Serpent in the Garden (6 page)

Sabine ushered them through ravishing walks and fragrant groves. She provided refreshments—fruits and cordials—and she charmed them, as she charmed every visitor, with her formidable knowledge, her pleasant manners, her solicitude.

As misfortune would have it, Sabine’s acquaintance with Jane was brief. Tropical diseases were rife in the Indies and it was not uncommon for those unaccustomed to the climate to fall prey to all manner of ailment. A week after their visit to Sabine’s garden, Jane Bentnick was taken ill. Soon after, she succumbed to a virulent fever, followed by a delirium from which she never recovered. She died a fortnight later.

Herbert was devastated by the sudden loss. Jane had been strong and loyal, a companion as well as wife for twenty years and the mother of his two children. Throughout their marriage she had never been prone to the complaints that bedeviled other ladies of his acquaintance. He had believed her more robust than any other woman, as invincible as himself; had he not, he would never have agreed to let her accompany him on his journey.

Amid his torment, which seemed worse in a distant land of strange customs and foreign climate, Sabine became his solace. Throughout Jane’s illness she was kindness personified, nursing Jane through climaxes of fever, providing balms and tinctures to ease her pain, bathing her forehead through her final death throes, and afterward aiding Herbert with every detail of the formalities of mourning.

Some weeks after the funeral, when a decent interval had elapsed, Sabine invited Herbert to dine. Referring, sensitively, to her own sorrow at the death of her husband Charles, Sabine endeavored to turn the conversation to easier, less painful matters. Among the subjects was pineapple.

The pineapple’s taste of honey and perfume needed no commendation, since she had served it to him on his first visit with Jane and presented it now for dessert. Herbert was grateful to be so distracted. “Perhaps you are not aware of it,” he said, savoring the succulent flesh, “but in Europe the fruit has become quite the rage. So much so that it has inspired every form of art, from architecture to silver and ceramics. They sprout upon gateposts, sugar bowls, and teapots with unparalleled profusion.”

Here Herbert paused, observing to himself how handsome Sabine looked in a dress of golden silk, an unusual emerald necklace gleaming darkly about her neck. He warmed to his theme. “And yet, dear lady, I must confess that no artist, however clever he may be, could capture the greatest quality of this fruit you have given me—the succulence of its taste.”

“I am delighted the fruit gives you pleasure,” replied Sabine, lowering her eyes modestly.

“It is not merely my pleasure that it arouses, dear lady, but my admiration. Why, in England your knowledge would be most coveted. It is the greatest triumph of a gardener to produce such a fruit. There is scarcely a gentleman of my acquaintance who does not desire pineapples on his table, or possess images of them about his house.”

Sabine smiled, filled his glass, and thought, as she had since their first meeting, how pleasant Herbert was. She could not say he was strikingly good looking; nonetheless, the solidity of his jaw (even though it was a trifle heavily jowled) and his steady gaze bore testimony to his upright character; the readiness with which he conversed, kissed her hand, and paid compliments was highly agreeable.

During the weeks that passed, more engagements followed. Herbert described his own gardens at Astley, and as they exchanged tips in a horticultural vein, fondness grew between them. At length came the week of Herbert’s departure. Sabine held a farewell dinner. During this last repast, Herbert felt uncommonly downhearted. He couldn’t prevent feelings of regret every time he looked at her. He shuddered at the thought of returning to Astley alone, to an empty bed.

It was during the dessert—which included the pineapple that had become a tradition with them—that Sabine demurely looked at her plate and drew breath.

“I am sorry indeed to see you leave, Mr. Bentnick,” she said, “but I have a parting gift that I hope will serve as a memento of the warmth of our recent friendship. It is something I have prepared for you over the past weeks, bearing in mind our conversations on the subject of growing pineapples: a dozen of the finest cuttings—all crated, ready for the journey back to Astley. I know such plants may be bought from nurseries in England, but these are mature plants with fruit already set, that will be ready for the table within three months.”

“But, my dear lady, what would you have me do with them?”

“I propose that you introduce the latest horticultural novelty to your own gardens. You have told me of your immense conservatory. Do what you have so often told me is all the rage. Install a pinery within it. Once the plants have fruited, it is a simple matter to root further cuttings from them, and I warrant the fruit they yield will be sweeter and more succulent than any your local nursery can supply. You could fill the whole structure if you desired.”

Herbert gazed at her unhappily. He didn’t know what to say. He felt bereft and lonely. His shoulders sagged as he twirled his glass. The thought of returning to Astley made him gloomy. How he ached for his dead wife! How his solitary bed filled him with despondency! Was he capable of running his mansion without Jane’s assistance, let alone an ambitious new project in his garden? It was enough to pitch any man into despair.

Seeing his consternation, Sabine crimsoned. “Forgive me, sir. I am too presumptuous. I see I have offended you. Believe me when I say I did not intend to do so. It is only that, after you told me of the fashion for pineapples in England, I thought the plants would please you. As for me, why, nothing gives me more pleasure than the thought that you will enjoy my fruit in your own home. And perhaps, on occasion, you might remember me fondly?”

