Page 11 of Junie

Chapter Eleven

“This garden is an absolute jewel, Mrs. McQueen,” Mr. Taylor says, looking over the gardens from the formal entrance. “I don’t think I’ve seen its equal in the whole of the South.”

The gardener has spent the heat of the early afternoon ensuring that no vine, leaf, or cobblestone is left out of place—still the garden inches closer to the border of wildness, as though it might break through the fences and consume the yard in its parasitic elegance. It’s a calculated imitation of the sort Mrs. McQueen would see in the English countryside of her childhood. The perfume of magnolia trees and the cicada chirps are the only additions that remind everyone they are in Alabama and not a world away. Wildflowers, tall grasses, and fragrant lavender stretch over one another toward the sunlight. Trees border beyond the outer gate, their heavy limbs and leaves casting a maternal shadow over the garden’s most precious asset: the roses. A fountain trickles and bees buzz to create a background that makes Junie want to curl into the earth and rest. Even though the garden has been at Bellereine all of Junie’s life, she never tires of admiring it.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Taylor,” Mrs. McQueen says from over the edge of her white lace fan. Ever the example of sartorial simplicity, she wears her typical black embroidered day dress with a tight bun. Meanwhile, Violet and Miss Taylor wear corseted long-sleeved gowns and broad sun hats to shield their skin.

“Now, I’m not sure about Miss Taylor here,” Mr. Taylor says. “But I’m certain that I’d like to see every single rose in this garden.”

“Oh yes,” Miss Taylor says, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “We just must. ” She glances toward Junie as if her hazel eyes could burn through her chest. Did Miss Taylor already tell the mistress that her servants are rifling through her things?

She looks back at Caleb, who stands next to the outer wall, nearly as tall as the fence. The only way Miss Taylor would know anything is if Caleb’s given her up. Her blood boils. Why was she stupid enough to trust a stranger with her secrets? She wants to storm over and curse him to high heaven for betraying her, but before she can, Miss Taylor’s gaze shifts beyond where Junie is standing.

She isn’t watching Junie at all. She’s watching Violet.

“Oh, and I’m sure we’ll need our servants,” Mrs. McQueen says. “Bess, you will stay with me, and Junie will go with Miss McQueen. And you there, Mr. Taylor’s man, what is your name?”

“Caleb, ma’am.”

“Yes, boy. If anything is needed in the house, you will come fetch us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a nod.

Having Caleb at such a distance could complicate getting away. She peers back at him; he shrugs.

Mr. Taylor is as elegant as the night before, wearing a casual linen suit, with an open smile baring teeth. His eyes glimmer like sun on fresh snow as Violet lists the names and traits of each of the roses from memory. Junie follows them around, listening to the same monotonous talk. Violet’s act as the sheepish and dainty lady in the presence of a handsome man makes Junie wince. She peers back to the other end of the garden, where Caleb is still leaning against the brick wall as though he owns it.

Miss Taylor saunters to meet Violet, barely concealing a grimace. She hardly knows Violet; how does she already dislike her so much? They curtsy to each other before Miss Taylor walks toward the next rosebush. Violet strolls alongside her while Mr. Taylor trails behind to talk to Mrs. McQueen. Junie also drops back a few paces, determined not to have another run-in with her.

“These are our lettuce roses,” Violet says, gesturing with feigned interest toward the pink rosebush behind her. “They come straight from Europe, and—”

“Cabbage rose,” Miss Taylor interrupts, fanning herself with a chinoiserie fan.

“Pardon?” Violet says.

“You called them lettuce roses. Those are cabbage roses. See how they look like little pink cabbages?” Miss Taylor says, pointing at the blooms. Violet furrows her brow, holding back a pout.

“Well, they look an awful lot like lettuce to me,” Violet says, her voice rising with irritation.

“You don’t know much about roses, do you, Miss McQueen?” Miss Taylor says, taking one of the roses between her fingers and ripping it from the stem.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“You don’t have to pretend. No one expects a pretty girl like you to be an encyclopedia,” Miss Taylor says, twirling the broken rose between her fingers. “You don’t know about roses. It’s clear you don’t do any cooking. You know nothing about household affairs, hate the outdoors, and fumbled your way through embroidery yesterday like a bull in a china shop. What do you know, then, Miss McQueen?” She lowers her volume and glances gently toward the mistress and her brother as though making sure they are out of earshot.

