Page 86 of Ironvine

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At Ironvine,Charles led her through the back stone terrace and down the wide staircase to the landscaped lawn with its carefully calculated rows of trees and hedges. Suddenly the tight geometry of the formal gardens ended, and a long rolling hill of bright green grass took over. At the end of the hill, a wood surrounded them, and they walked through where it was darker and quieter, the two of them sheathed in nature.

“This is quite different from the formal gardens around the house,” she said.

“Those gardens were my great-grandfather and grandfather’s doing. They both loved order and felt if their surroundings reflected that order, it would inspire order in one’s life and inner being.”

“Were they satisfied with the results of their garden then?”

“Not at all.” Charles laughed. “Grandfather had brought some famous designer from Newcastle here to redo it. I believe he even put it in his will that my father, his only child, was to never destroy the garden or change its design, for he considered it one of his great works in life.”

“Man’s rules imposed over nature. I warrant nature, at some point, will violently rebuff such artifice and strictures put upon her, don’t you? I believe she has her own mind and spirit, that try as he might, man cannot control her.”

“You may be right. I think my great grandfather put the house and those gardens in motion to rebuff the original Ironvine.”

“What do you mean by the original?”

“Remember, the French monk?”

“Brother Laurent, yes.”

“He built himself a small castle—ah, careful.” He took her hand in his and led her away from a rocky patch.

“Oh yes, of course, I’ve heard of the Ironvine castle…”

“Does the idea fire your imagination, Georgie?”

“It does.”

“I thought it would.”

The trees had thinned out, and they emerged on another hill overlooking a thin river at the bottom of the valley. On a small pair of islands stood a lone medieval tower, its fragmented walls connected to a house on land, which was mostly in ruins, half the roof gone. A courtyard overgrown with a riot of colourful flowering vines, thick bushes, and the remains of a stumpy gatehouse. A thin stone bridge stretched over the surrounding pond filled with flowering greens and stones of all sizes. Large ancient trees stretched their aging branches, and clumps of rhododendron gave a wild unfettered feel to the vista.

“I haven’t been here in ages,” murmured Charles.

The sandstone walls were clothed in climbing wisteria, roses, and clematis. A riot of reds, whites, blues, and purples.

“Beautiful.” Georgina stopped in her tracks. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

“Originally, there were four of those castle towers. Now only that one remains of Brother Laurent’s castle, which he used as a home. The house adjoining the castle was built later on, in the early 1600s, but that fell into decay as well. A century later, the family decided to build a new house up the hill where we live today.”

She let go of his hand and ran down the hill toward the ruins.

“Careful, Georgie! The water seems high today.”

She laughed out loud as she stepped over the great stones to the remains of the walkway, making her way to the castle tower. “It’s like a folly, only it’s not. It’s better.”

“How is it better?”

“Because it’s a genuine ancient ruin, not a counterfeit meant to inspire feelings. This is real and inspires so much more. And it’s your family history.” She bent her head to the wisteria and took in their fragrance.

“We never saw it as having much worth or significance. Just an old structure from the past, falling apart, making a mess.”

She faced him. “Is that what you’ve always been told to think, or is that how you see it?” He stilled, his brow furrowing. Had that truth caught Charles by surprise?

“I’m not sure.” His gaze roved over the ruins, considering them anew, through Georgina’s eyes.

“Wolfsgate’s folly was recently built and made to look like a gothic and mysterious ruin on purpose,” she said. “But Ironvine’s is no theatrical tableau meant to inspire romantic feelings of a lost world, a faraway time. These ruins are authentically gothic and mysterious and have a real history. Ryvves history.” She moved closer to the tower, her hands stroking the smoothed stone as she walked around it. Raising herself up on her tiptoes, she attempted to peer over an opening in the stones to see inside. Georgina climbed up on a rock formation by the wall and lifted up on her toes.

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