Emma Harte - Hold The Dream Part 15

"Because when Bonnie Prince Charlie went to Scotland in 1745, trying to regain the throne of his ancestors, he was aided by a Mackinnon of Skye.' In grat.i.tude Prince Charlie gave the man his ovn recipe for his personal liqueur. Ever since then, the secret for its preparation has remained with the Mackinnons, and Drambuie gets its nickname from the legend. And speaking of the Isle of Skye, is that how you spell your name . . . sky with an e at the end?"

"Yes, but my name is really Schuyler. It's Dutch. A family name. I have a feeling my Mom thought plain old Smith needed jazzing up a bit." She smiled at him slowly.

"It's a very pretty name. It suits you," he said with a show of gallantry.

"Why thank you kindly, sir."

They fell silent.

Skye Smith was trying to decide whether she could suggest he call her in New York without appearing forward. She was not interested in him as a lover; on the other hand she had found herself drawn to him during dinner, almost against her will. He was entertaining, good company, and a delightful man, if a little vain and too sure of himself. But perhaps they could be friends.

Shane was still dwelling on Winston, discreetly observing him. He lounged on a sofa at the other side of the room, nursing his brandy, looking relaxed. Whatever problem had been bothering him earlier had apparently been resolved or dismissed as unimportant. He was laughing suddenly in a natural manner and teasing Allison. Shane noticed that her face was radiant. So much for all that, he thought, it was a storm about nothing. He filled with relief. He was going away tomorrow, and he did not like to think he was leaving when his dearest friend had troubles.

Skye finally spoke, interrupting Shane's contemplations. She said, "I hope this doesn't sound pushy or anything like that, but if I can be of help in New York, do feel free to call me." She added quickly, wanting to sound more businesslike, "The shop is listed under Brandt-Smith Antiques."

"That's very kind of you. I will," Shane said and startled himself with his ready acquiescence to her suggestion. He puffed on his cigar for a second; then, feeling the need to explain, he went on, "I don't know many people in New York. Just a couple of lawyers who work for our company. Oh, and I have an introduction to a man called Ross Nelson. A banker."

"Oh," she exclaimed.

Shane glanced at her, saw the surprise in her eyes. Or was it shock that had registered? "So you know Ross," he said, his curiosity flaring.

"No. No, I don't," she replied too swiftly. "I've heard of him, read about him in the newspapers, but that's all."

Shane nodded, and for a reason he could not fathom, he immediately changed the subject. But as they talked about other things, he could not help thinking that Skye Smith was much better acquainted with the notorious Mr. Nelson than she wanted him to believe. And he asked himself why she had felt the need to lie about this.

Shane O'Neill left Yorkshire the following morning.

It was dawn. The mist had rolled down from the moors and the higher fells to spread across the meadows like a mantle of gray lace, partially obscuring the trees and the drystone walls and the cottages nestling in the folds of the fields. And all were inchoate images, spectral and illusory under the remote and bitter sky. Dew dripped from the overhanging branches, glistened on the white wildflowers gleaming in the hedgerows, ran in little rivulets down the gra.s.sy banks at the sides of the lane.' Nothing stirred in the drifting vaporous mists, and there was an unearthly quiescence, an unmoving stillness lying over the whole of the countryside, and it was a dreamlike landscape . . . the landscape of his childhood dreams.

Gradually, from behind the rim of the dim horizon, the early sun began to rise, its streaming corridors of slanting light piercing outward to illuminate the bowl of that cold and fading sky with a sudden breathtaking radiance. And through the tops of the leafy domes of trees, caught in the distant shimmer of sunlight like a mirage, glittered the chimneys of Pennistone Royal. House of his childhood dreams. But there was another house in his childhood dreams ... a villa by the sea where they had laughed and played and dreamed away the careless carefree days of their childhood summers, where nothing had ever changed and time had been an eternity.

And she was always there with him ... at that villa high, on the cliffs above the sunlit sea, laughter in her eyes the color of the summer sky and gentleness in her smile that had truly been only for him. Dreamlike landscapes . . . dreamlike houses . . . dreamlike child of his childhood dreams . . . locked in his heart and mind for all of time . . haunting him always, dim shadows on his Celtic soul.

