Letters from the Gardener: The Compleat Gardener, #3

By Edeana Malcolm

Letters from the Gardener takes place during the French Revolution, when Belfast was seething with republican ideals. The Scotch-Irish Presbyterians allied with the Catholics to form the United Irishmen. Into this cauldron come John Dean, a Scottish gardener, and his wife Susan Kirk, a former English lady. John works for Henry Joy, the editor of the Belfast News-Letter, and writes letters to his friends with the news of the day in Ulster. His wife Susan meets Joy's nephew and namesake Henry Joy McCracken and his sister Mary Ann, and the lives of John, his wife and their children become entwined with the McCrackens. Susan falls in love with the handsome revolutionary McCracken and falls under the spell of Mary Ann's feminist ideas. The birth of twins and the growing unrest in Ireland after England declares war on France spur John to insist on emigration to the New World, but not before he confronts his wife's "lover" and learns the truth. 

60,000 words

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edeana Malcolm
• Release date: Nov 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9780987974730

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Belfast, May, 1789

My dearest Matthew and Lavinia,

I write to give you the good news that we have arrived here safely after a brief sea voyage from Scotland across the Irish Sea. We approached the shores of the City of our Destination with trepidation. Our new land seemed to me an inferno as smoke billowed from fires on the beaches. Poor Mrs. Dean was nauseated from the reek that emanated from them. She almost tossed her collywobbles, as they say.

Susan looked up from her reading. Collywobbles! Really, John. She shook her head.

Well, he responded, can you think of a better word?

She didn’t have time for this. The children had been fed and now the supper dishes needed to be cleaned up. But her husband wanted her to read the letter he was sending to their friends back in Scotland and so she had obliged him. She continued reading.

A deckhand informed us that this smoke was the result of seaweed being burned to produce the barilla used to bleach the white linen for which Belfast is so famous. I was apprehensive that our new home would be such a hellish place, but, on leaving the ship and penetrating further into the City beyond the shore, I was delighted at its aspect. Belfast has a nice, neat English appearance and most of its houses are made of brick.

My new employer Mr. Henry Joy met us at the dock and conveyed us to our house on the western extremity of the town, far from the smoky beach and busy city, on the banks of the Farset River. I can scarcely describe the pleasure I feel at being master of my own cottage, though Mrs. Dean complains it is small for such a large family as ours and looks the same as the dozens of others among which it is situated. I know that the children will miss the abundant woodlands of bonny Ellon, and our good friends in Scotland, you both chief among them.

As you know, Mr. Joy is a wealthy and influential man whose family owns the paper mill, but I have since learned that they own the newspaper as well, such felicitously complementary enterprises. I will be keeping the garden at his country residence as his town house is on the High Street, and the garden that once appertained to it is now replaced with new businesses and buildings. I do not often see Mr. Joy as his time is much taken up by his financial affairs in the city, although the rest of his family, his wife and young children, are more often in residence.

Mrs. Dean has recovered from the effects of our brief sea voyage, which did not much agree with her. Like an exotic, she does not well tolerate being transplanted. Her bruised and torn roots take a long while to acclimatize to unfamiliar soil and she requires the gardener’s especial attention and care.

I am not a shrub, John, Susan said, looking up from the letter again. It was giving her a headache to decipher his handwritten flourishes and she was in a foul mood. She put her head down and continued reading.

Mrs. Dean sends her warmest regards to you and all the occupants of Ellon Castle, which, adjoined with my own, I hope that you will be so kind as to share with others of our acquaintance there.

Yours most sincerely,

John Dean

What I wanted to know, he said, as she looked up, is if you would like to add a post scriptum to the letter?

You have already expressed my regards, she said as she deposited the letter on the table between them. Besides, I have no time to write. I am worked off my feet. What I require are servants.

He scowled. "Dinna fash. Mr. Joy has placed an advertisement for a housekeeper in the Belfast News-Letter."    

I am glad we shall have a housekeeper soon, but I cannot manage with just one servant.

You managed with one at Ellon Castle, he said.

Yes, but at Ellon Castle we had our meals provided and our laundry and housekeeping done. All that I required was a nurse for the babies.

The bairns are grown so you have no more need of a nurse.

How can you say that? Susie is only two years old. Her voice was getting shriller with frustration.

I havena the means to pay for more than one servant, he said firmly, standing up to leave the room.

Susan knew there would be no more discussion.

He took the letter. I shall post it then, he said, turning and almost colliding with one of their six children. ’Tis time to put this bairn to bed. John looked down at wee Susie.

Susan picked her up, wishing she could climb into bed with her daughter. Come, dear. Let’s find your bed.

