Christie Dickason - The Lady Tree

‘Forgive me,’ said Sir Richard, levering his bulk up over his feet, ‘if I take to my horse while the sun’s up.’ He leaned over the table, braced on his knuckles and puffing in triumph.

‘Why not stay the night, Sir Richard, I beg you,’ said Harry.

Aunt Margaret gave John a quick, horrified look.

‘Be a pleasure, young Harry,’ said Sir Richard. ‘A true pleasure. But needs must. Duty. Y’know. In the morning. No, best if off I go!’ He pushed himself upright and balanced uncertainly.

They rustled and scraped and bowed and murmured as they rose and the women took their leave. At the last moment, one of the serving men spat on the floor behind Mistress Hazelton’s chair. For one moment, Mistress Margaret forgot Edward Malise and planned a murder of her own.

‘I’ll join you in the gardens,’ said Harry. ‘When I have seen Sir Richard safely off. I leave you till then in my cousin’s care.’

‘I don’t know why,’ muttered Mrs Hazelton to her husband, ‘I really don’t know why we paid to school her! She sat there like a turnip…didn’t take the chance when Master Malise spoke in French. I told you it was a waste of time to send her to Paris with Lady Chase. No one would ever guess what she has cost to educate!’

‘With her own money,’ said Hazelton.

‘Which could have had other uses.’

‘It has, mistress. It has,’ said Hazelton. ‘And lack of charity makes your face unbecomingly red.’

John led them out of the main door, across the forecourt and into the Knot Garden. Along one wall the white tulips glowed in the dusk. Against the opposite wall the red tulips punched soft dark holes in the evening light. Hazelton sniffed the air, which was faintly perfumed with honey. There was also a not-unpleasant undernote of dung newly ridged along the lines of germander and box.

‘How it refreshes the soul to contemplate the works of God,’ said Hazelton. He strolled beside John; Malise walked behind. ‘The city is now almost entirely the work of man.’

‘You might detect the hand of man even here,’ said John amiably.

‘Yes,’ said Hazelton, sniffing the air again. ‘But only as Adam was the first gardener in God’s Paradise.’

They circled the central device in silence. John wished he had Malise in view.

‘Perhaps you can answer a question I have often asked,’ said John. ‘Does vegetation in Paradise, whether on earth or elsewhere, show the same natural rage for disorder that I find here in Hampshire?’

Hazelton glanced at John to check his tone. ‘All disorder is unnatural. Divine order is the natural state. Here in Hampshire you wrestle with the corruption of Man’s Fall.’

‘Do you mean to say that slugs and caterpillars might respond to increased piety and prayer?’

This glance from Hazelton was longer and held a glint of amusement. ‘I suspect that they’re susceptible to good works.’ He raised his voice. ‘Edward, are not Mr Graffham’s tulips very fine?’

Come to your point, man! thought John. ‘I ordered them from Leyden. It’s now possible to write to dealers in the Netherlands for their bulbs and fruit trees.’

‘Have you been to the Low Countries?’

John shook his head. ‘But I mean to go before I die. I hear that they have fields of flowers as we have meadow grass.’

Hazelton actually smiled. ‘I may be able to help.’

They passed under a gated arch into the New Garden, where the central walk was lined by chest-high fruiting walls. The pale green fish skeletons of espaliered peaches and apricots were not yet in full leaf. At the far end of the fruiting walls, the two night-watch mastiffs, Bellman and Ranter, raised large heads and rumbled in their throats.

John whistled. The mastiffs wagged ox-sized tails. Then John finally allowed himself to turn to look at Malise.

Malise stood braced in the arch that led from the Knot Garden as if he had just stumbled and caught himself. John’s nape bristled.

‘Now, Mr Graffham,’ said Hazelton. ‘I’m not a man to tie conversation into diplomatic knots, nor, I suspect, are you. Please sit down.’

Hazelton settled his black folds and pleats on a wooden bench. John sat beside him, trying to listen.

Malise stared into a gooseberry bush.

At last! thought John.

‘Master Malise and I have descended on your cousin like the Egyptian plagues before he has even had time to sleep in his new bed because we need to speak with you urgently. You must go to the Netherlands for us.’

John kept his eyes on Malise. He barely heard Hazelton’s extraordinary command.

‘Your two tracts on fruit-growing,’ went on Hazelton, ‘have given you a modest but solid reputation in the circle of botanical enthusiasts which seems to be growing daily. That stiff-kneed friend I mentioned at supper, Sir George Tupper, has recommended your reputed good sense, education and energy.’

John wasted no words on modest demurral. Any minute, Malise would lift his head.

‘And your cousin, of course, chimed an eager echo,’ said Hazelton. ‘Will you help us?’

‘Us?’

‘The South Java Trading Company – members include myself, Master Malise, Sir George, as it happens, and several others whom I doubt you know. And Sir Harry, of course …’

‘I’m sorry,’ said John. ‘I can’t help you.’ He stood up.

‘Have the courtesy to let me finish, sir!’

‘There’s no point.’

Hazelton inhaled sharply. His thin dry face turned dark red above his white collar. He was seldom dismissed so abruptly.

Edward Malise raised his head. He listened, but did not turn around.

‘Please forgive any offence my refusal gives,’ said John. ‘But I am not your man.’

Hazelton steadied himself. ‘I misjudged you, sir. A man of sense would at least hear me out. I haven’t given you any reason yet for refusal.’

‘None that you know.’ John was still watching Edward Malise.

Malise turned his head and met John’s eyes.

Silence pressed down upon the evening air.

The waiting had ended. Now would come Malise’s denunciation, his call for armed men, his summons to Sir Henry Bedgebury, the local magistrate. But Malise’s teeth stayed clamped tight against his tongue.

Hazelton shifted on his bench. He had suddenly ceased to exist, and he did not like it any more than he liked to be refused. He had had three surprises today, which was unsettling for a man who understood how both God and the world ticked. This cousin had been a pleasant surprise. An educated villain suited their purpose perfectly.

But then came the villain’s impertinent refusal. And now, it seemed, there was bad feeling between Edward Malise and a man he had pretended not to know. The non-existent Hazelton looked from one pair of eyes to the other. Worse than mere bad feeling. Graffham and Malise would clearly be happy to slit each other’s throats. Hazelton had stubbed his toe on two mysteries. In business, mysteries were usually expensive.

At last, Hazelton broke the silence. ‘We have no time for niceties,’ he said. ‘Mr Graffham, tell me what stops you so absolute before you even know what we want.’

‘I am truly sorry …’

‘Hear me out or say why not! I would have expected more manners from you!’

‘I hope that you are gentleman enough not to insist on pressing an impossible case.’

‘Leave it, Samuel!’ said Malise sharply.

Hazelton stood up. His face turned puce. Twenty years of money-making, silk nightgowns, a large town-house in London, and a deciding voice in the Court of Committees of a royally chartered trading company had not yet hardened him to an insolent command from a man who fancied himself a social better.

‘There you are!’ cried Harry from the archway into the Knot Garden, before Hazelton could think how to reply. ‘Sir Richard’s safely off, and I’ve ordered pipes laid out in the parlour. Just before I left London, I managed to buy some of the new Virginia tobacco …’