He was going away now ... so far away . . . leaving them behind. But he never left them behind. He carried them with him wherever he went. . . and they would never change . . . they were his childhood dreams . . . Paula and Pennistone Royal and the villa by the sunlit sea . . .

The car sped on down the narrow winding country lanes, past the great iron gates of Pennistone Royal, on through the village of the same name, out now onto the main road. Shane glimpsed the familiar signs flying by ... South Stainley, Ripley, Harrogate, Alwoodley.

He slowed down as he roared into Leeds, although there was no traffic, no one abroad, deserted as it was at this hour and without a sign of life. Gray, grimy, vital Leeds, great industrial city of the north, the seat of Emma's power and his grandfather's and David Kallinski's family. ' Circling City Square, where the statue of the Black Prince dominated, he pa.s.sed the post office and the Queen's Hotel and plunged on, down the short hill near City Station, heading toward the Ml, the road leading south to London. Shane picked up speed the moment he rolled onto the motorway, and he did not reduce it until he was nosing the car over the county boundary . . . leaving Yorkshire behind.

Chapter Fifteen.

The garden was her magical place.

It never failed to give Paula a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, and it was therapeutic when she was frustrated or needed a release from the stresses and tensions of business. Whenever she began to plan a garden, whether large ,or small, she gave free rein to her imagination, and every plot of ground that fell into her sure and talented hands was miraculously transformed, became a breathtaking testament to her instinctive understanding of nature.

In fact she was an inspired gardener. Flowers, plants, trees, and shrubs were woven into a tapestry of living color and design by her, one that stunned the eye with its compelling beauty. Yet despite her careful planning, none of her gardens ever looked in the least contrived.

Indeed there was a genuine old-world air about them, for -she planted them with an abundance of old-fashioned flowers and shrubs that were typically English in character. The garden, which she now called her own and which she had been working on for almost a year, was beginning to take on this particular look.

But for once she was hardly aware of the garden.

She stood poised at the edge of the terrace, gazing down the long green stretch of lawn, yet not really seeing it, an abstracted expression on her face. She was thinking of Jim. Their quarrel of last night had been dreadful, and although they had eventually made up-in bed, where they usually managed to put aside their mutual anger-she was still shaken. They had quarreled about Edwina. Again. And in the end he had won, since she was hopelessly weak where he was concerned, loving him the way she did. And so she had finally agreed to entertain Edwina tonight, to show her the house and the grounds, to offer her c.o.c.ktails before they went out to dinner. But Paula wished now that she had been more resolute with him. In the early hours of the morning, after he had made love to her, he had cajoled, teased, and laughed her into agreeing to do as he wished. He had cleverly twisted her around his little finger, and she resented it suddenly.

Sighing, she walked purposefully over to the rockery she was creating, trying to shake off the remnants of the violent quarrel. I refuse to harbor a grudge, she told herself firmly. I've got to let go of my anger before he comes home tonight. She knelt down, continuing the work that she had started earlier that day, h.e.l.l-bent on bringing order to that intracta-. ble pile of stone, filled with the intense desire to make this rockery as beautiful as the one at Grandy's seaside house.

As usually happened, Paula soon lost herself entirely in gardening, concentrating totally on the work, allowing the tranquility of nature to lap over her until she was enfolded by its soothing gentleness, at peace within herself.

It was as a child that Paula had discovered her love of the earth and all growing things. She had been eight years old.

That same year Emma had bought a house to use during her grandchildren's spring and summer holidays from school. It was called Heron's Nest, and it stood on the high cliffs at Scarborough, overlooking the pale sands and the lead-colored bay beyond, a piece of Victorian gingerbread with its intricately wrought wood portico, wide porch, large sunny rooms, and a sprawling garden that was a veritable wilderness when Emma had first taken t.i.tle to the property.

Aside from wanting a place where she could spend the holidays with her young brood and enjoy their company, Emma had had another valid reason for purchasing Heron's Nest. She had long felt the urgent need to have her grandchildren under her complete control and influence for uninterrupted periods. Her objective was simple. She wanted to teach them a few of the essentials of life, the practicalities of everyday living, and to make sure that they understood the true value of money. Emma had for years found it intolerable that most of her children had grown accustomed to living in luxury without giving one thought to the cost of their pampered existences and that they were overly dependent on armies of servants to take care of even their simplest needs.

