Eleanor sat curled up on a settee in the dining-room alcove, which had become her favourite spot in the house. The little nook was bathed in sunshine, and best of all, it afforded her a view of the vicarage garden.
Jack Taylor had been hard at work in the week since Eleanor had last spoken to him. He’d dug over all the flower beds, trimmed the shrubs and bushes, and mown the grass. The garden was like a blank canvas, waiting to be filled with colour and scent. Eleanor had spent the last few days looking at seed catalogues; she’d even sought out old Mr Lyman and asked his opinion on roses.
“Only certain varieties can thrive in Cumberland,” he’d told her, “thanks to the wind and wet. Roses need a sunny, sheltered position, and good drainage.”
“I can’t believe any roses manage to grow here,” Eleanor had answered with a laugh, and Mr Lyman had puffed out his chest.
“I managed aright, out in front of the house. Lovely roses I had there, for a time.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“The wind got to them out there,” Mr Lyman recalled mournfully. “It’s an exposed place, really, with the wind coming off the sea, but the Reverend wanted them to be seen from the church.” He scratched his chin. “Roses would do better in the garden, though, sheltered by the wall. Is it roses you’re thinking of then, Miss Eleanor?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking of all sorts of things, really,” she answered. “The truth is, though, Mr Lyman, I never took much interest in the garden until now.”
“It’s good to have an interest,” Mr Lyman remarked kindly.
“I know roses are fragrant.” She thought of the blind veterans she hoped to bring one day to the garden. “I want fragrant flowers.”
“Sombreuil roses have a good fragrance,” he said. He pronounced it “Som-brill”. “You’d do well with those.”
“I’ll tell that to Mr Taylor.”
Mr Lyman scratched his chin again. “You think that boy knows what he’s about, when it comes to roses?” he asked sceptically.
“I don’t know,” Eleanor confessed, and laid a conciliatory hand on the old gardener’s arm. “We shall rely on your expertise, Mr Lyman,” she said, and was rewarded with a proud smile.
“I’ll give it to you happily, Miss Eleanor. Happily.”
Eleanor left feeling that another person would benefit from her project, and her heart lifted.
Now, for an afternoon, she was alone in the house save for Tilly and Mrs Stanton; Father had gone to visit a sick parishioner after lunch and Mother and Katherine had taken the train to Whitehaven to look for lace for Katherine’s wedding dress.
The wedding was to be in just six weeks, on the first Saturday in June; James had agreed to the date, although Eleanor had not possessed the courage to ask Katherine if he’d seemed pleased or not. Ever since their frank conversation in Katherine’s bedroom, her sister had become brittle and distant; she’d gone to Carlisle to help with the blind veterans and told Eleanor not to accompany her, as she’d just get in the way. Eleanor had felt this was a little unfair, but she decided to turn her attention to the garden.
Now she watched as Jack trundled a wheelbarrow full of manure to the flower bed in the back of the garden; he’d shed his coat in the hot sun, as he had before. Watching him, Eleanor wondered how he could seem so unchanged by the war. He didn’t have the hollow-eyed look that so many returned soldiers had, or bitterness etched into his face, like James. Yet Jack had seen terrible fighting. Perhaps, Eleanor mused, it was possible to suffer and come through it unscathed, or at least still whole. Perhaps Walter would have come back just as Jack seemed to have done, smiling and open and easy, despite what Katherine had said.
She closed her eyes; just the thought of Walter still caused grief to rush through her. Thinking about her brother was akin to probing a sore tooth; the lightning flash of pain, though familiar, was always a surprise.
Outside a bird twittered and Eleanor opened her eyes. That rush of grief was followed by a surge of reckless defiance, and she scrambled off the settee and went for her walking boots.
A few minutes later she was in the garden, blinking in the bright sunshine as she watched Jack dig the flower beds over with manure.
