She had been hoping he’d forgotten their awkward encounter after dinner yesterday, but it was clear he had not. She wasn’t about to reveal just how much he had been in her thoughts since then.
‘Most of our guests aren’t interested in seeing a garden in this sort of state. May I ask why you came here? I saw you from the house and it seemed as though you were searching for something.’
Flora’s glance sought out the garden again, trying to tuck a few more details into her memory to take away. ‘I found it by accident and couldn’t resist exploring.’ She turned back to see that Mac was still watching her, and she couldn’t look away from the unfamiliar warmth in his expression, as a smile played around his lips. ‘Gardens to me are very special places, especially ones that have years of history to offer and so many secrets to tell.’
‘Like this one? Even though it’s such a mess?’
‘Yes. Exactly like this one. I know already that somebody long ago cared very much about it and I can picture in my mind how it might once have looked, planted with different colours and textures, and filled with the sound of people enjoying it.’ She felt almost as though she had been here before and understood its stories without ever having learned them.
‘I see.’ The grin Mac gave her was so sincere that she felt it like a push to her chest. It softened his face immediately, deepening the lines around his mouth, and making him seem more boyish and much less intense. ‘May I show you something else, something I think you’d like to see?’
‘I can’t, I’m already late,’ she said helplessly, her feet itching to move and follow him to discover whatever it was he wanted to show her. He was already at the top of the steps and he turned, holding out a hand.
‘Sure? It won’t take long. Do I have to dare you?’
‘I think you just did.’ She could use that to excuse her lateness to Mel and Sophie, at least; all three of them always followed through on their dares.
They were both smiling, as she slipped her hand into his and he gripped it tightly while they made their way down the unsafe steps. At the bottom, they began swishing through the wet grass around their legs, like wading through water, and she reluctantly freed her fingers from his.
Meeting a man such as Mac Jamieson and discovering a garden was not at all what Flora had imagined from this weekend. Everything was unexpectedly shifting around her and she wasn’t sure how to feel amongst it all. They ducked down beneath low branches at the edge of the remains of the lawn and emerged in a narrow lane. On their left was a stone stable block, clearly abandoned and in a poorer state than the house behind them.
‘Is it far?’ She reached up to pull a few stray leaves trapped in her long hair. ‘Mac, I really don’t have time for this.’ His name came easily to her lips and she repeated it in her mind.
‘No, almost there.’ That light, teasing tone again, so different.
He increased the pace now they were free of the wild garden, rushing them down the lane and past a pair of small, roofless cottages. He pushed his way through a tiny gap in a tall, overgrown hedge beside the little houses and reached for her hand again, tugging her gently through behind him. He didn’t seem to notice the thistles leaping up around their feet, and finally paused only when they had scrambled through the cottage garden and reached another door, set in a high wall.
She had seen many historic gardens before and knew what would be contained between these walls. The familiar excitement of discovery had returned, and she itched to go inside and explore the old, walled garden for herself. He grinned as he opened the door, letting go of her hand. They looked at each other and she knew that something between them had altered: perhaps he was sharing this forgotten place in a way he hadn’t before.
‘Go and see.’
She stepped through the door, down three narrow steps, and climbed carefully over more thistles, smashed clay pots and a broken wheelbarrow dumped nearby. She could smell the sea, hear it, but couldn’t see it. The view of the water was concealed by the high stone wall and huge yew trees protecting this magical and private area, separate from the formal garden she had already seen. To her left, tumbledown greenhouses leant against the length of the south-facing wall; in front lay the remains of an orchard. Slowly, she made her way around, crushing the nettles spreading across lost paths and pushing past the ivy scrambling up the walls, eating into the stone. Wholly captivated, she slowly turned away from the sound of the sea, her thoughts whirling with possibilities of what had been here before, and when.
Mac was sitting on the steps at the entrance where she had left him, his arms wrapped around his knees, and he shuffled sideways to make room for her. Flora was lost in wonder, and she knew not quite all of it was inspired by the garden. She sat down, their shoulders bumping together, feeling the coolness of the stone through her jeans.