And so, in her inimitable way, she had devised a scheme when she had decided that her grandchildren must be brought up to be less spoiled, more self-reliant, and certainly down-to-earth where matters of money were concerned. "There's an old Yorkshire saying, and it goes like this-" she had remarked to her investment banker, Henry Rossiter, one day, "from clogs to clogs in three generations. Well, you can be d.a.m.ned sure that that's not going to hold true for my lotl" Immediately afterward she had signed the check for the house.

Heron's Nest was the answer to many things in her mind. And it would become her school. To this end Emma had seen fit to engage only one maid, a local woman from the town who would come every day. And she had told the rather jolly, plump Mrs. Bonnyface that her main task would be to take care of the seaside villa when the family was not in residence. Emma had gone on to outline her rather unorthodox plans had explained how she fully intended to run the house herself-with the help of her numerous grandchildren. Whatever Mrs. Bonnyface had thought of this unusual state of affairs, she had never said. She had accepted Emma's scheme with enthusiasm and had obviously felt privileged to work for the famous Mrs. Harte, if her general demeanor was anything to judge by.

Being clever and a dissembler of the highest order, Emma had not confided her intentions or motives in anyone else, least of all her grandchildren. Only after she had made the acquisition and hired Mrs. Bonnyface had she told them about Heron's Nest, but she had given glowing details, cloaked it with such an aura of glamour they had been agog with excitement. They regarded the whole idea of a house by the sea as a great adventure, since they would be alone with Emma and far away from their parents.

Emma had realized almost immediately that the regime she had inst.i.tuted had come as something of a shock, and she had smiled inwardly as she had watched them floundering around with mops and buckets, carpet sweepers and brooms, furniture polish and dusters, and unmanageable ironing boards. There had been huge disasters in the kitchen . . . demolished frying pans, pots charred to cinders, and vile, unpalatable meals. They had grumbled about burned fingers, blisters, headaches, housemaid's knee, and other minor ailments, real and imaginary, some of which had sounded extremely farfetched to Emma.

But it was Jonathan who had come up with the most inventive and imaginative excuse for wriggling out of his allocated ch.o.r.es, on the day he had told her that he had strained his Achilles tendons mowing the lawn, and was far too crippled to do any more work for days. Emma had been both startled and impressed by his cleverness. She had nodded most sympathetically. And to prove to this canny little boy that she was so much smarter than he believed she was, she had explained to him in diabolically graphic terms exactly how strained Achilles tendons were treated. "And so, since you're in such dreadful agony, I'd better drive you down to the doctor's office so that he can get to work on you immediately," she had said, reaching for her handbag and the car keys. Jonathan had swiftly suggested that they wait for a few hours, just in case the pain went away. Seemingly it did. He had made a stunningly rapid recovery, apparently not relishing the prospect of spending the remainder of the spring uncomfortably encased in a plaster of Paris cast reaching from the tip of his toes to his waist-or of being left behind with Mrs. Bonnyface when his cousins returned to their respective schools and his grandmother returned to Pennistone Royal, During those first few weeks at the holiday house in Scarborough, they soon settled down to a steady routine. The girls quickly began to show a certain proficiency in their housework and cooking, and the boys readily learned to cope with the heavier household work, weeding the garden and mowing the lawns. Not one of-them was ever permitted to shirk his or her duties. Emma was not the type to stand any nonsense for long, and she was relatively strict, showed no favoritism whatsoever.

"I've never heard of anyone dying from scrubbing a floor or polishing the silver," she was fond of saying if one of them dared to complain or invent an imaginary.illness as Jonathan had done. The recalcitrant child who had screwed up enough nerve to protest or fib would instantly blanch under her steely green gaze, remembering Jonathan's narrow escape.

