A Bitter Feast(15)

From the garden came the Jack Russell’s high-pitched yips, and Charlotte’s even more shrill squeal of excitement. Gemma realized she’d left the child in Addie’s care too long. She stacked the breakfast plates in the sink and headed for the French doors that led to the terrace.

She stepped out into the crisp morning and stopped, her breath catching at the sight that greeted her. Last night, she’d only glimpsed the garden through the windows in the fading dusk, and then her gaze had been caught by the distant hills.

Now, she marveled at the riot of color and symmetry spread before her. The flagged terrace merged into a smooth expanse of emerald lawn anchored by a rose-draped pergola. Two long tables had been set up in the grass on either side.

At the lawn’s edge she could see drifts of flowers bisected by a shallow flight of steps, and beyond that, more green lawns and steps, leading her eyes down to the curve of the little river.

On either side of the top lawn, double herbaceous borders blazed in a profusion of late-summer reds and golds. She’d no idea so many different flowers even existed.

“Mummy!” Charlotte came running to her from the pergola, the terrier at her heels. “I’ve been throwing the ball for Polly. She likes it.”

“I’ll bet she does.” Gemma gave her a squeeze. Mac the deerhound lay in a patch of shade cast by the pergola, massive head on his paws, watching Charlotte as if he’d been given the charge.

“There’s a bowling lawn, and a tennis lawn. Miss Addie says we can play after the lunch.”

“Where is Miss Addie?” Gemma asked, a little concerned that Charlotte had been left on her own. But just then, the big dog raised his head, and she saw Addie coming from the left, her arms filled with a bundle of fabric.

“Just getting the tablecloths,” Addie explained. “I had them in the glasshouse.”

Gemma thought she must have meant greenhouse, but when she looked in that direction she saw that it was, quite literally, a glass house, glass and white wrought iron with a peaked roof.

“My grandfather’s folly,” said Addie, following her gaze. “Or at least so everyone thought at the time. It’s Victorian. He found it on an estate that was being razed in the thirties, had it taken down and reassembled. A good thing, too, as otherwise the iron might have gone for scrap in the war. Now, of course, the glasshouse is priceless.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Gemma. “And the garden, it’s—” She shook her head and waved a hand at the surroundings. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s spectacular.”

Addie smiled. “We’ve made an effort to return it to something like its Edwardian glory. Jekyll-esque, if not pure Gertrude Jekyll.” Gemma’s incomprehension must have shown, because she added, “Gertrude Jekyll was the most brilliant of the Arts and Crafts garden designers. Family letters say she consulted with the architect who designed the house, but we’ve never found any actual plans. I’ll give you a proper tour after lunch. But in the meantime,” she went on, dumping the red-and-white-checked bundle on one of the hire tables, “we’d better get a move on. Where’s Melody?”

“Oh. I came to tell you.” Gemma explained about the early arrival and the train. “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a bit.”

Addie glanced at her watch. “My assistant, Roz, should be here soon, and she’s rounded up some of the village ladies to help with the serving. So if you could just help me get the tables laid—” Her phone dinged. Checking the text, she said, “That’s Viv, our chef. She’s in the drive and the house is locked. Would you mind letting her in? She’s got things for the kitchen.”

Gemma checked to make sure Charlotte wasn’t being a nuisance, but she was sitting quietly on the top step, the terrier beside her. “Of course.”

Hurrying back through the house, she opened the front door. A woman in a chef’s jacket and checked trousers was pulling plastic tubs from the back of a small van. She was slender—perhaps a little too thin—with short, blond, carelessly spiked hair. Beside her stood a girl, hands in hoodie pockets, a scowl on her small bespectacled face. Her mop of light brown hair was almost as curly as Charlotte’s.

“Hi, I’m Gemma. Addie sent me to help.”

The woman set the tub down and held out a hand to Gemma. “I’m Viv. Viv Holland. And this is my daughter, Grace.”

The girl managed a nod and a mumbled “Nice to meet you,” but kept her gaze firmly on Gemma’s feet.

“Tell me what goes where,” Gemma said, gesturing at the van’s contents.

“Everything in the scullery to start with. Then we can sort it out.” Viv handed Gemma the tub she’d set down, then picked out a smaller one for Grace. “Here, love, take the pears. They’re not so heavy. You know where to go.”

As Viv pulled out a cool box, Grace trudged towards the open front door as if the tub were filled with lead.

“She’s eleven,” Viv said with a sigh.

“Oh. That explains it, then,” Gemma replied with a grin. Now, she saw that Viv Holland was not as young as she’d first thought, and that she looked hollow-eyed with exhaustion.

“You have kids?” Viv asked as they entered the house.

“Three. My daughter’s in the garden with Addie, and the boys should be here any moment with Melody.” She followed Viv through the kitchen into a room she hadn’t noticed, a right angle in the far corner of the house. There was a utility sink, a dishwasher, a large fridge, and two built-in warming ovens. A door opened onto the terrace. The far end of the room held racks of Wellies and pegs for anoraks.