As she was singing a lullaby to settle Susie, her two youngest boys burst into the bedroom. We want you to tell us a story, Mama, six-year-old Will said.

Yes, Mama. Tell us a story, his younger brother Davy agreed.

Hush. I’m trying to calm your sister.

Susie sat up in bed, her eyes wide with anticipation, and said, ’Tory.

All right, Susan acquiesced.

The boys sat on the edge of their sister’s bed and looked at their mother. They listened closely no matter how many times she repeated the same story, and she was just as eager to repeat the tale.

When I was a little girl, I lived in a fine big mansion in England. Three – no maybe four – houses the size of this cottage would have fit in it. I was the only child; I had no brothers and sisters. But the house was filled with servants, upstairs and downstairs, and every which way. We had a garden... Oh, let me tell you about that garden. The whole town of Belfast could have fit into that garden. There were serpentine paths and shrubberies, a wilderness and arbors. There was even a temple and statues. While I was a little girl growing up, the garden was growing too. Every year something new was added, and whenever I played in the garden, I would make new discoveries.

Tell us about the best discovery you ever made in the garden, Mama, Will asked.

That was much later, when I was nearly grown up. I want to tell you about when I was a little girl.

No, tell us about the best discovery, Mama, Davy pleaded.

They tolerated only a little variation in the way she told the tale. Indeed, she said. One day, I found the gardener standing in the early morning dew, scything the long grass. He was the most handsome man that I had ever seen. Susan halted her story for a moment while she savoured the memory of that sight.

Who was he, Mama? Davy asked.

He was Papa. Will stole his mother’s surprise ending, and both the boys giggled. Susie clapped her hands.

Was Papa a handsome man then? Will asked.

What do you mean? Your papa is still a handsome man. Do you not agree with me, Susie? The little girl nodded her head in agreement.

Susan remembered their first meeting in the garden and their long conversations along its serpentine path. Their lives had followed an equally sinuous route since then. The thirteen years of their marriage had not seemed to alter her husband, but they had greatly altered her. She gave her three youngest children a weak smile before continuing the task of settling them for the night. Dirty dishes still awaited her in the kitchen.

***

Susan glanced at the row of neat brick houses as she walked by. Each house was an unadorned box so like their own that she feared she would not be able to distinguish it on her return. Fortunately, her four boys who were with her assured her they could identify it. As she walked into town, she noticed a smoky haze obscured the sky so that she could not tell whether the sun was shining or the sky was grey. She remembered the clean crisp air far away in Scotland and the grey heron that used to stand on the shore of the Ythan River waiting for a fish to flash by.

Shit!

Her son’s curse yanked her back to the present. She saw that Will had indeed stepped in that very substance in the roadway. The other boys had erupted in giggles.

Mind your tongue, Will! Susan struggled to suppress a smile. Wipe your shoe on the cobblestone and we shall clean it better when we get home. Now, all of you, mind where you tread. She wondered where the boy had learned such language.

Susan smelled a stench, not only from Will’s shoe, but also hanging in the greasy, smoky air. She stepped carefully over the refuse scattered about the unclean streets as they made their way through the ever-increasing human traffic near the centre of town.

Having left young Susie sleeping in the care of her ten-year-old sister Eleanor, Susan had set out with her four restless boys to provide them amusement and exercise and to buy some washing soap because John was complaining his undergarments had not been cleaned since they’d left Scotland.

Though this was their first venture into town, they had no difficulty finding the market, which consisted of a great many well-stocked stalls aligning the High Street. Susan examined the smiling faces of the women vendors chattering to each other behind the tables spread with their wares. Finally, she addressed the stout woman at the closest table. Have you any washing soap?

"What’d you say, missus?’ The woman squinted at her.

I asked if you might have some washing soap.

The women’s next-door neighbour elbowed her. Ain’t she a fine English lady, then? The two crones started to laugh.

Susan blushed at their rudeness. She stood there looking at them, waiting for them to recover from their hilarity.

James her eldest came to her rescue. He jutted his chin and declared, Our mother is a fine English lady. So, answer her question, do you have any washing soap or not?

The stout woman took a deep breath and regained control of herself. Oh, I have not had such a good chuckle in a long time. Then she produced a package of soft lye soap and handed it to James.

Dinna mind our mother. She is fra’ England, Johnny said to the two women.

Aye, that she is. And how does she come for to have such bonny Scotch lads? the neighbour lady asked him.

Perhaps she married a Scotchman, Susan thought but did not say. She could not bring herself to speak another word to these women lest they should laugh at her accent again. So, she put down a ha’penny and turned away without bothering to explore the rest of the market. The boys reluctantly followed her.