And when the time came for them all to pack up and leave the seaside house, Emma had congratulated herself, had admitted that they had been real troupers indeed. They had put on good faces and had truly pulled together to please her. As far as she was concerned, the experiment had proved to be an unconditional success. Every year thereafter, when the harsh Yorkshire winters gave way to the warmer weather, she had gathered them up and carted them off to Scarborough.

Eventually the Harte cousins and the O'Neill and Kallinsld grandchildren became regular visitors. Even they were given their fair share of ch.o.r.es, and they had had no choice but to pitch in cheerfully when they arrived to spend July and August by the sea. They quickly came to understand that they would not be invited back if they did not comply with Emma's wishes and pull their weight.

The children had called Emma "The General" behind her back, and indeed they had often felt as though they were living in an army camp because of her stringent rules and regulations. On the other hand they had truly enjoyed themselves during those happy, carefree years, and they had ended up having such enormous fun together that even the ch.o.r.es were regarded as games. Much to their parents' astonishment and Emma's immense satisfaction, each one had come to so look forward to those sojourns in the little seaside town that they vociferously declined any other holiday invitations. They had insisted on returning to Heron's Nest the minute Emma opened up the house.

Despite her own terrible addiction to work and little else, . Emma had been shrewd enough to recognize that her "small band of brigands," as she called them, needed plenty of opportunities to let off steam and lots of pleasurable pursuits to fill the long summer days. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know," she would constantly repeat to Mrs. Bonnyface and then proceed to invent exciting projects in which she and the children could partic.i.p.ate together.

She took them on interesting expeditions up and down the coast, to Whitby, Robin Hood's Bay, and Flamborough Head,-and gave them numerous other rewards for their strenuous endeavors. There were visits to the local picture house and the town's little theater; they went for leisurely picnics on the clifis, sailed in the bay, and had swimming parties on the beach. Frequently they went fishing with the local fishermen and were thrilled when they were allowed to keep some of the catch. On those propitious days they would return in triumph to Heron's Nest, where they would cook their small and meager fish for Emma's supper, and she had eaten them as if they had been prepared by the French chef at the Ritz. When the weather was overcast and the seas rough, Emma had organized egg-and-spoon races and treasure hunts in the garden; and, since she truly understood the acquisitive nature of children, she made certain that the treasure was extra special and worth finding. And she had always provided more than enough items for each child, had usually dropped blatant clues to those who were coming up empty-handed and wearing tearful or disappointed expressions. On rainy days when they had to stay indoors, they had played charades or put on their own plays.

One year the boys formed their own band.

They called themselves the Herons, and Shane and Winston were the chief instigators and organizers. Shane appointed himself the band leader. He was also the piano player and the vocalist. Alexander played the drums and cymbals, Philip blew the flute, Jonathan sc.r.a.ped the violin, and Michael Kallinski warbled the harmonica. But it was Winston who thought he was the most important and talented member of the ensemble. He adopted the trumpet as his own and fervently insisted he was the new Bix Beiderbecke, inspired no doubt by a film Emma had taken them to see called Young Man with a Horn. Sarah wondered out loud where he had learned to play, and Emma smiled thinly and said that he hadn't, and that was the trouble. And at times she thought her eardrums would burst when the cacophony of sound filled the house during practice times, which seemed never ending to her.

Eventually, when they believed themselves to be polished enough to perform before a live audience, the Herons invited Emma and the girls to a concert in the garden. Emma watched them in amazement, secretly amused by their elaborate and endless preparations. They put out deck chairs, set up a small stage made of planks balanced on bricks, and rolled out the piano to stand next to it. And they took great pains dressing themselves in what they called their "rig-outs"-their new white cricket flannels worn with brilliant scarlet satin shirts, made no doubt at one of the Kallinski factories, Emma decided. Purple satin kerchiefs were tied around their necks and debonair straw boaters were rakishly angled on top of their heads.

Having caught a glimpse of them a.s.sembling on the stage, from her bedroom window, Emma immediately changed into a silk afternoon dress and hurried down the corridor to the girls' rooms. She insisted they wear their best cotton frocks in honor of the auspicious occasion, and they had all trooped out just after four o'clock dressed in their finery,. curiosity and expectancy written on their pretty young faces.