“I’ve been looking through seed catalogues,” she said as she walked towards him through the damp grass. “I’ve decided what I don’t want. No camellias or gardenias or lilies. Funeral flowers, they are.”
“And have you found something you do want?” Jack asked politely.
Eleanor scanned the empty flower beds. “Roses,” she said, “although everyone grows roses, don’t they? But I want fragrant flowers. That’s very important.” She wondered if he would ask why, but he just nodded.
“Dianthus is quite fragrant,” he said. “A spicy scent, it has.”
“Is it very difficult to grow here in Cumberland? With the wind and the rain, I mean. Mr Lyman, the old gardener, despairs of what has happened to his roses.” She tilted her head, smiling at him; Katherine would say she was flirting but Eleanor just wanted to feel light and happy for a few moments.
“I think it would manage all right in the garden,” Jack answered. “The walls provide shelter, and there should be sunlight enough along the south wall.”
“What other flowers are fragrant?” Eleanor asked. “Or very fragrant, I should say. I suppose all flowers are fragrant.” She let out a trilling laugh that came out a little too sharp; suddenly she felt embarrassed, exposed even, and she walked a few steps away, making a show of inspecting the empty flower bed, the bare black earth.
“Wisteria has a nice scent,” Jack said. “You could grow it along the wall. It attracts bees though, and butterflies as well. Clematis, too, could grow along the wall.” He paused, taking off his cap to rake a hand through his hair. It stood up on end, just like Walter’s used to, and Eleanor’s hand twitched with the sudden desire to smooth it. “Lavender is always nice,” Jack continued. “Useful, too. My mother used to grow it. She made sachets, like, for her drawers.”
His smile was tinged with sadness, and Eleanor repeated, “Used to?”
“She died a long time ago. Let me see now.” He replaced his cap and rubbed his jaw. “Jasmine has a strong scent. And honeysuckle smells so sweet, but it attracts the bees as well, of course. I’ve always liked tuberose, although some say it smells too strong.” He let out a little laugh.
“You do know a great deal about flowers, Mr Taylor.”
“My mother liked her garden. She knew all the names of the flowers. Had a book, even, with drawings. I liked to look at the pictures.” He glanced round the garden with its expanse of lawn and empty, waiting flower beds. “I’d like to make a nice garden for you, Miss. For the whole family.”
Eleanor stared at him, strangely moved by this clearly heartfelt sentiment, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then, impulsively, she started forward. “Jack,” she said, and she saw his eyes widen at the use of his first name, “do you play croquet?”
“I can’t say I ever have, Miss,” he answered after a moment. He looked wary now, the expression in his dark eyes guarded.
“It’s such a good game,” Eleanor told him brightly. “I used to play with my brother Walter. We all played out here—” she gestured to the lawn with one arm flung wide. “But Walter and I loved it best. He could knock my ball from twenty yards away, but he never did because he knew it made me cross.” Suddenly her brightness went out as if it had been snuffed like a candle; she sniffed and swallowed and looked away.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss Eleanor,” Jack said quietly.
“So am I. But I don’t want to be sorry now,” she said fiercely as she turned back to him. “I’m so tired of being sorry and sad. I want to enjoy this beautiful day, the sunshine, the promise of it. Today’s a hopeful day, don’t you think?”
Jack turned his face to the sun, and for a moment he looked as if he were struggling with some powerful emotion, regret or grief. “I’d like to think so,” he said after a moment.
“Did you lose anyone in the war, Jack?” Eleanor asked.
“My two brothers.”
Two brothers. And she’d only lost one. “I’m sorry—”
“And my father as well.” For a moment she saw the grief on his face, the sudden torment in his eyes. Then his face cleared and he gave her the easy smile that she’d assumed meant he’d come through the war untouched, unscathed. Now she knew that wasn’t true. “But never mind that now. You wanted to play croquet. I could set it up for you if you like. The grass has just been cut, so it should be good playing.”
