The Rose Garden

Returning his smile, I felt suddenly, heart-expandingly happy in a way I hadn’t felt for years, the way I’d felt when I’d awakened on those childhood summer mornings at Trelowarth with Katrina in the bed beside me and a day of new adventures spreading bright before us.

This felt so exactly like that, in fact, that for an instant I had to sit still while I took it all in, the warm familiar blend of sounds and smells and half-remembered sights that strummed a chord within me deep as instinct, wrapped me comfortingly in the certain knowledge I was home.

Fergal was saying, ‘And more luck for you that I haven’t yet eaten your breakfast, it’s still on the tray.’

He had brought me a thick slice of bread spread with cheese, and a cup of cool ale. Fetching the tray from the desk in the corner, he set it on the bed and stood, arms folded, while I sat upright to eat.

‘You did that very neatly,’ was his comment. ‘How the devil did you manage it?’

Daniel and Jack were downstairs, now. I heard the occasional tramp of a boot or the swing of a door underneath us, and knew it would be safe to talk if I kept my voice quiet, like Fergal’s. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Turning up like that, in the bed.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. ‘I just woke up, that’s all.’

‘This is your room in your own time, then?’ Seeing my nod, he gave one of his own, as though he’d suddenly made sense of why Daniel had given me this room to sleep in.

Curious, I asked, ‘How long have I been gone this time?’

‘Eight bleeding days.’

‘And Daniel has to go somewhere?’

‘He does. And he can tell you all about that for himself, I’m thinking, once you’re up and dressed.’ At which he stopped, as we both noticed something obvious.

Tugging at my T-shirt sleeve, I said, ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘You’ll need the wardrobe of a queen, if this keeps up,’ he told me drily. Leaving me a moment on my own he went next door to Daniel’s room and came back in through the connecting door weighed down by the most beautiful gown I’d yet seen, of a quiet green colour that shifted when catching the light like the leaves of the trees shaded deep in the woods.

I touched the fabric as he laid it on the bed beside me. And I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

‘Fergal, I can’t wear this.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve lost two gowns so far. Ann’s gowns. It’s just not right. And if I lose another—’

Fergal cut me off. ‘This was not Ann’s.’

I stopped. My hand fell still against the fabric as I looked at him.

‘Last week,’ he said, ‘Danny took the Sally down to Plymouth on some business. He came back with this.’ He flipped one sleeve so it lay straight across the bodice. ‘There are slippers to go with it.’

‘For me?’

‘Well, fair to say it wasn’t meant for me.’ Straight-faced, he said, ‘The colour is my favourite, but the cut would never do me justice.’ Digging briefly in a pocket he produced a handful of hairpins. ‘You’ll need these as well, will you not?’

‘Thanks.’

I would have said more but a sudden rise of voices underneath us made him lift a warning finger to his lips, until the hard slam of the front door and the crunch of footsteps outside on the path made him relax. Crossing to the window, Fergal watched whoever had just left stride off towards the road.

‘That’s Jack away to lick his wounds,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘You can come down when you’re ready, then, for Danny will I’m sure have things to say to you.’

And taking up my finished tray he left me on my own to dress.

The gown was of a different design than the others. More modern, I supposed. Just as the fashions I was used to changed each year, so too the fashions of this time must have evolved as well according to the current style. The sleeves were still close-fitted to the elbow and turned back above the wrists to show the ruffles underneath, but the bodice had a different shape and cut and fastened at the side instead of at the front, which made it difficult to manage on my own.

I’d nearly reached the point of giving up when Daniel’s voice behind me asked, ‘Do you need help?’

I hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs. I hadn’t even heard the door between our two rooms open, but the thing that marked a smuggler, I supposed, was his ability to move round without drawing much attention to himself.

He’d changed his own clothes slightly from the last time I had seen him. The leg-hugging breeches tucked into his boots weren’t the brown ones he usually wore but a dark navy blue, and the full white shirt left open at his throat was new as well, and of a finer-looking linen than the ones that I remembered. But his smile was just the same.

I was foolishly pleased to see him, but after the moment we’d shared in this room after lighting the fire I also felt a new degree of nervousness.

I looked away, still fumbling with the fastening. ‘It’s a little bit difficult.’

Taking that as a yes, he left the doorway and came to help. His fingers gently moved my own aside and did the task with expert ease.

‘It suits you well, this gown,’ he said. ‘I did not know for certain it would fit.’

I stood quite still beneath his touch and thanked him. ‘It was very thoughtful of you.’

‘And expensive. This one garment cost me a full case of brandy,’ he said, ‘and a dance with the seamstress’s daughter.’