The Lord's Secret Gardener

The tyres of his truck crunched on the gravel, a sound that seemed offensively loud in the deep quiet of the place. Haiden killed the engine and the silence rushed back in, heavy and old. Blackwood Manor did not look like a home. It looked like a statement made by people who were now long dead, a great, grey block of stone staring out over the valley with vacant, soot-stained windows. He felt the history of it, a physical pressure, like standing too deep in water.

He got out of the truck, the door groaning in protest. The air smelled of damp earth and boxwood. He walked away from the main drive, his boots leaving faint prints in the moss that grew between the paving stones of a once-formal path. This was what he had come to see. The gardens. Or what was left of them.

It was a beautiful disaster. A grand design, French in influence from the look of the parterres, now completely surrendered to nature’s indifference. Weeds grew thick and tenacious in the cracked basins of tiered fountains. Ivy, thick as a man’s arm, had pulled stones from a retaining wall and was now working its way across the face of a stone cherub, its blank eyes staring out from a mask of green. Haiden ran a hand over the crumbling stone. It was a daunting project. The kind of work that could swallow months, years even. He felt a familiar thrill low in his stomach, the quiet excitement of seeing not the ruin, but the potential. The bones were still here, buried under all the neglect.

“You must be Haiden.”

The voice came from behind him, calm and without inflection. Haiden turned. The man standing on the path was tall, dressed in dark trousers and a grey cashmere sweater that looked soft to the touch. He held himself with a stillness that seemed at odds with the overgrown chaos around them. This had to be Cormac.

“That’s me,” Haiden said. He was conscious of the dirt on his jeans, the scuffs on his boots.

Cormac’s eyes, a cool, indeterminate shade of blue, flicked over him and then back to the garden. He didn’t offer a hand. “I’ll show you the worst of it.”

He turned and started walking, and Haiden fell into step beside him. It wasn’t a tour so much as an inventory of failure. Cormac pointed with a long, elegant finger, his words precise and surgical.

“The yew hedge is unsalvageable. It will have to be removed entirely.” He paused by the collapsed wall. “This was limestone. My grandfather had it brought from a quarry in the west. You can see the extent of the water damage.”

Haiden could see it. He could also see the solution, the need for new drainage, the way the wall could be rebuilt using most of the original stone. He didn’t say anything. He was being tested, he thought.

They moved toward a series of terraced rose gardens, the beds choked with thistle and bindweed. “Downy mildew on what’s left of the climbers,” Cormac said, his tone detached, as if diagnosing a terminal patient. “And rust. The soil pH is likely all wrong.”

Haiden found it both irritating and strangely compelling. Cormac wasn't just pointing out problems; he was naming them with a clinical accuracy that betrayed a deep, if resentful, knowledge. He wasn't some rich man waving a hand at a mess he didn't understand. He understood it perfectly. He just seemed to hate it.

“The whole thing is a mess,” Haiden said, finally. “But the layout’s good. Solid.”

Cormac stopped and looked at him properly for the first time. His gaze was intense, analytical. He seemed to be assessing Haiden’s words for any sign of insincerity or incompetence.

“The contract is for three months, initially,” Cormac said, his eyes dropping for a second to Haiden’s hands, which were resting on his hips. “We’ll see what you can do in that time.” He turned then and walked back toward the house without another word, leaving Haiden alone in the wreckage of the garden.

The first week passed in a blur of sweat and aching muscles. Haiden worked with a singular focus, starting with the suffocating blanket of ivy that covered the lower terrace. The labour was a familiar comfort. He liked the rhythmic scrape of his shovel against stone, the satisfying tear of thick roots pulled from the earth, the scent of damp soil and bruised green leaves. He worked alone, the silence of the estate broken only by the sounds he made and the distant call of a buzzard circling high overhead. No one disturbed him. He was provided with keys to a potting shed and an outer lavatory, and he saw no one. It was as if he were the only person for miles, a ghost tending a ghost’s garden.

