The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf (24 page)

“You bastard.” Imogen thrust herself to her feet, her face blooming red. “Taking my part in that auction house, so you could nose into my business. Putting me up in your fancy hotel, then showing me the door. Life’s too easy for the likes of you. I hope that Jo Bellamy makes a complete fool of you.”

She was searching hopelessly for her handbag, which Margaux knew was resting on a shield-back chair in the front entry; rage or perhaps tears were blinding Imogen to the obvious. Marcus rose solicitously from his seat but it was Gray Westlake who placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and said, “Please don’t go.”

She shrugged him off. “I’m not likely to stay where I’m threatened with the police.”

This was so patently hilarious that Margaux snorted.

“Miss Cantwell,” Gray persisted, “we’re trying to save you from yourself.”

Something in his tone stopped her at last. She went still, studying him, and then with a sudden expulsion of breath, like a child done sobbing, she sank back down on the sofa. “What is it you want?”

“A few days. Three, maybe four.”

“That’s what
she
said. And it turned into a whole bloody week!”

“But the manuscript is back in safe hands. To convince you it’s safe, and to limit your liability, I propose—” Gray glanced for confirmation at Marcus—“we write up a series of brief statements everyone can sign. Mr. Symonds-Jones will acknowledge receipt of the notebook itself, over his signature;
Dr. Strand will state her professional opinion as to its authenticity—”

“—and receive in return an assurance of exclusive access to the material for a period of five years,” Margaux bargained smoothly, “and an exclusive appointment as Manuscript Consultant during any publicity campaign that might follow the notebook’s authentication.”

“Hasty, hasty,” Marcus murmured.

“But small pence, when without my aid and concern you’d never have set eyes on the thing,” Margaux retorted.

“And I get sod-all,” Imogen muttered, “just a nod and pat on the bottom as you shove me back to Kent. What I’d like to know is what
you
get out of this, Westlake?”

“The satisfaction of preserving your job.” He smiled at her almost sadly. “If the notebook is determined to be as rare as some of you think it is, I would suggest we then approach the National Trust and The Family. Explain that Miss Cantwell has made a Find, and consulted Dr. Strand, and that a generous donor would be prepared to buy the item, support its preservation, and donate it back to Sissinghurst. That should untangle any looming legal snarls and make Miss Cantwell look like a saint.”

Imogen’s sour expression softened. If she still had doubts, she kept them firmly between her teeth.

“Who will type up the statements?” Margaux asked, as she bit into her almond croissant.
Delicious
.

“Already done.” Marcus pulled a sheaf of papers from his black leather Filofax and handed them around, beaming.

It was only then that Margaux saw how completely they had been managed, from first to last. Gray Westlake had anticipated whatever she or Imogen could muster. Oddly enough—she didn’t really mind.

· · ·

IT WAS ONLY AFTER THE WOMEN HAD LEFT, CLUTCHING their signed copies according them rights without any particular responsibilities, that Gray Westlake used the intelligence he’d received from his research department that morning.

Marcus Symonds-Jones was chattering in his usual fashion, a mixture of flattery and false intimacy, sprinkled with thanks for the seamless way Gray had handled the business, and offers of assistance in any way possible, present or future. Gray let him run on as he gathered up his documents and secured the Woolf notebook in a plastic bag. Then, as Marcus drew off his plastic gloves and threw one last smile Gray’s way, preparatory to making his exit, Gray said mildly, “You slept with her, didn’t you? Margaux Strand. That’s what destroyed her marriage.”

The man’s mouth fell open, then after a stunned second, snapped closed. “I’m hardly the first.”

“Obviously. Her husband, at least, was before you.”

As Marcus started to protest, Gray raised his hand. “I’m not interested in discussing the woman’s morals, okay? It’s Llewellyn’s reaction I find fascinating. He kicked her out, but he kept working for you. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

Marcus shrugged. “She was the one who betrayed him.”

“Not you? Not his boss? No hard feelings between friends?”