Herbert surveyed Sabine’s golden flesh and felt gloomier than ever. And it was at this nadir of despondency that a flicker of light began to shine through the darkness. A solution surfaced in his consciousness. Impulsive action had always been his forte. If he didn’t act now it would be too late.

“My dear Mrs. Mercier … Sabine … it is you who should forgive me for my rudeness. Your proposal has not offended me. Quite the contrary. I am deeply touched by it. Indeed, never before has the subject of cuttings stirred such a passion in me.

“I, in turn, have a proposal to make to you. Return with me to Astley. Instigate the alterations necessary for the pinery. Plant its first crop—these cuttings you have carefully prepared for me. And then, if you will, since I have no great appetite for living alone … become my wife.”

Sabine lowered her eyes most becomingly. She had scarcely dared hope for a proposal. There was no doubt in her mind that this was what she wanted, but it wouldn’t do to say so instantly. She paused, wafting her fan in front of her face. At length she lifted her gaze to meet his. Herbert, overwhelmed with the emotions of the moment, riven with uncertainty, reached out his large hand to take her small one. She sensed his desire in his grip; smilingly she acquiesced.

THUS Sabine quit her home, leaving its blooming vegetation to the ministrations of her gardener and his wife. She followed Herbert within a month, accompanied by her daughter, Violet, a radiant girl of nearly one and twenty years. They arrived at Astley in the new year. The wedding was set for the following summer. The reason for the delay was evident. Pineapples had brought them together. She was quite determined that a vast display of these succulent fruits would adorn the table at their wedding breakfast.

Meanwhile, she voraciously read every treatise on the subject of pineapple cultivation in England and instructed the new head gardener, Granger, and a dozen undergardeners. Not a day passed that she didn’t visit her plants to monitor their progress. For in some strange way she had convinced herself that if the pineapples thrived, so too would she with Herbert.

A
LARMED by Sabine’s cry, Herbert and Joshua hurried to her side. Granger, the head gardener, reached her more quickly, and as soon as they arrived he took Herbert to one side and muttered something before handing some papers to him.

Joshua observed this exchange from the corner of his eye, while he turned his attentions to Sabine. Her skin was unnaturally pallid, her manner listless and withdrawn, as if she saw them through a fog. Joshua ushered her to a nearby seat and tried to ask her a few simple questions, but her responses were whispered so faintly as to be unintelligible. Fearing she might at any minute fall into a swoon, he delved into his pocket for his salts and wafted them near her face. After a minute or two, she seemed well enough to relate more coherently something of her unpleasant discovery. A man was dead in the pinery. She didn’t know who he was, but he had caused considerable damage to her plants.

When Herbert attempted to press her further she seemed to sway slightly in her seat. She repeated that she didn’t know the man’s identity, but she was certain that he was dead. He seemed to be a man of some means—certainly not a laborer. More than that she could not say.

Realizing that she was in a severe state of shock, Herbert and Joshua escorted her back to the house. They settled her on a daybed in the drawing room, and Herbert offered her brandy or wine or whatever she desired. She took nothing. She was, she declared, exhausted. All she needed was to sit and reflect for a moment in peace.

Herbert appeared most disconcerted. He regarded Sabine for some time, quite still and silent, as if musing what more he might do. Then he walked to the far end of the room, sat down at his writing desk, and took out two letters from his pocket. Joshua supposed that these were the papers Granger had handed him. He watched as Herbert unfolded and read each of the letters in turn. His expression remained implacable, giving no sense of whether or not their contents surprised him. But having read the letters, Herbert tore one into shreds and threw it into the unlit grate, then he stored the other in his writing desk. After this, looking no less miserable than before, he poured himself a brandy and sat down on a wing chair some distance from Sabine.

Sabine seemed oblivious to what Herbert had done. Or if she did remark it, she passed no comment. Joshua began to feel extremely uncomfortable. The atmosphere in the room struck him as most oppressive. There was a sense of strain between Sabine and Herbert that he didn’t comprehend. Not wishing to add to the awkwardness, he rose, intending to return to his work.

Before he reached the threshold Sabine called after him. “Mr. Pope, one moment, if you please.” She beckoned him close and spoke in a voice so low it would have been difficult for Herbert to hear it. “I intend to retire to my sitting room upstairs shortly. Kindly attend me there in ten minutes. There is a small matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Joshua raised one eyebrow. “Certainly, madam,” he said.

SABINE Mercier’s room was large and comfortably furnished, and decorated in Oriental style, with wallpaper featuring a bamboo pattern and elaborate japanned furniture. There were watercolors of exotic birds and flowers on the walls and a thick-piled Chinese rug patterned with roses and ribbons on the floor. Although the day was warm and sunny and the room faced south, the windows were closed and the curtains drawn. The room was stifling hot and the air was scented with a cloying perfume that Joshua didn’t find entirely pleasant.