From his vantage point on the terrace, he had a clear view of the long mullioned windows of the library. And in the library, he saw Cormac. He was a silhouette for most of the day, a dark shape against the warm light within. Sometimes the shape would pace, a restless back-and-forth for minutes on end. Other times it would remain perfectly still, a statue at the window, looking out over the grounds. Haiden wondered what he was looking at. At the ruin, or at him. He found himself glancing up from his work more often than he should, a quick, furtive look toward the window, as if checking a clock. The man seemed trapped in there, contained by the stone walls and the weight of his own house.

Cormac rarely came outside. When he did, the entire atmosphere of the place shifted. The quiet was no longer peaceful; it became tense. On the third day, Haiden heard the heavy front door open and close with a solid thud. He didn't look up, but he was aware of Cormac’s presence as acutely as if a hand had been laid on his shoulder. He kept his head down, focusing on the intricate task of untangling a climbing rose from a thicket of nettles, his movements suddenly feeling clumsy and self-conscious.

He could feel Cormac’s gaze on him, even from a distance. He risked a glance through his fringe. Cormac was standing on the edge of the lawn, talking on his phone, his back to Haiden. Even so, Haiden felt exposed. There was a sudden, sharp tightening in his chest, an involuntary clenching of his stomach muscles. It was an unwelcome physical response, an interruption to the steady rhythm of his work and his thoughts. He was just a man on the phone, his employer, nothing more. But his presence felt like a pressure change, a drop in barometric reading that promised a storm.

Haiden worked on, forcing himself to ignore the tall figure outlined against the afternoon sun. He pulled a thick root, and it came free with a spray of dark soil that spattered his jeans. He felt a ridiculous urge to brush himself off, to appear neater, more professional. The feeling annoyed him. After a few minutes, he heard the crunch of shoes on the gravel path, and then the solid thud of the door again. The pressure lifted. Haiden straightened up, breathing out slowly. He looked at the library window. The silhouette was back in its usual place, still and watchful. The garden felt his own again, but the solitude was different now, tinged with an awareness of the man inside the house.

It was late afternoon a few days later, the sun low enough to cast long, distorted shadows across the lawn. Haiden was sitting on an overturned bucket near the sorry-looking remains of the formal beds, a sketchbook open on his knees. He had cleared enough of the overgrowth to see the original lines of the parterre, the faint ghost of a symmetrical, intricate design. He was sketching over it, not a restoration but a reinterpretation, using the old footprint to create something new with flowing, more organic shapes. The pencil felt good in his hand, a different kind of tool, a different kind of work.

A shadow fell across the bright white of the page. Haiden didn't need to look up to know who it was. The air had changed again.

“That’s not the original design,” Cormac said. His voice was close, just over Haiden’s shoulder.

Haiden kept his eyes on the paper. “No. The original is too fussy. It wouldn’t suit the landscape now.”

“It suited it for two hundred years.”

Haiden finally looked up. Cormac was standing with his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, looking down at the sketchbook with a critical narrowing of his eyes. Haiden felt a prickle of defensiveness.

“The landscape has changed,” Haiden said, tapping the paper with his pencil. “The trees on the ridge are mature now, they block the morning light. A formal parterre here would be in shadow half the day. The plants would get leggy.” He looked from the sketch to the ground, then back to Cormac. “This follows the light better. And it’s easier to maintain.”

Cormac was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the drawing. “It looks…random.”

“It’s not random,” Haiden countered, his voice firmer than he intended. “There’s a pattern. It’s just not a geometric one. It’s based on the way water flows.” He felt a need to make this man understand, a need that went beyond just getting his plans approved. “You can’t just impose a rigid grid on a place. You have to work with what’s here. The soil, the light, the way the land falls.”

“My great-grandfather imposed a grid,” Cormac said, a faint, unreadable tone in his voice. “He believed order was an expression of civilized thought. A triumph over chaos.”

“Maybe,” Haiden said, looking at the wild tangle of the woods that bordered the lawn. “Or maybe chaos is just what happens when you’re not looking. Order needs constant effort. This design is built to accommodate a little wildness. It won’t look like a failure if a weed pops up.”

Cormac let out a short, quiet breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. He crouched down, bringing them to eye level, the knees of his expensive trousers brushing against the damp grass. The movement was unexpected, and it closed the space between them in a way that felt suddenly intimate. He was looking at the drawing again, his expression thoughtful.

