Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [287]
If monasteries had their cloisters for gentle exercise and contemplation, the medieval manor house had its walled garden. The garden before Margaret now was laid out rather geometrically, with low, clipped hedges and, here and there, leafy arbours where gentlemen and ladies might sit and enjoy the enclosed quiet and read, and talk, and flirt. As they entered, Margaret smelled the sweet scents of lavender and honeysuckle. At one end of the enclosure was a herb garden. At the other end, the whole wall was covered in climbing roses. There were paths between the clipped hedges. In the centre was a little lawn strewn with wild strawberries and a single pear tree whose unripe fruit hung from its branches like pale green gem-stones. There were several other people there who, respecting the garden’s peace, spoke in low tones. Turning towards the herb garden, they walked quietly down a path.
“You are a great success, Margaret,” her father murmured, with satisfaction. “People have been asking who you are. Indeed, one gentleman already has asked if he may talk to you, and that is why I brought you in here.” He smiled. “He’s a little older than I should have liked, but there’s no harm in your talking to him. Make a good impression and he will speak well of you. You would do that for me wouldn’t you?”
“I will do as you please, Father,” she said pleasantly, for she wanted, at the least, to make him happy.
“Stay here, and I shall go and find him,” he said, and made his way out of the gate.
Margaret was quite content. She went down to the herb garden and began to inspect it. She started to see how many different kinds she could count, and was sufficiently engrossed not to notice that anyone was coming up behind her until she heard a soft cough. Turning round and expecting to see her father, she instead found herself facing a young man whom she recognised at once as Edward Talbot.
“You like our herbs?”
“I was counting them.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “How many can you name?”
“There is thyme, parsley, of course, mint, basil, nutmeg …” she named a dozen or so.
“And what about that one?” He pointed, but she shook her head. “It came,” he explained, “from Persia.” It was extraordinary what he knew. He went along the bed, showing her herbs from France, from Africa, from the Holy Land and far beyond. Herbs she had never heard of, herbs whose history he knew. But he showed his knowledge with such humour, intelligence, and enthusiasm that, rather than being overwhelmed, she found herself smiling with pleasure.
He asked her who she was, and Margaret was able to give him enough information about her family and her kinsfolk in Fingal for him to discover that she was related to several people he knew. “Perhaps we are kinsfolk, too,” he suggested.
“Oh no, my family can’t make any such claims. We’re not grand at all,” she was careful to say. “As for myself,” she smiled, “my parents tell me that my only asset is my hair.”
He laughed and answered, “I’m sure you must have many others.” Then, gazing at her hair with the same careful observation that he had applied to the herbs, he thoughtfully remarked, “It is very fine. Quite wonderful.” And almost forgetting what he was doing, he raised his hand as if to run it through her hair, before checking himself and laughing. She wondered where else this conversation might be going when, at that moment, her father reappeared at the gate and came towards them.
He was alone. Evidently he had not found the man he was looking for, but he was smiling as he came up and she explained to Talbot, “This is my father.”
She was pleased to see how politely Talbot greeted her father and how well-informed, in turn, her father seemed to be as he asked the young man some questions about his time in England, which Talbot seemed delighted to answer. The two men had just