A Garden To Die For by Francesca Quarto

A Garden to Die For: A Eulogy for Spring

"It's absolutely breathtaking, Meg!" gushed one of the Mornay twins.  Meg couldn't tell them apart, so she merely smiled, bowing her head demurely. Meg Randall was hosting the 'The Mississippi Bountiful Gardens Society' at her country estate.  This was their first gathering since reforming, a process that occurred on a yearly basis as members always seemed to drop off after the first meeting. The current group had high hopes of avoiding that outcome.

Meg noticed a few of the young matrons wrinkling their noses earlier, as they passed through the musty hallway on the way to the dining room, and the entry to her gardens through a set of graceful French doors covering part of aa wall. They clearly expected little from this visit to meet with their high, horticultural standards.  In the current mood of the privileged class in 1923, those standards had evolved to include the proper accouterments of wealth and style.  Meg's shabby estate would fall well-short of that bar.

When Meg threw open the doors leading out to the patio, there was a unanimous intake of breath, as the eight women stepped through. The gardens spread out before them, shimmering like a piece of art by one of the Old Masters. Vibrant, and alive with color, this was truly an Eden of exotic plants and flowers, swaying like the graceful Salome, wrapped in soft breezes. The carefully blended design of trees and shrubbery, lent a kind of artful backdrop, keeping the mystical blooms from dancing out of sight. Some of the ladies spontaneously lifted their long skirts to take the inviting stone path, leading deeper into a glorious banquet of fragrance. One woman was moved to exclaim, "It's as if we're surrounded by rainbows!"

Their newly installed President, the starchy Mrs. Grumwalt, curbed their enthusiasm, reminding them that tea was ready to be served. They reluctantly moved back to the wide skirt of the flagstone patio where a maid finished the preparations. One of the Mornay twins whispered behind her hand that the corpulent President, would never miss an opportunity to sit down to a meal. Meg's sharp hearing caught the remark, and she indeed saw the plump woman licking her lips in anticipation. No one noticed her own tongue dart out in a similar fashion.

Meg seemed indifferent to her role as hostess. She sat stiffly in her chair, relying on the rather elderly maid to pour tea, and offer the freshly baked scones and delicate cakes around to the women.   She spoke to no one. No one spoke to her. She made herself inconspicuous by her presence.

Her guests all held the opinion that Meg Randall had a strangeness about her. Where did she come from? How long had she occupied Randall Hall? They just reformed their group, when Mrs. Grumwalt received a musty smelling book, titled, The History of the Mississippi Bountiful Gardens Society, supposedly sent by a past Secretary. It stated Meg Randall had hosted every annual meeting since its formation. The Society was founded many years ago, according to the dates, yet, Meg Randall looked timeless. They argued among themselves, over the veracity of the claim, and none of the previous members were around to be questioned. However, as recorded, routine visits never changed. The Society seemed compelled to come to Randall Hall yearly, like the lemmings to the sea cliffs.

Outside of a few pleasantries extolling the delightful scene before them, they took little notice of her stoic figure, and no notice at all of how she ignored the sweets they all hummed over like bees gathering nectar. None seemed aware that she studied each of them in turn, from under her long, dark lashes, while appearing to fuss with her uneaten strawberry petit four.

Privately among these women, Randall Hall was referred to snidely as The Randall Mausoleum. The sprawling mansion was more cathedral, than home. With its tall, lifeless windows, and guarding gargoyles at each corner of the roof, heavy stone-work covered with invading vines, Randall Hall was as warm as the inside of a tomb.

The women had arranged themselves around a perfectly laid table. It gleamed invitingly, as the mellow spring sun swept over its glazed glass top. The cups of the delicate porcelain tea set, were almost too fragile to hold. Its floral pattern was an exquisite reflection of the many varieties of flowers and plants surrounding them. There were constant outbursts from the younger Mornay twins, as particularly lovely plantings were spotted further down the path leading into the heart of the garden. As they nibbled cakes and sipped at their cups, every color of the prism tantalized and bedazzled them. In one corner, bright yellow tulips, shot through with royal purple, or deep red slashes, like the sleeves of medieval ladies at the English Court, captivated their hungry eyes. 

A restless enthusiasm settled over the group.  Some were too agitated to have more than two scones with tea. Meg never lost the thin smile that curved her full crimson lips, as she watched her chattering guests from under sweeping black lashes. She was quite blatantly ignored by the others, as they dove into the creamy yellow butter, slathering it on their warm scones.  

The women all appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. To Meg's mind, the perfect age of reason and life. They fell upon the treats with the appetites of the young, and quickly began to relax under her penetrating gaze. Their hostess held her fragile cup carefully, raising it to her deeply red lips. Meg shunned rouges and powders, her pale skin was flawless. She appeared to be as delicate as her tea service. Undeniably beautiful, the young women still found her clothes as dated as her furnishings. But she did have a presence, an unsettling vibration came off of her, not dissimilar to the chill most had when staring up at the gargoyles looking down upon them earlier from the corners of the rambling manor house.

Meg rose to her feet like Venus rising from the sea, smoothing the front of her dark skirt to its perfect folds around her slim figure. As if that was their cue, the women quickly gathered themselves behind her as she stepped off the patio, onto the inviting cobble-stone path. 

"Time to visit my precious children, ladies. Follow me please, and do keep to the path. My garden is fragile and somewhat unpredictable if it feels…threatened."

Not a word was uttered as the small entourage trailed the ethereal figure of Meg Randall.  Not even a murmur went up when the large heads of some of the enormous sunflowers, turned to watch them as they passed. But then, they probably never noticed that, just as the glistening beads of blood pooling under slender stems went unobserved.  The special tea had a wonderfully calming effect on them all, certainly making gathering them like living bouquets so much easier. Meg knew her maid was following close behind, as she slipped the knife out of the deep skirt pocket.

The young are so self-absorbed, she thought as she invited the women to smell the blood-red roses.