“So you’re arguing for a more permissive philosophy,” Cormac said, his voice lower now.

“I’m arguing for a garden that can live,” Haiden replied.

The conversation hung in the air. The professional debate had become something else, something that felt personal. Cormac’s gaze lifted from the sketchbook, but it didn’t meet Haiden’s. Instead, it settled on his hands.

Haiden was suddenly aware of them. The right one holding the pencil, stained with graphite. The left one steadying the book, the knuckles scraped, the nails permanently underlined with dirt and soil. They were capable hands, calloused from work, but in Cormac’s focused gaze they felt crude and exposed. He watched Cormac look at the map of small cuts and ingrained earth on his skin, his expression intense, unreadable. The silence stretched, filled only by the evening birdsong. Haiden didn’t move, didn’t speak, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

Cormac straightened up suddenly, the movement sharp, breaking the stillness. He cleared his throat. “Well. Just see that you submit your plans before you order anything expensive.” He stood, brushing imaginary dust from the knees of his trousers. The intimacy of the moment evaporated, leaving a cool, awkward space between them. He turned and walked back toward the house, his posture rigid. Haiden watched him go, the sketchbook feeling heavy and foolish on his lap. He looked down at his own hands, trying to see what Cormac had seen. They were just hands. They were how he made his living.

The rest of the week was quiet. Cormac did not reappear. The silhouette in the library window was still there, but it seemed more distant, less focused on the garden. Haiden worked with a dogged determination, ripping out the last of the invasive brambles that choked the old rose garden, a thorny, thankless task. He tried not to think about the conversation, about the strange intensity in Cormac’s eyes. He tried to reduce the man to his proper role: employer. A name on a paycheck. But the memory of him crouching in the grass, the quiet consideration on his face, kept returning at odd moments, a distracting and unwelcome warmth.

On Friday afternoon, the sound of a car engine broke the quiet. It wasn’t the low rumble of a delivery truck or the familiar rattle of Haiden’s own Ford. This was a high, smooth purr, the sound of money and speed. A low-slung, dark grey sports car, so clean it seemed to repel the dust of the gravel drive, slid to a stop in front of the main steps. Haiden, on his knees by a bed of blighted roses, stopped his work and watched, shielded by the overgrown canes.

The driver’s door opened and a woman emerged. She was tall and slender, dressed in cream-colored trousers and a fine-knit cashmere jumper the colour of pale sand. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Everything about her was precise. She moved with an easy confidence, shutting the car door with a quiet, expensive click.

The heavy front door of the manor opened and Cormac stepped out. He wore a different jacket, darker, more formal. He walked down the stone steps to meet her.

She smiled as he approached, a bright, practiced smile. “You’re looking pale,” she said, her voice carrying clearly across the lawn. She put her hands on his shoulders and rose onto her toes to kiss him. It was a public kiss, one cheek and then the other, her lips barely grazing his skin. Her body did not press against his. Cormac’s hands rested for a moment on her waist, his fingers spread wide against the soft fabric of her jumper.

Haiden watched, motionless. From his position, he could see Cormac’s face over the woman’s shoulder. For the fraction of a second before he turned his head and his expression shifted into something appropriate, something social, his face was entirely blank. His eyes were not focused on her or on anything. The muscles around his mouth were slack. It was a face devoid of any discernible feeling, as if the man Haiden had spoken to a few days ago, the man who paced in the library, had been temporarily switched off.

Then the moment passed. Cormac smiled down at her, a slight, tired curve of his lips, and said something Haiden couldn't hear. He took a small bag from her hand and they turned together, walking up the steps and into the house. The door closed behind them with its familiar, heavy finality.

Haiden remained kneeling in the dirt, the thorny stem of a dead rose digging into his glove. The silence that returned to the garden felt different now, heavier. He felt a strange, uncomfortable pang in his chest. It wasn't envy. It was something closer to pity, though he couldn't imagine why he would feel pity for a man like Cormac. The feeling was unwelcome, and he couldn’t give it a name. He pulled his hand back, the thorns scraping his leather glove, and looked at the grand, unblinking windows of the house. He was just the gardener. He was outside, and they were inside. He turned back to the roses, and with a sudden, sharp motion, he severed the dead cane at its base.