“As I’ve said,” Marcus mouthed deliberately, “I wasn’t the first to tickle her knickers.”

“So you’re not concerned—that he lit out with a client and a valuable auction prospect, and is still wandering the country unaccounted for? It’d make me sweat a little, Marcus. If I were you, I’d be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“What are you saying, Westlake?” The expert frowned, trying to work it out.

Gray shrugged, already bored. “A guy who works for you, and has every reason to hate your guts, gave that notebook to his ex-wife… who brought it straight back to you. Don’t you feel, Marcus, like you’re being set up?”

PETER SLEPT LATE WEDNESDAY, AND SAT ALONE over tea and toast in the cavernous dining room of the University Arms hotel, a decidedly gloomy Victorian pile that overlooked a sward of green just off Regent Street in Cambridge. The place was half empty, the hallways echoing, but they had settled on it without debate the previous night as the most obvious place to fall into their separate beds.

Jo’d been rather quiet after the Indian curry, and Peter suspected she was worrying about her client again. Reviewing his own high-handed behavior during the past few days, he was awash in guilt; there was no other way to describe his miserable feeling. Guilt was the British national disease, after all, the baseline emotion beaten into every public schoolboy, and he’d carried it abjectly from childhood straight into his relationship with Margaux at Oxford—something she’d taken for granted
and knew how to use. Whenever he was uncomplicatedly happy—as now—a shadow of doubt would loom, a gnawing conviction that the bubble must burst as a result of his stupidity and self-indulgence. He’d selfishly seized on this lark as an escape from boredom. Jo, however, had come to England with a job to do—and he’d prevented her from doing it. He might even get her fired.

It was absurd, in the clear light of day, to consider chasing south to Rodmell, much less his harebrained plan of invading the Monk’s House garden under cover of darkness. They would both be arrested. And Jo wasn’t even a British subject! The consequences might be dreadful.

No, Peter thought—compelling as the adventure was, it could not go on. When she came down to breakfast, he’d offer to drive Jo straight back to London. He poured a third cup of tea, found it was lukewarm and bitter when he tasted it, and set it aside. Life was so damnably depressing.

And then his head came around as unconsciously he recognized her step on the marble flooring. She was wide awake, showered, her hair falling loose about her shoulders for the first time since he’d met her; and she’d changed her clothes.

She’d changed her clothes
.

“Morning,” he said, rising from his chair. “You look fresh.”

“I’ve been out shopping.” She was smiling ecstatically. “New underwear, Peter. New jeans. A silk sweater. I paid a fortune for this stuff, given the exchange rate—but I don’t even care. It’s like… rain after a day of heat. Pure bliss.”

Pure bliss. New underthings. He found he was blushing, imagining Jo with her long hair down, in the bath, of all places.

“You look smashing,” he managed. “Tea?”

She shook her head. “I found a Starbucks in town. Let’s check out of this place and
go
already!”

And at the sight of her happiness, he hadn’t the heart to tell her it was over. He merely paid his bill, stowed her shopping in the Triumph’s boot, and pointed its nose toward Rodmell.

IT WAS THREE HOURS BEFORE THEY DROPPED OFF THE A27 near Kingston and slowed to a creeping pace as they entered the village of Rodmell. Rape fields lapped the handful of cottages, a few of them old enough to be half-timbered and thatched. Beech trees lined the fields; a gray, square-sided church tower pierced the distance. The soft, huddled shape of the South Downs rose behind. Children were at play in the schoolyard as the clock slid past noon, their high, piping voices calling as unintelligibly as cranes through the village stillness.

“There’s the pub,” Peter told Jo. “The Abergavenny Arms. Quite old, actually, and known for really smashing house ales. We turn left into The Street—that’s what they call this main road through Rodmell—and Monk’s House is perhaps half a mile on.”

It was a clear autumn day, crisp, with no hint of rain, not even a mass of clouds over the Downs. Stiff from the drive, Jo said, “Let’s walk.”