By counting the number from the end of the street, they found their house.

Eleanor, we have returned. Is everything aright?

Aye, Mama. Susie is still sleeping. Have you got the washing soap?

Yes, she replied, a little annoyed.

Eleanor had already filled the copper vat over the fire in the backyard. Susan peered in and saw that the water had not started to boil.

Let’s prepare dinner while we wait, she suggested to Eleanor.

What did you buy at the market?

Susan blushed. She had forgotten. Nothing, she admitted.

Well, then, Eleanor said, we shall have parritch again for dinner.

Susan didn’t want to go back to the market because of the embarrassment she had suffered there. But John would not abide parritch for supper, and there would be none left for breakfast the next day. In the afternoon, she would send the eldest James to the market for her.

When the water was finally boiling, Susan threw in the large pile of underclothes that the family had accumulated. Eleanor handed her a wooden paddle.

You have to stir it, Mama.

How did you get to be such a know-it-all? Susan asked.

I used to watch the washer-woman at Ellon Castle.

Susan was grateful that Eleanor had been so astute. She had never bothered to observe anyone washing clothes before.

What about the soap? Susan asked as she stirred.

That’s for the next basin, Eleanor explained. But you only use it for anything that’s still soiled.

After all the clothes had been moved to a final basin to be rinsed, the family sat down to a dinner of parritch. After dinner, Susan and Eleanor tried to wring out the excess water from the clothes. She wished that her sons hadn’t all gone to the market to buy potatoes because she could have used their strength in twisting the garments. She and young Eleanor did the best they could, then Susan hung them on a line in the garden, still heavy and dripping with moisture.

At the end of it, Susan was exhausted, her arms ached, and she could not do another chore, but there were still potatoes to peel and Susie was scattering items on the floor from a box that had not yet been unpacked.

When John arrived home from his garden, she was not in a cheerful mood. When he came to give her a kiss on the cheek, she sighed.

What ails you, Susan?

Eleanor and I have washed your body linen today.

Aye? he asked, as if it were nothing at all.

I have never washed clothes before. ‘Tis a great deal more work than it looks to be, John. Have you ever washed clothes?

I do women’s work? John laughed.

Then you have no idea how difficult it is, so you ought not to make light of it. We must hire a washerwoman, John. I am not equal to the task.

The smile vanished from John’s face. Do you imagine me to be a wealthy man like your father? I have income to provide you with one servant, and one servant only, so consider well which it is to be—a cook, a nurse, a washerwoman or a housekeeper. I am only surprised you do not ask for a lady’s maid as well.

I have lived without a lady’s maid for a long time as you well know and you do me wrong to even mention it.

I am sorry, my dear. I admit you are an excellent mother, so you have no need of a nurse, and you managed to wash my clothes today, so you know that can be done. You may even learn to cook one day, he said smiling.

Susan groaned.

Is that the worst of your day then, a little hard work?

No, it is not. I went with the boys to the market to buy the washing soap.

Aye?

The women there mocked my English accent.

They didna! he said with mock dismay.

They did indeed. You may ask the boys.

Well, and if I had a penny for all the Englishmen who mocked my Scottish burr, I might be able to buy you more servants. You might learn as I did, to emulate the accent of the people around you so they take no notice of you, he said, putting on his best English accent.

She had not heard him speak like that in many years, and she smiled in spite of herself.

The next day, when his underclothes still hung damp on the clothes line, John relented enough to give Susan permission to hire a part-time washerwoman.

***

The young woman at the door looked as hale and hearty as any Susan had ever seen. She introduced herself, but Susan found the name so foreign to her ears that she asked her to repeat it.

Meghan Byrne, she said.

Susan smiled. Come in and have a seat, missus.

"I have come about the advertisement for a housekeeper that I saw in the News-Letter, she said once comfortably seated. She looked about her. Every one of Susan’s six children was peering in from the kitchen doorway. Are those all yours, madam?"

Yes, Susan responded. Aye. She was thinking of John’s remark of the night before but she did not know which of the two words was the correct response in Belfast.

The young woman waited politely for Susan to speak again, but when no question was forthcoming, she asked, What will I be expected for to do, madam?

Well, Susan looked at her hands. Keep house, of course. In for a penny in for a pound, she thought, and continued. And cook and do the laundry.

The woman looked aghast. I am not a washerwoman, madam. If I was to do the washing for a family this size, I should have no time to clean house.

But you can cook? Susan asked hopefully.

Yes, but if I have to cook, I’m afraid my house-cleaning chores will suffer.

Never mind that. We can make do with a dirty house, but we must eat.

"If you say so,