“Would you?” Eleanor felt a thrill of pleasure, unexpected and sweet on the heels of her restless unhappiness. “That would be so very kind.”
“Just tell me where the things are.”
She pointed him towards the little shed at the back of the garden that held the croquet set and sunshades, retired for ten months of the year. She sat on a garden bench while he brought them out, and watched as he began to set up the hoops around the garden.
“No, they don’t go there,” she told him with a laugh, and ran to move the hoop he’d just stuck into the grass. “There’s a course, you know. You can’t just put them any old way.”
Jack straightened, giving her a rueful smile. “Like I said, I’ve never played before. I’ve seen it done, but that’s all.”
“Well, you shall play now,” Eleanor announced grandly, and reaching for a mallet, she proffered it to him. Jack didn’t take it.
“I couldn’t, Miss.”
“Why not?” Eleanor smiled in what she hoped was a whimsical way. She suddenly and quite desperately wanted him to play with her, but she feared that if he knew how much, he would most certainly refuse. “I can hardly play alone. That’s no fun.”
“Even so, Miss.” Jack took the mallet and put it back with the others. “I’ve work to do, and…” He hesitated, seeming to choose his words with care. “I don’t think it would be proper.”
“What’s improper about a game of croquet?” Eleanor returned scoffingly. “Unless you win, of course.” She swung her mallet around by the handle the way Walter used to and gave Jack a teasing smile. “One game. No one’s even home, you know, except for our housemaid Tilly and the cook, and they’ll hardly look out here.” Too late, she realized she’d made it sound as if there was something improper about them playing. She took a step towards him, her heart suddenly starting to beat rather hard. “Please, Jack. For me.”
For a moment he looked torn. “I know you’ve had a hard time of it, Miss,” he began, colour flushing his cheeks a dull red. “I know how hard it is, and especially for a young lady…” He swallowed and shook his head, resolute now. “But I can’t, Miss. I’m sorry.”
Eleanor let out her breath in a rush, fighting a sense of bitter disappointment that logically, at least, she knew was an overreaction to his refusal. “Very well,” she said with a toss of her head, knowing she now sounded childish, but unable to keep herself from it. She picked up one of the balls before walking to the first hoop. Jack watched her for a moment and then, seeming satisfied that she was going to play alone, he returned to his wheelbarrow and his flower bed.
Eleanor put the ball down on the damp grass and lined up to take a swing. This was, she realized, the first time she’d played croquet without Walter; they hadn’t got the set out in years. The thought filled her with a strange kind of fury, and she took a hard swing at the ball, sending it bouncing and rolling over the lawn, straight into Jack Taylor’s shin.
“Ouch!” He jumped away from the ball as if it had bitten him, clutching his leg.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Eleanor exclaimed. And she was sorry, both for hurting him and for seeming so childish and petulant. Had she not learned anything, or grown up at all, in these last few months? She rushed over to him. “Are you very hurt? You must come and sit down—” She reached for his arm and attempted to lead him to the bench, but he shook her off and stepped back.
“I’m fine, Miss. Just a bit bruised. Nothing to worry about.”
“I am sorry.”
He smiled then, cocking his head as he looked at her. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you, Miss Eleanor?”
It was what Walter had said to her once, and Jack Taylor said it in the same smiling way, amusement or perhaps even affection crinkling his brown eyes. Eleanor felt as if a great, yawning chasm had opened inside her. She felt as if she could tip right into it, and never climb out again. Her face crumpled, and not wanting Jack to see her cry, she whirled away and retreated to the bench in the corner of the garden, her head bent to hide her tears, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back the sobs she hadn’t let out since Walter’s death all those months ago.
