emotion.
“The Garden of Night is reached through the Garden of Poseidon, or directly from the terrace via the main garden stairs. It abuts the terrace-in fact the grotto where the spring rises is part of the Garden of Night, more properly the Garden of Venus, who aside from being the goddess of love was also the first goddess of gardens, hence her preeminence here.” Looking down, Jacqueline stepped out of the pergola onto the central of the three paths leading on. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the various plants that grow in the Garden of Night. As it’s closest to the house, we’ll leave it for later.”
Gerrard held his peace, following her out into the sunshine; the others strolled after him.
Resetting her parasol, Jacqueline waved up the path to their right; it wended up and then along the steeply sloping north ridge. “That path leads through the Garden of Dionysius-it’s full of grapevines of various sorts. Beyond it, you can see the cypresses of the Garden of Hades, cypresses being the tree of graveyards. That path rejoins this one farther down the valley, at the last viewing stage.”
She gestured about them. “This area, directly below the Garden of Poseidon, is the Garden of Apollo. It’s one of the gardens that uses statuary-he’s the god of music, hence the once-gilded statue of a lyre.”
They came upon the statue, an intricate work in iron, on a pedestal in the center of a small circle of lawn. The path wound its way past. They approached the stream; a small wooden bridge spanned it. “Music,” Jacqueline continued, “is also created by the sound of the stream running over the rocks and the small weirs placed along its course.”
They halted and listened. Watery music did indeed fill the air, tinkling, burbling, almost singing. It was a pleasant, relaxing sound. Gerrard scanned the area; it was rich with lush lawns and burgeoning flower beds.
Jacqueline stepped onto the bridge. “Apollo was also the god of light, and this area of the gardens has light for the longest time each day. The sundial”-she pointed to it, on the lawn just off the path ahead-“marks the point considered the center of the gardens.”
They followed her on. The path steadily descended down a bank of verdant growth. Glancing back, Gerrard noted that while the roofs of the house were still visible high above the head of the valley, areas nearer to hand that they’d already traversed were not. It would indeed be easy to get lost.
“The four viewing stages,” Jacqueline said as they reached the next, a rectangular stone platform with a wooden roof, “are placed at the main junctions of paths and also where a number of gardens meet.”
There were five paths, including the one they’d just arrived on, radiating from the stone platform.
“We’ve just left the Garden of Apollo. That path”-Jacqueline pointed to the next path on the higher side of the platform-“leads back to the house via the Gardens of Poseidon and Venus. The next also leads back to the house, but through the Gardens of Diana, Athena and Artemis-we’ll go back that way later. The next path”-she pointed to one heading up the southern ridge-“initially goes through a portion of the Garden of Mars, but then forks-you can head back to the house via the Garden of Diana, or go farther down the valley through the Gardens of Hermes and Vulcan. Which brings us to the path we’ll take, heading down to the cove.”
She led the way; Gerrard followed, taking her elbow to steady her down the steps. She glanced briefly at him, then looked ahead. “Thank you.”
Once on the path, he released her. They waited until the others joined them, then Jacqueline turned and walked on. “This is the Garden of Mars. Although everyone knows him as the god of war, most gods have multiple, often contradictory faces, so Mars is also the god of fertility and farming, especially of all things that grow in the spring.”
The beds they were passing were full of plants that had flowered and now carried seed pods of every description.
“Your relative, whoever he was, was quite inventive in choosing his gods.” Hands in his pockets as he ambled beside her, Gerrard added the questions of how Jacqueline’s mother had died, and why Jacqueline disliked the Garden of Night, to his growing list.
“My great-great-great-grandfather started it, my great-great-grandfather completed the design, but the planting wasn’t complete until my great-grandfather’s time.”
They walked on, Jacqueline naming the gardens as they went, describing the association of each with the god for whom the area was named. They descended through the Garden of Persephone, goddess of plenty, lying below the dark mass of the Garden of Hades, her husband, lord of the underworld. The path led them to the lowest of the viewing platforms, a wooden one giving an excellent view of the narrow cove filled with rocks on which the waves crashed, then slowly, sussuratingly, receded.
The platform sat squarely at the intersection of four paths. The one leading to the shore wended through a landscape comprised of plants with unusual leaves or strange shapes. “The Garden of Neptune, god of the sea. The plants were chosen because they look like various seaweeds, or suggest another world.”
They all stood at the balustrade, drawn to the view of the sea, gentle today yet the waves still rolled in. Gulls wheeled on the updrafts rising up the cliffs to the right, their screeching a sharp counterpoint to the rumble and whoosh of the waves. To the left, the cove was bound by a rocky outcrop, the extreme seaward section of which consisted of a single, massive boulder.
“Here comes a big wave.” Barnaby pointed.
Gerrard looked; from the corner of his eye he saw Jacqueline glance at him, caught the curving of her lips…now what?
A sudden roaring sound reached them; before they could react, a spout of water exploded upward from the center of the massive rock.
Gerrard stared.
Barnaby grabbed his arm. “Good Lord! It’s a blowhole!”
They both turned to Jacqueline. Smiling, she nodded. “It is indeed a blowhole-known as Cyclops, of course.”
“Of course!” Barnaby’s face was alight.
“What you just witnessed was a mild eruption. Every day as the tide comes in, there’s a time when every fourth wave or so sends up a huge fountain. During king tides, the height and amount of water thrown out is simply amazing.”
“Does the path lead down to it?” Gerrard asked.
“Yes, but it doesn’t go onto Cyclops, the rock, itself-it’s too dangerous. The surface is perennially slippery, and the sea’s quite deep just there. The currents are very strong, and, of course, if anyone ever got sucked into the blowhole, they’d be smashed against the rocks inside.”
He glanced at her. “Can we go closer?”
Her smile deepened. “I was planning to. Beyond Cyclops, the path curves around and heads back to the house.”
Jacqueline started down the steps onto the last path. Gerrard moved to follow her.
“Jacqueline, dear, I’ll wait for you here.”
With Jacqueline, Gerrard turned to look back at Millicent. She smiled gamely at them. “While I’m certain I have enough stamina to return to the house from here, going down that last stretch might just be too much.”
“Oh…all right. We’ll just go down and come back.”
Gerrard glanced at Barnaby, still on the platform beside Millicent.
“Actually,” Barnaby said, “I have a better idea. You said that path curves around-does it meet this one?” He pointed to the path to his left.
Jacqueline frowned lightly. “Yes, they converge in the Garden of Vulcan just below the south ridge. From there, the path leads through the Gardens of Hermes and Diana, to the upper viewing platform, the only one we’ve yet to visit.”
Barnaby turned to Millicent. “Why don’t we head that way, taking in the sights at our leisure, and these two can go down and view Cyclops, then join us at the upper platform?”
“But don’t you wish to view Cyclops from closer range?” Millicent asked.
“I do.” Barnaby smiled, distinctly devil-may-care; he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I would prefer to get closer than Miss Tregonning would probably think wise, and I would be loath to argue with such a charming hostess.” He flashed his irrepressible smile at Jacqueline. “I’ll come back later.”
Jacqueline looked uncertain.
“Go on.” Barnaby waved them on. “I’ll stroll with Miss Tregonning and enjoy the sylvan delights.” So saying, he