As Emma listened to the Herons give their renditions of current popular songs and a couple of old ballads, she found herself enjoying the concert and was rather surprised to discover that they really weren't such bad musicians after all. At the end of their recital, she praised the boys, laughing with merriment as she showed her delight in them. The boys laughed too, and taking her lavish accolades to heart, they had gone on playing relentlessly all that summer, much to the horror of the girls. Whenever they heard them rehearsing, they made snide remarks, sn.i.g.g.e.red loudly, and declared that the Herons stank to high heaven.

Shane like Winston was exceptionally vain about his musical accomplishments and most especially his voice. He soon made certain that the critical young females were suitably intimidated. One night all of them found a foul-smelling object in their beds, ranging from frogs and dead fish with gla.s.sy eyes, to raw onions and bags of sulphur. Shane's retaliatory measure worked. After that dreadful night of changing sheets, opening the windows wide, and shaking Emma's good perfumes all over their rooms, none of the girls dared to use the word stinking for the rest of the holidays. At least certainly not in reference to the Herons.

And slowly but very deliberately over these years, Emma had strived to instill in every child the importance of the team spirit, playing the game, being a good sport, and abiding by the rules. Duty and responsibility were words forever on her lips, for she was resolute in her determination to arm each and every one of them with sound principles and the proper precepts for the future when they became adults. She taught them the meaning of honor, integrity, honesty, and truthfulness, amongst so many other things. But her frequently strong and tough p.r.o.nouncements were always spoken with an underlying kindness, and she gave them a great deal of love and understanding, not to mention genuine friendship. And it was a friendship most of them were never to forget for the rest of their lives. Deep in her heart Emma regretted that she had neglected her own children at certain times in her life, when they were in their formative years and growing up. She wanted her grandchildren to benefit from the mistakes she had made in the past, and if some of this washed off on her great-nephews and nieces and on the grandchildren of her closest friends, then so much the better.

But of all the years they had spent in the tall old villa on the cliffs, that very first spring of 1952 had been the most meaningful to Paula, and it would live in her heart and mind always. That particular year she became aware of her affinity with nature and her overwhelming desire-the need in her really-to make things grow.

One bl.u.s.tery Sat.u.r.day in April she wandered out into the garden with little Emily, whom Emma had put in her charge that day. Paula glanced around, her eager young eyes keenly observing, newly perceptive. The undergrowth had been cut away, the hedges neatly trimmed, and the lawns mowed to such perfection by the boys that they resembled bolts of smooth emerald velvet rolled out to touch the perimeters of the high stone walls. The piece ofland behind the house was now uncommonly immaculate-and totally lacking in character.

She was amazed at herself when she unexpectedly realized how the garden could look if it was correctly planted. The eight-year-old girl had a vision, saw reflected in her child's imagination an array of textures and shapes and great bursts of color . . . luscious pinks and mauves, blazing reds and blues, brilliant yellows, warm ambers, oranges, and golds, and cool clear whites. She instantly envisioned dazzling mixtures of flowers and shrubs . . . plump bushes of rhodo-'dendrons with their delicately formed petals and dark polished leaves . .. pale peonies, waxlike in their perfection . . . splayed branches of azaleas laden down with heavy bright blossoms . . . ma.s.ses of stately foxgloves brushing up against merry tulips and daffodils . . . and hugging cozily to the ground, dainty beds of pansies, primroses, and violets, and the icy little snowdrop scattered randomly under the trees.

And as she saw all this in her mind's eye, she knew what she must do. She must create the most beautiful garden-a garden for her Crandy. And it would be filled with every flower imaginable, except roses of course. For some unknown reason her grandmother hated roses, detested the smell of them, said they made her feel nauseous and she could not stand to have them in her houses or her gardens. She rushed into the house, bursting with excitement, her young face flushed, her eyes sparkling. Paula raided her money box, hurriedly breaking it open with her embroidery scissors.

As the pennies and threepenny bits and half crowns and shillings came tumbling out, Emily cried fretfully, "You'll get into trouble when Grandma finds out you've smashed your new money box and stolen the money."

Paula shook her head. "No, I won't. And I'm not stealing it. All this is mine. I saved it from my weekly pocket money.' Armed with her precious h.o.a.rd and with Emily trotting faithfully after her, she walked purposefully into the town.