“Miss Eleanor—” Jack dropped the croquet ball he’d picked up and hurried towards her. Under the drooping boughs of a chestnut tree, they could not be seen by anyone from the vicarage, and he cautiously touched her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t. That is…” Eleanor dragged a deep breath into her lungs and searched for her handkerchief; she’d forgotten it, as usual, and so she wiped her tears away with the palms of her hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… it’s just…” She felt the pressure building inside of her again, that wave of emotion she’d kept back since she’d first opened the telegram back in November. It is my painful duty to inform you… “Walter used to say that to me,” she managed to choke out. “When I was playing croquet, even. For a moment… for a moment it almost felt like… he was back.”
Distantly Eleanor realized Jack’s hand was still on her shoulder; he squeezed gently before removing it, and then sat down next to her. He didn’t say anything, which Eleanor was strangely glad for. She didn’t want to hear a condolence or platitude; she simply wanted his presence, solid and steady, next to her.
The only sounds were their breathing and the rustle of the breeze through the leaves above; a bird twittered and then fell silent.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I must seem dreadfully selfish. You’ve lost so much more than I have.”
“Loss is loss,” Jack answered, and Eleanor turned to him.
“Yes, I suppose… Do you miss them very much, Jack? Your family? Were you close to your brothers?”
“Close enough,” he answered. “I miss my mother, but she died when I was a lad, well before the war. And my father…”
He hesitated, and Eleanor asked softly, “When did he die?”
“In 1918. Right at the end.”
“Like Walter, then.”
“He had a stroke,” Jack continued. His gaze was distant and shuttered, as if he were replaying the scene in his mind. “Collapsed behind the plough.” He fell silent, and Eleanor didn’t attempt to offer some paltry platitude by way of comfort. Then Jack seemed to come to, shrugging off the memory. “I beg your pardon, Miss. I shouldn’t have spoken of such things.”
“I’m glad you did,” Eleanor answered. “It helps, knowing someone else feels as I do. Yet you seem so happy,” she added impulsively. “When I first saw you, I thought you seemed untouched by the war.”
Jack’s mouth twisted. “No one’s untouched, Miss. Not one person, man or woman or child.”
“Yes,” she agreed slowly. “I suppose that’s true. You just hide it better.”
“I don’t mean to hide anything,” Jack answered, and he sounded almost defensive. “I just don’t see the sense in looking back. It’s the future I care about. I’ve got a life ahead of me, which is more than most blokes who went away to fight have.”
Eleanor glanced at him curiously; he sounded bitter and she wondered at it. Perhaps Jack Taylor hid as much grief and anger and confusion as she did.
“Do you suppose,” she asked, staring down at the sun-dappled lawn, “that it ever gets better?”
Jack’s face cleared, although he didn’t answer for a moment. She could tell he knew what she’d meant, and was considering his response. “A bit,” he said at last. “But nothing goes back to the way it was.”
Eleanor closed her eyes against the fierce longing she’d had for the world to do exactly that. “I know that. I’ve accepted that, or at least I thought I had. But then something comes up and surprises me, makes me remember…” She opened her eyes and offered what she hoped was a smile. “Do you know, I hadn’t actually wept since we received the telegram? I’ve been afraid to, afraid that if I started I’d never stop.”
“But if you don’t let the tears out,” Jack countered gently, “where are they going to go?”
“Away,” she whispered, even as she felt two more tears slip down her cheeks. Then, to her shock, Jack wiped one tear away with his thumb. Eleanor’s lips parted in stunned silence; he was gazing at her almost tenderly as he wiped the other tear away. Then Jack seemed to realize what he’d done, and he straightened, standing up from the bench.
“I beg your pardon—”
“Don’t,” she implored. She couldn’t bear for him to go back to that dreaded, awful formality. “Don’t,” she said again, but she knew it was too late. Jack was already walking away, and she watched from the bench as he picked up his spade and began to dig again.
She stayed out on the bench for a few more minutes, fighting a new sense of loss for something she could barely articulate, something that had nothing to do with Walter. Eventually she rose from the bench, and after carefully putting all the hoops and mallets back in the shed, she went inside. Jack had not looked at her once.