The Australian Affairs Collection. Margaret Way
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To be certain.
‘What’s in the chest?’ he asked. It still bemused her that he owned this wonderful garden and yet knew so very little—and cared even less—about the treasures it contained.
‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘If I can get the lid off we’ll find out.’
‘Let me do that,’ he said. With one firm wrench he had the lid up.
They were met with the musty scent of old paper. She peered into the depths of the chest. There was a number of what looked like old diaries and a bundle of papers wrapped in oilskin and tied firmly with sturdy string.
She didn’t need Declan’s warning to watch out for spiders. Tentatively she reached into the chest and pulled out two of the diaries, flipped through their pages. ‘They’re garden diaries,’ she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘Can you get the rest, please?’
Declan pulled out all the diaries and put them on the desk. It only took him a few minutes to stack them in chronological order. ‘They date right back to pre-World War Two,’ he said.
She picked one up randomly and flicked through the pages. Then another. And another. ‘This is gardener’s gold,’ she said. ‘Daphne and before that her mother, Lily, kept meticulous dairies about their work in the garden. What they planted, what worked, what didn’t. When the first tomatoes ripened. When they sprayed for bugs. How they dealt with water restrictions in times of drought.’
She turned to Declan. ‘It’s the history of your garden. One of the grand old gardens of Sydney. A hidden gem.’
‘That’s quite a find,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you just the littlest bit excited?’ she asked.
‘Why would I be?’ he said. ‘But I’m glad you’re excited.’
‘Of course I’m thrilled,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to read through them all.’
‘Remember, it was Lisa’s garden not...not mine. She...she would have been excited.’
Shelley gripped the edge of the diary in her hand. Lisa. Lucky Lisa in one way as she had had Declan’s love, yet so very tragic that she had died so young in such sad circumstances. Yes, Lisa probably would have been excited to find the diaries. If things had been different she and Lisa might have been working together on the restoration of this garden with doting husband Declan occasionally dropping by to check on the progress of his wife’s project. Vivacious Lisa, remembered now in the garden with a planting of roses that would every year in late spring be a blaze of vibrant colour.
But Lisa was gone and, no matter how he grieved, Declan could not bring her back. Shelley as a gardener knew only too well about the cycle of death and renewal of life. The shrivelled autumn leaves making way for the fresh green shoots of spring. The perennial plants that died right down in winter only to shoot gloriously to life when the days got longer. The caterpillars she let chew holes on some of the leaves so they survived to transform into butterflies. All around her in this garden she was witnessing that everyday miracle.
From what she had heard about Lisa, she doubted she would have wanted her husband to spend the rest of his years alone, to live a shadowy half life with a shrivelled husk of a heart.
Shelley made a silent vow to the dead woman: if she had the chance she would rescue Declan from his blighted life, make him happy and— She fought against using the word love. Not now. Not yet. She had jumped too soon into love before and suffered heartbreak. But if she were granted a future with Declan, she would allow herself to love him and cherish him. He’ll be in good hands, Lisa.
But if she and Declan had any chance of that future together she had to ask. ‘Declan, why do you blame yourself for Lisa’s death?’
The colour drained from his face, leaving it as grey as his T-shirt. ‘Because I should have got her to the hospital quicker. The doctors said it wouldn’t have made any difference but I’ve asked myself over and over if those ten minutes I took to complete my work might have made a difference. I let my work come before her.’
‘Wh... What exactly happened? I know you said she...she died in childbirth but...how exactly?’
She had never seen him look so bleak and drawn. ‘The baby was premature but that apparently wasn’t what caused it.’
He paused and she waited to let him gather his thoughts, stomping down on her usual urge to fill a blank silence.
‘Tiny Alice had to be put on a ventilator—her lungs weren’t properly developed. I went with the doctors to see what was happening. But while I was in the neonatal intensive care unit with her one of the other doctors came to find me. Lisa had complained of feeling faint. They were concerned. By the time I got back to her bed she...she’d slipped away.’
Shelley closed her eyes. She wished she hadn’t asked. Could scarcely comprehend his anguish and pain. But she had to know.
‘How? Why?’
‘An embolism. A blood clot. It lodged in her heart. There was nothing the doctors could do. There was no warning.’
She put her hand on his arm. ‘Declan, I am so, so sorry. Thank you for telling me. It...it helps me to understand you better.’
‘I wish I could understand it better myself,’ he said savagely, his mouth a bitter twist.
She had to tread lightly. ‘But seems to me that there can be absolutely no blame attached to you.’
‘So they told me. But I should have been able to stop it.’
‘How? If a team of highly trained doctors couldn’t have saved her and your baby, how could you have?’
‘I know all that,’ he said. ‘But I... I... Lisa wanted to wait a few more years. If I hadn’t cajoled her into starting a family earlier it...it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘How can you say that? Something else might have taken her. An accident. Disease. Anything. It was out of your hands.’
In response he made some inarticulate sound that speared her heart.
A millionaire at age eighteen. A billionaire in his twenties. Here was a brilliant man used to making things happen his way. Yet he had not been able to save his little family. And had turned it all back on himself.
Was Declan really ready to move forward? Would he ever be ready? And did she have the strength to be the one to help him? To keep on shining her light—as he put it—into the shadowy recesses of his soul?
She would darn well try.
She put her arms around him and was mightily relieved he didn’t push her away.
‘It’s dusty in here,’ she said. ‘Let’s go outside. Maybe I can make you a coffee.’
His face was set like granite. ‘I don’t need to be babied, Shelley. I’ve been living with this for two years. I can deal with it.’
Yes—if locking yourself away from the rest of the world meant dealing with it.
‘If you’re sure you’re not letting misplaced guilt—’
‘Maybe I am.’ He looked deep into her face. To her relief there was a softening of his features, a dawning warmth in his eyes. ‘But...but for the first time I’m beginning to believe I can forgive myself. You. My mother. You’re helping.’
‘And you’re letting yourself be helped. That’s the first step.’
‘But I have to do it at my pace. I don’t want to talk about it any more. Not now. Not ever.’
Shelley shook her head so vehemently her plait flew around to the front. ‘There you go, being so black and white about it. You can talk about it. You should talk about it. And when you’re ready I’m here to listen.’