As it turned out, Emily became something of a nuisance in Scarborough, and Paula soon began to regret bringing her along. Emily wanted to stop for mussels and winkles at the sh.e.l.lfish stand, then for lemonade at a nearby cafe, claiming she was hungry and thirsty, and in a burst of willfulness she stamped her foot.

Paula gave her a stern look. "How can you be hungry? We've just had lunch. And you ate more than anybody.

You're growing more like a fat little porky pig every day." She hurried on, leaving Emily trailing behind, pouting.

"You're mean!" Emily yelled, and she increased her pace, endeavoring to keep up with her cousin's longer strides.

Paula glanced back over her shoulder and said, "I think you must have a tapeworm."

This was announced so suddenly and so fiercely that Emily stopped dead in her tracks. After a moment's shocked silence, she began to run after Paula as fast as her little legs would carry her. "What a horrid thing to say!" Emily shouted at the top of her lungs. She was terrified by Paula's words, and the mere thought of some huge worm growing inside her propelled her forward with urgency. "I don't have a worm! I don't!" She caught her breath and gasped, "Do I, Paula? Oh please, please tell me I don't. Can Grandma fish it out of me?"

"Oh, don't be so silly!" Paula snapped with growing irritation, intent on her purpose, anxious to find a flower shop selling bulbs and plants.

"I don't feel well, Paula. I'm going to be sick!"

"It's all that bread-and-b.u.t.ter pudding."

"No, it isn't," Emily wailed. "It's thinking about my worm. I feel awful. I'm going to throw up," the child threatened. Emily turned ashen, and her huge eyes swam with tears.

Paula was instantly filled with chagrin. She did love little Emily, and she was rarely unkind to her. She put her arm around the five-year-old's heaving shoulders and stroked her soft blond hair. "There, there, don't cry, Emily. I'm sure you don't have a tapeworm, really I am. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Eventually Emily stopped crying and searched the pocket of her cardigan for a handkerchief. She blew her nose loudly, then put her hand trustingly in Paula's and trotted along next to her quietly, tamed and subdued as they walked along the sea front past the many quaint old shops. At last she plucked -up her courage and ventured timidly in a whisper, "But just suppose I do have it? What will I do about my-"

"I forbid you to discuss your nasty worm, you horrid little girl!" Paula exclaimed, her impatience returning. "You know what, Emily Barkstone, you're a pest. A terrible pest. I may send you to Coventry if you don't shut up."

Emily was crushed. "But you always say I'm your favorite. Do you mean I'm your favorite pest?" Emily asked, hurrying to stay in step, gazing longingly at her older cousin, whom she worshiped.

Paula started to laugh. She pulled Emily into her arms and hugged the small round child. "Yes, you're my favorite pest, Apple Dumpling. And because I know you're going to be a good girl and stop behaving like a spoiled baby, I'm going to tell you a very, very special secret."

Emily was so flattered that her tears ceased and her green eyes widened. "What kind of secret?"

"I'm going to make a garden for Grandy, a most beautiful garden. That's why we came to Scarborough, to buy the seeds and the things I need. But you mustn't say anything to her. It's a big, big secret."

"I promise, I promise!" Emily was excited.

For the next half hour, as the two little girls roamed from florist to florist, Paula kept Emily completely enthralled. She was articulate as she spoke about the wonderful things she was going to plant in her garden. She described the colors and the petals and the leaves and the scents of the flowers in detail, and Emily was so utterly enchanted and delighted to be part of such a grown-up enterprise she soon forgot about the tapeworm. Slowly, with painstaking care, Paula finally settled on her grandmother's favorite flowers and made her purchases. They left the last flower shop with a bag br.i.m.m.i.n.g with bulbs and packets of seeds and gardening catalogs.

When they reached the top of the street, Emily looked up at Paula and smiled with great sweetness, her round little face dimpling. "Can we go to the winkle stand now then?"

"Emily! You're being a pest again! You'd better behave yourself,"

Emily paid no attention to this remonstration. "I've got a better idea. Let's go to the Grand for tea. I'd like that. We can have cream puffs and cuc.u.mber sandwiches and scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream and-"

"I don't have any money left," Paula announced with firmness, hoping to demolish this idea immediately.

