Merryn Allingham - The Buttonmaker’s Daughter

Oliver stood on tiptoe. ‘I can just make her out. She’s in deep blue. But who’s that she’s with?’

‘I think it’s one of the architects. He works for Mr Simmonds. He was in church on Sunday.’

They stood, silently watching the distant tableau. Olly gave a low whistle. ‘She certainly seems interested in him.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Stand this side of me. You’ll get a better view.’ Elizabeth was clearly visible from the new position. She was standing beneath the laurel arch and Aiden Kellaway was by her side. They were talking animatedly to one another.

William’s mouth drooped at the sight. ‘She better not get too interested,’ he said in a glum voice.

‘Why, what’s the matter? Don’t you fancy him as a brother-in-law,’ Olly teased. ‘She could marry him, couldn’t she? If he wanted to.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But she’s old.’

‘Old enough, I suppose, but our parents would never agree to it. In fact, Mama would be furious if she saw her talking to him. Elizabeth has to marry someone a lot more special, I think.’

‘In what way special?’

‘Someone who is important.’

‘You mean someone who’s rich.’

‘Not necessarily. Father would supply the dibs, I guess. But someone from an old family. That’s what he wants.’

‘Then he’s a snob.’ Oliver was definite in his judgement.

William simply nodded. He was tired of the conversation and the heat was making him drowsy. He was also perturbed. A dark shadow had seemed to flit across a sky that was cloudless, though he could not say what it might be or why it worried him. He forgot Dr Daniels and his stethoscope and collapsed into the hollow the boys had made, settling himself under a tree fern as he’d done so many years ago. Oliver followed suit. The quest for lemonade was temporarily abandoned. Overhead, the sun was a glowing ball, shepherding the exhausted boys towards sleep. His eyelids were almost closed when he sensed a wavering at the corner of his sight.

He sat upright, his eyes wide. ‘Look, Olly, isn’t that the most fabulous butterfly?’ The amber wings fluttered closer. ‘And look at those splodges of black. It seems to have veins on each wing. But how beautiful it is.’

‘Do you know the name?’

‘I’m not sure. I think it may be a kind of fritillary. It’s large enough. I’ll have to look it up when we get back.’

‘Shall I catch it for you? Then you can put it in your collection.’

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Leave it be.’ And he cupped his hands around the butterfly to bring it closer, entranced by its fur-like body and its bright orange wings.

Olly came to kneel beside him and cupped his own hands beneath his friend’s. ‘It is beautiful,’ he said, ‘and it likes you.’

William smiled a rare smile. ‘It likes its freedom better.’ He opened his palms and allowed the insect to flutter away, but Olly’s hands remained enclosing his.

‘I’m never going to marry,’ William said staunchly.

‘Nor me,’ Oliver agreed.

Chapter Eight

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.