Трейси Шевалье - At the Edge of the Orchard

After breakfast on the third day, Robert saddled up the gray, Molly watching. “I’ve packed you food for the road, honey,” she said, “but you don’t have to go.” She did not plead, but Robert sensed the rising panic in her and struggled not to be infected by it. He did not let himself tighten the stirrups any faster. He respected Molly enough to hide his desire to get away. “I have seeds to collect,” he said.

“When are you coming back?”

She did not give him the opportunity not to return, extracting his promise to visit again within three months. Which is how Robert Goodenough became Molly’s backup plan in case a respectable miner did not emerge from the jackals she lived among. Every few months he stayed with her at French Creek for two nights-never more-pumped her until he was sore, then escaped back to his trees. He felt guilty for not falling back in love with her, but though he tried, he could not recreate that week in Texas when all the world led back to her. That feeling belonged to other people.

Robert was at the stables near Mrs. Bienenstock’s, checking on his horse. It was early December and he had just come back to San Francisco after another visit to Molly, leaving as the snow came, which would mean no visiting for months unless he wanted to risk getting caught in a snowdrift and freezing to death. Seeing Molly was still new enough that he thought he might risk it, though the gray was not fond of snow. The horse had stepped on a sharp rock on the final stretch of road. Robert had taken care of it as soon as they arrived, removing the gray’s shoe and scraping out the pus before applying a poultice. Now he wanted to make sure there was no infection. The horse seemed all right, though he was not the sort to communicate much. Perhaps he sensed Robert’s own lack of commitment, for he showed little affection for his owner. Robert had been around men who loved their horses more than their wives, and cried when they died or were stolen. Some swore they could feel their horses laughing under their thighs. Robert suspected that if the gray had a sense of humor, it was a dry one.

He sat back on a barrel, watching his horse and eating an apple-a Gravenstein, one of the few apples available in California. Newly picked, they were juicy and tasted of berries, but they didn’t keep well and by December were mushy and tasteless, with a disagreeably waxy skin. Robert grimaced, wondered why he was bothering, and fed it to the gray, who was not picky about the taste or feel of an apple.

“I got one you’ll like better.”

William Lobb stood in the doorway. Pulling an apple from his pocket, he tossed it to Robert. It was small and yellow and wrinkled, and Robert turned it over and over in his hand.

“Try it. I’ve brought it all this way for you, lad. Go on, bite into it.”

Robert bit, and though old and soft from its long journey, the apple still contained a trace of the distinctive honey and pineapple taste of a Golden Pippin.

“Thought that would make you smile. Pitmaston Pineapples have become quite the thing in England. Even Veitch is selling ’em, and he’s not much bothered about apple trees.”

Robert thought about shaking William Lobb’s hand, but such formality didn’t seem appropriate with him. They had only ever shaken hands once, when they first met. “Did the shipments I sent arrive?” he asked instead. “There were three of them, but I didn’t hear anything.”

“They did indeed. Didn’t I write to tell you? No? My apologies. Yes, they all arrived, and mostly intact. The Ward’s cases were fine, the seedlings fresh as the day they were dug up. You lost three cases of cones to damp, but that’s not bad out of a few dozen. It’s what you’d expect.” Lobb stepped over to the stall that housed his buckskin mare. Others had used her while he was away, but she had begun whinnying the moment she heard his voice. Lobb patted her and fed her an apple-not a Pitmaston Pineapple, Robert hoped, for it would be wasted on a horse.

“Did I collect what you wanted?”

“Yes. You mixed up the Noble Fir and the Red Fir cones-but that’s easily done, and easily made right,” William Lobb added when he caught sight of Robert’s face, perhaps understanding that after over a year away, what his assistant needed was reassurance rather than a list of things he’d done wrong.

“How are the sequoias doing in England? Did they believe you about the size?”

“Oh, they did, they did! The English love the idea of these huge trees. In fact, I’ve rather done Billie Lapham a disservice. His publicity of Calaveras Grove reached as far as Europe, and once they’d read about the Mammoth Tree grove, everyone wanted one. My timing was perfect.” Lobb continued stroking the buckskin mare. “Of course, at first customers were put out that there were no giant trees ready for them to plant-as if they expected us to dig up mature sequoias and send them by ship! But we grew seedlings quick enough, and that seems to satisfy them. It tickles them to imagine their great-great-grandchildren enjoying a tree whose size they can only dream of.”

“What about the seedlings?”

“Of the four I brought back, two are still growing; the other two perished after being transplanted into English soil, the like of which probably shocked them to death after the Californian soil they were accustomed to. I myself felt rather similarly.”

Indeed, William Lobb did not look quite himself. He seemed tired, the T of his face more prominent because of his sunken cheeks and hollowed eye sockets. Of course it was not surprising-three months on ships would likely carve out any man’s face. But there was something deeper than surface fatigue and illness. He moved stiffly, as if he didn’t have his legs entirely in control. His black hair was much grayer, and lank rather than glossy. His talk was also less modulated: his laughter seemed louder, and he swore more. Later when they went to an eating house-a place where rough talk was more common than kind words-his tone made customers glance over, though they were careful not to meet Lobb’s eye.

His anger at James Veitch made a vein bulge in his temple. “He’s milking me dry, like an old cow with withered dugs!” he exclaimed, shoveling ham into his mouth. “All he wants is for me to collect plants till my balls fall off, the cheating bastard. Makes his money from my knowledge with no respect for it!”

“How much is he selling the sequoias for?”

“Two guineas a seedling.” When Robert didn’t respond to the figure, Lobb added, “That’s eight dollars a tree!”

Robert widened his eyes. “We could buy a hundred and fifty apple seedlings for that price back in Ohio.”

“Yes, and do I see any of that money? Only a pittance!”

Robert let him continue to rant, hoping he would eventually empty himself of his bile and they could talk more sensibly about work. He did not really care about how much the trees cost, or even how Veitch was treating his employer. He just wanted to know if he would still be working for Lobb.

When there was a pause, Robert ventured to ask, “What will we be collecting next?”

William Lobb exploded. “Goddammit, lad, can’t a man rest without being pestered and bullied? I’m just off the boat, my legs hurt, my head hurts, I just want to sleep without your badgering!” He stood up from his unfinished plate and stormed off, leaving Robert to pay.

Lobb remained in his room for several days. If he hadn’t been there Robert would have made his own plans, but now that his sometime employer was back he felt obliged to wait for instructions from him. He hated being idle, though, and took to helping Mrs. Bienenstock when he could. He tidied up the backyard for her, and one afternoon they cleared mud from the road in front of the house-a futile effort since it would reappear with the next rain, but Mrs. B. insisted. “Standards,” she replied when he pointed this out.