The Buttonmaker’s Daughter

Chapter Eight (#ulink_7657870c-53a4-5780-868f-1ebdd30f0543)

Aiden touched her gently on the shoulder and she turned and followed him, through the arch and into the Italian Garden. She found herself looking at a transformation. No longer did the flagged pathway circle a muddy shell but instead a wide expanse of water, its calm surface ruffled here and there by the eddying of the river that nurtured it. For a moment, the glint and glimmer of water beneath the bright sunlight, its occasional plunge into the shadow of sheltering trees, dazzled her. Then she lifted her eyes and saw across the lake’s shining mirror the temple that had begun to rise. It stood, delicate and poised, on a platform of levelled white rock. Two marble columns were now in place, their carved scrolls boldly outlined against the bluest of skies.

She was rendered almost breathless. She had not truly believed her father when he’d claimed this garden would prove his most spectacular yet.

‘It will be magnificent,’ she said in the quietest of voices.

‘It will,’ Aiden echoed.

Except for the slight ripple of lake water, there was complete stillness in the garden. She wasn’t certain she was completely comfortable with it. The stillness was almost unnatural.

‘Where are all the men?’ she asked, suddenly conscious of their absence.

‘Eating lunch.’

‘Why not here?’

‘It’s too enclosed and far too hot. They’ll be in the orchard – plenty of shade there beneath the fruit trees. Let’s hope tomorrow is a little cooler. We’ll begin to lift the remaining columns then and it’s heavy work.’

‘And after that…?’

‘After that, there’s the interior to finish, though that’s likely to take a little time.’

‘Have you plans for it?’

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Your father wanted murals to decorate each wall. He was pretty insistent, but I think Jonathan has finally persuaded him against. It’s the damp. We’ll proof the building as best we can, but water is insidious. It will find a home within the walls and any mural will last only a few years. Instead, we’ve commissioned a number of reliefs by a local sculptor – classical motifs in the main – and we’re hoping that Mr Summer will approve.’

‘It sounds as though you’ve weeks of work ahead. It’s a huge undertaking.’

‘It is, but when we’re through, you will see the most wonderful garden ever.’

She looked up at him. The green eyes had lost their mistiness and were sharp with excitement. ‘You really love this place, don’t you?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s exhilarating. I’ve only ever worked in towns and here there’s space and freedom and so much beauty.’

A slight flurry among the leaves made her look across at the temple and its guardian trees, but it was an instant only before the garden’s stillness had closed in on them once more.

‘You come from a city then?’ She was prying again, but she wanted very much to know.

‘If I come from anywhere,’ he answered equably. ‘I’ve lived for years with my aunt and uncle in London. In Camberwell. My uncle owns a small shop there, and when I’m not at lectures or sitting examinations or working on commissions, I help out.’

‘He is the uncle who arranged your apprenticeship?’

‘The very same.’ He looked down at her, a mocking expression on his face. ‘And before you steel yourself to ask, my aunt and uncle came to England years ago. Like many Irish people, they faced the choice of leaving home or starving.’

His tone was light but she knew his words were anything but. ‘I don’t know much about Irish history,’ she confessed.

‘It’s better that you don’t. It doesn’t make a pretty story.’

‘But you still have relatives there – in Ireland?’

He took her by the elbow and steered her towards the bench in the summerhouse. For a while, they sat in silence looking across the lake until he said, ‘My mother and father are dead but I have brothers.’

She was surprised. He seemed so self-contained, so much a man who had made his way in the world completely alone. ‘Do you ever see them?’

‘We’ve gone our different ways,’ he said shortly.

That was a part of his story, but a part he was unwilling to tell. At least for now. She tried another tack. ‘So where will you go after you’ve finished at Summerhayes?’

‘I’m not certain. I’ve had one or two offers – through Jonathan. They’re jobs that would give me independence, but they’re small projects and a little uninteresting.’

‘Isn’t small the best way to start?’

‘Possibly, but I’d rather think big from the beginning.’

She smiled at his earnestness. ‘Big, like Summerhayes,’ she murmured.

‘Indeed. It’s been brilliant. Passing examinations is one thing, but you can’t beat practical experience, and being on site with Jonathan has been a hundred times more valuable than sitting in a dusty office working from drawings.’

His enthusiasm was catching, but she found herself asking, ‘How likely is it that you’ll gain a large commission?’

‘Most unlikely. This country can be a closed shop. Canada would be different though.’

She was startled. ‘Canada!’

‘I have a cousin in Ontario. That’s eastern Canada. He writes to me that Toronto is a city that’s growing all the time. It’s one of the main destinations for immigrants and there’s a huge amount of new building. The sky could be the limit, he said.’

‘And do you believe him?’

‘Why not? Canada is a new country. It’s also very large.’

She felt a strange emptiness. Since their meeting in the churchyard, she had seen him only once. He had brought to the house the architect’s final drawings for her father to lock away in his safe, and they’d met in the black and white tiled hall. A brief conversation only, interrupted by Joshua’s emergence from his smoking room, but enough for her to want more, to have time to talk with him, time to know him.

She scolded herself. He was her father’s employee and a chance-met acquaintance; she would be foolish to think him anything more. Imagine her family’s reaction if they were ever to become close. But they wouldn’t – and it shouldn’t matter to her where he went. Instead, she should be cheering him for his ambition, for the passion he owned for his work and the new life he wished to build. His sense of adventure was something she understood. It was what she loved in her father, what she would wish for herself, if she were not a girl.

She wanted to know more of his cousin, but she’d already asked far too many questions. So she sat quietly by his side, enjoying the coolness of flint and stone. The summerhouse afforded a welcome retreat in what was becoming another broiling day.

‘My cousin sailed from Ireland several years ago.’ It was as though he had divined her thoughts. ‘There was no future for him in Galway. He’s working on the railway in Canada and rents a small house for his family on the outskirts of Toronto. He’s offered me a room until I find my feet.’

‘It seems you’ve already decided your future.’

‘Not yet. Not quite.’ He looked at her as though he wanted to say more, but then abruptly changed direction. ‘And what about yours? Do you intend to stay here?’

‘You asked me that before.’

‘And I never got an answer. Your father is making Summerhayes a life’s work, but it’s his life, not yours. You have your own creativity. Don’t you want the world to share it?’

She pulled a face. ‘How very grand that sounds! I paint for myself, that’s all.’