They left the car near the pub and set out together up The Street. Nothing seemed more natural than Peter taking Jo’s hand as they paced down the verge. “I love this sort of place,” he said. “I don’t know Sussex well, but one finds these smallish villages all over England, despite the ugliness of Town Councils and public works; and they call to me. Rather as I imagine gardens call to you.”

“Then why don’t you get out of London?”

He smiled faintly. “How would I live?”

“Cook. You know you want to. Just make a plan,” Jo answered sensibly. “Figure out how much money you need to set up a restaurant in a destination spot—one like this, only maybe
not
this exactly, but a village with some kind of draw. Tourists or weekenders. Antiques hunters. University people. That sort of thing. And just… go for it. Peter’s Place.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“I started my own business.” She shrugged. “I
know
that it’s not simple. But I also know the more effort it takes, the more you love the result. You’ve got to follow your bliss, Peter. Not just do what you’re told.”

“I don’t know.…” He let go of her hand. “I was never good at… risk-taking. It’s not my strength. Margaux was always the one who walked out on a limb; my job was to make sure the tree never fell.”

“And so you’re still standing here, solid as a rock, while she’s skipped off into thin air?” Jo asked quietly.

He turned and, without warning, kissed her. It was unexpectedly fierce, that kiss: filled with a lifetime of Peter’s dreams and guilt and longing. Jo’s knees gave way and her breath suddenly stopped in her throat. Her hands came up to his shoulders.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “Where did that come from?”

“Sorry.”

He would have walked on, drooping with embarrassment, but she grasped his wrist. “Don’t. That was wonderful. I’d hate it if you never did it again.”

Wordlessly, he reached for her.

A passing car honked irritably as it swerved to avoid them.

· · ·

MONK’S HOUSE, TO THEIR DISAPPOINTMENT, WAS CLOSED.

“Damn,” Peter said. “At least we know Margaux hasn’t been here.”

“Can we get into the garden?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Not without an audience.”

It was true that the place was completely exposed to the wondering eyes of Rodmell folk. The house sat right up next to The Street, separated only by a narrow flint wall backed with shrubs. The wall was topped with rounded bricks, and reached only to hip height; Jo could easily imagine swinging over it in the darkness. There was a plain wooden gate with a sign that proclaimed the house’s name; the building itself was faced in white clapboard, with double-hung windows, shutterless, and a right-angled front entry jutting out like a carbuncle. It reminded her of the Federal farmhouses of the Delaware Valley; a place of simple elegance and sufficiency. It was decidedly unlike the flamboyance of Charleston. And that told her something about the sisters, Vanessa and Virginia.

“It’s really all about the garden, which you can’t see from here,” Peter murmured in her ear. “Leonard Woolf was an avid horticulturalist. Started the local society, and so on. Greenhouses, beehives, vegetable plots, an orchard. To say nothing of the flowers. There’s even a bowls lawn.”

“A what?”

He grinned at her. “Like boccie or pétanque, only with a straightforward British name. Perhaps we should walk round to the back, by the church and school—they run alongside Monk’s House. We might find a better view.”

Trying not to appear conspicuous, they walked. The way led them by the old Norman church and its wide-open, sunlit plot of ground, dotted with graves. The sound of children’s
voices from the school next door had faded. Presumably the lads and lasses of Rodmell had gone back to their books.

“See the hedge?” Peter pointed. “It borders the bowls lawn. There used to be two elm trees growing in the middle of it—one called Virginia, and the other, Leonard. They leaned toward each other, as though seeking comfort.”

“What happened to them?” Jo asked, her voice hushed.

“Virginia’s blew down in a gale sometime after her death. Leonard’s died, I think, of Dutch elm disease.”

Jo looked at Peter. “And?”

“Leonard buried his wife’s ashes under the tree called Virginia.”

“April 1941. Rodmell.”

“Yes.”

She drew a deep breath. “How will we find the spot, now the tree’s gone?”