"Scribble on the bill like Grandma does," Emily suggested.

"We're not going to the Grand, and that's final. So shut up. And look, Emily, stop dawdling . . . it's getting late. We'd better hurry now."

By the time the two little girls arrived at Heron's Nest, they had become firm friends again. Emily immediately volunteered to help, wishing to ingratiate herself with her cousin, as always seeking Paula's approbation and her love. She crouched on the ground, offering unsolicited advice in her piping child's voice. After watching Paula for a while, Emily said, "I bet you've got green fingers, if anybody does, Paula.'

"It's a green thumb," Paula corrected without looking up, intent on her work. And she continued digging into the rich soil, planting her first flowers with supreme self-confidence, never doubting for a moment that they would flourish and grow. She was gathering up the garden tools when Emily startled her as she leaped up and let out a wild scream of terror.

"Oh! Oh!" Emily screeched, jumping up and down and brushing her skirt in a frantic fashion. "Oh! Oh!"

"What's wrong with you, you silly thing? You'll have Grandy out here in a minute, and then the garden won't be a surprise."

"It was a worm! Look, there near your foot! It was crawling on my skirt. Ugh! All slimy and wriggly." Emily had gone as white as chalk and she was trembling.

Paula was struck by her second inspired idea that day, and she cleverly seized the opportunity. She grabbed the trowel and jabbed at the worm, cutting it in half. She piled soil over it and gave Emily a cheerful and triumphant grin. "It must have been your tapeworm. I expect it left you of its own accord. And I've killed it, so now everything's all right."

Paula picked up the small box of tools and beckoning Emily to follow, she hurried up the garden path to the potting shed. She stopped suddenly and, after a minute's rapid thought, said, "But you'd better not mention anything about it to Grandy, or she might make you take some medicine just to be sure you don't get another."

Emily shuddered at the very idea.

Later that same summer, when Paula and Emily came back to the villa by the sea, they could hardly contain themselves when they saw the garden in full bloom. A profusion of flowers had sprouted up during their absence, and the many different species Paula had selected splashed the dark earth with their brilliant paintbox hues.

Emma was touched when, on their first day at Heron's Nest, the two girls led her through the garden, showing her everything that Paula had planted, looking up at her expectantly, watching her face for her reactions. Emily told her all about their trip into Scarborough, although she was careful to omit any mention of worms! Emma had been aware of their little expedition on that Sat.u.r.day in the spring, but sne pretended to be surprised. She praised them both for being so clever, and, recognizing Paula's potential as a budding horticulturist! she had encouraged her to pursue her hobby.

And so Paula's long and pa.s.sionate love affair with gardening began that year. She had not stopped planting, weeding, pruning, and hoeing since then.

With Emma's approval, she had cultivated vegetable and herb gardens on her grandmother's Yorkshire estate, and eventually she had created the now famous Rhododendron Walk. The Walk took her years to plan, plant, and grow, and it was another example of her determination to excel at whatever she did, and in this instance it was a rather spectacular example of that.

But of all the gardens Paula had created, the one at Heron's Nest remained the dearest.

She was reminded of it this afternoon, seventeen years after she had started it, as she stood up and stretched. She pulled off her gardening gloves, placed them on the wheelbarrow, and stepped back to regard the rockery.

Finally it's beginning to take shape, she thought. Making Edwin Fairley's garden beautiful was giving her as much pleasure as her first garden had done.

After Edwin Fairley's death, Jim had inherited his house in Harrogate called Long Meadow. It was here that Paula had come to live as a bride almost a year ago. Although the house was sound and in good repair, it was badly in need of remodeling as well as redecorating. Conversely Edwin Fairley had seen to it that his gardener had tended the grounds religiously. Nevertheless they were bereft of color since little replenishing had been done as flowers and flowering shrubs had died. Paula had seen these deficiencies the moment it became hers and had itched to start working on it. However, the house took precedence; yet somehow she managed to cope with both at the same time, bringing wholly new aspects and fresh dimensions to both.