‘It’s so kind of you to let me look around, Mac. It’s a beautiful garden and I think it’s very special. Thank you.’ Their arms were still pressed together in the narrow space and she heard his short, wry laugh.
‘I know that it was once, many years ago.’ A quiet sigh followed his words, as he stared at the chaos spread before them. ‘Hopefully, it will be again, eventually. There’ll be clearance work carried out at some point, but the house and outbuildings are the priority, before their condition deteriorates any further.’
‘Are you the architect, then?’ Flora had read the details on his card the moment she was alone in her room, stopping short of googling the practice he worked for in Edinburgh.
Of course, this was none of her business, but she waited for his answer, trying to communicate nothing of what she was feeling, beyond casual interest. She couldn’t miss the satisfaction in his tone when he replied.
‘Yes. And the very happy new owner, too – the sale was completed a few weeks ago.’ Mac’s expression was jubilant now. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time on the island over the years, and I’ve known this house and wanted it since I was a boy. It’s been empty since I first saw it and I used to sneak in and explore on my own sometimes, dreaming about restoring it before it was too late, and someone came along and demolished it. I still can’t quite believe it’s actually mine now.’
‘How wonderful.’ Flora couldn’t have hidden the delight in her voice even if she had wanted to, as she realised that this remarkable, secret place would not be forever lost. Their eyes met, and she saw the pleasure that her response had given him. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Another one? Does it have anything to do with a wedding?’
He was laughing and she heard the trace of indignation in her response to his playful reply. ‘No!’ But she still wanted the answer, so she pressed on. ‘Are you able to tell me if the garden was designed by Rupert Lassiter?’
‘Who?’
She heard the teasing note in his voice, sure he was looking confused on purpose but not certain why. ‘Lassiter was a Victorian architect who specialised in Arts and Crafts designs. I’m sure you know it was a movement that started in the mid-nineteenth century, creating designs that celebrated beauty and simplicity through skilled craftsmanship. I’m not very familiar with Lassiter’s work but I do know he practised mostly in Scotland, and I thought this garden might be one of his.’
‘Sounds interesting. Thanks for the suggestion.’
Mac stood up, reached for her hand again and pulled her upright, and she felt his quick touch on her back as he guided her through the door. They passed the little cottages, both walking slowly and seemingly reluctant to hurry these last moments together. But there was something she had to say, and Flora paused, halting their progress. ‘Would you mind if I offered you some advice?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Whoever was responsible for the garden has left behind a remarkable legacy and I would only say please don’t rush into clearing it all away and starting again. Underneath what’s here now, I think there could be lots of original features and it would be worth taking your time to uncover them. I’d expect to find an informal planting style balanced by natural materials in the landscaping, and the way the garden becomes less formal beyond the house is typical of the period.’ She shrugged, her glance roving around their surroundings. ‘Sorry, I’m not trying to tell you what to do with it – it’s your decision, of course. It’s just, well, it could be important.’
He was eyeing her curiously as he considered her words. ‘I see. You’re very welcome to stay and explore, Flora.’
Flora thought about Mac’s offer, distracted by the encounter with him and the discovery of the garden, until suddenly she remembered Mel and Sophie – and their plans for the spa. ‘I can’t,’ she replied frantically, half-wishing that she could stay, even as she hurried away from him, back towards the house. ‘I really do have to go, I’m very late.’
‘Follow the lane to the T-junction and turn right, it’s the quickest way back to the hotel,’ he called after her, and she resisted the temptation to stop and look at him one more time. ‘I’ll be here if you can come back tomorrow. I could show you around properly.’
Flora wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly, as she raced on and the call of his goodbye drifted into the sound of the sea. But his comment mattered much less than the realisation that bumping into him today had awakened sensations she had discarded during the gradual end of her relationship with David. She barely glanced at the garden as she stumbled back up the broken terrace and pushed through the green door onto the drive, feeling as though she had been to Narnia. She set off at a steady pace, thankful for the first time in years that she’d been a middle-distance runner and not a sprinter.