The Head Gardener – Part 2: Greenhouse Warmth

The discipline was a long, slow cultivation. She had him stand, kneel and hold among the palms. She made him recite every plant label in the house and corrected each slip with a murmured no. She walked behind him, a pair of shears hanging from her belt, and told him in a low, level voice exactly what she expected of a gardener. She corrected his posture with a gauntleted finger and his tone with a look. She had him kneel beside a pool, silent, watching the koi, while she pruned a fig tree and said nothing for an hour. All of it was exact, steady and tender, and the warm wet air held them both.

Every half hour: "Does Mr Lyle wish to continue?" "Yes, Head Gardener." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

"The Head Gardener does not require thanks." But she smiled at the fig.

At midnight, the mist lay silver on the glass.

"Frost," said Cecily, softly.

It was her word, and she used it for them both. The gauntlets came off. The apron came off. She sat down on the stone edge of the pool beside him, tucked a plaid rug round their knees and drew him against her shoulder.

"How are you?"

"Watered," said Alistair, with a laugh that shook. "And rooted. Both."

"You were a fine assistant." She kissed his forehead. "The best I've had."

"Will there be another evening under glass?"

"The orchid house opens in April." She smiled into the humid dark. "I will need someone to hold the ladder. And to be corrected."

"I'll bring my own trowel," said Alistair.

"You will bring your attention," said Cecily, and the great glasshouse dripped and sighed around them.

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