Violet’s cheeks redden. “You mean to embarrass me, Miss Taylor.”

“It’s a simple question, really. What are you filling your head with?”

The clouds dissolve, giving way to the burning afternoon heat. Miss Taylor, whose hat brim is not wide enough to shield her, struggles to keep the sun out of her eyes.

“I’ll need my parasol, Beau,” she calls to her brother.

“Caleb?” Mr. Taylor yells. Caleb jumps to attention.

“Yes, sir?”

“Fetch a parasol for Miss Taylor, will you?”

“I left one in the coach yesterday that would match this dress nicely, Caleb,” Miss Taylor adds.

“Of course, ma’am,” he says, bowing.

Miss Taylor turns back to face Violet with a smile.

“Good. Where were we, Miss McQueen?”

“Books,” Violet states, puffing her chest and raising her chin. “I know books.”

“What kind of books?” Miss Taylor laughs.

“I like English novels best. French, too.”

“Not American novels?”

“I’ve seen enough of America,” Violet says. She plucks a petal from a rose.

“ Quelle audace . I don’t believe you’ve ever left Alabama, have you, Miss McQueen?”

“No, Miss Taylor.”

“English novels, then. Do you like Dickens? Defoe?”

“I prefer the Bront?s. I prefer books written by women.”

Miss Taylor flicks her fan and raises her eyebrows, a hint of a laugh on her red lips.

“You know, our father thinks that books written by women are frivolous. Writing is a man’s profession.”

“Just because a woman writes them doesn’t make them frivolous. Have you ever read the Bront?s?”

The edge in Violet’s voice sends a spark through Junie’s blood. It couldn’t be right to talk to your suitor’s sister this way.

Miss Taylor plucks another rose from the bush.

“Why did you play Berlioz last night after dinner?” she asks.

“Pardon?”

“You said you knew nothing of opera, then you played a French opera. Why did you do that?”

“I hope you don’t mean to quarrel with me, Miss Taylor. I said I’d never heard an opera, which is true. The sheet music was a gift from my father.”

“Then, how did you learn to play it the way you did last night?”

“How did I play last night?”

“Fishing for flattery is not becoming, Miss McQueen.”

“You’ve made it quite clear that you do not find Alabamians as a whole to be becoming, and I’d shrink from defying your expectations.” She stares into Miss Taylor’s eyes like a dog set to bite. Miss Taylor stares back.

“I just play the piano that way I suppose, Miss Taylor.”

The air hangs heavy between them, with only the sound of buzzing bees and distant conversation breaking the silence.

“Have you always been this strange, Miss McQueen?” Miss Taylor says, tilting her head.

“I suppose so,” Violet says, her cheeks reddening.

Miss Taylor steps closer, extending her hand holding the snapped flower. The sunlight springs off the peach silk chiffon of her dress. “A cabbage rose. So you won’t be wrong again.” Her gaze is competitive.

“Violet? Miss Taylor? Come join us, the damasks are beginning to blossom!” Mrs. McQueen calls.

Violet breaks her stare, curtsying to take her leave. Miss Taylor steps in front of her, navigating past the thorns, holding the bloom between her fingers.

“I must admit I love the scent of these,” she says. “They use them in Provence to make perfume and rose oil. See, they are in the one I am wearing.” She lifts her inner wrist to Violet’s nose. Violet is reluctant at first, then sniffs her wrist. Her eyes close.

“It’s quite fine,” Violet says.

“My Grand-mère grew these roses in her garden in France. The smell always brings back her memory. She called them feuilles de laitue. ”

“I was right, then,” Violet says smugly.

“Excuse me?”

“They’re not cabbage roses; they’re lettuce roses. You said it yourself. Feuilles de laitue, that means ‘leaves of lettuce.’ Lettuce roses.”

Junie’s pulse quickens as Caleb strides back into the garden, a white parasol over his shoulder.

“Here you are, Miss Taylor,” he says, passing it to her. When he turns back toward the front gate, he winks at Junie. Her eyes widen.

“Oh, blast, my parasol!” Miss Taylor shouts. She holds it up to the sun, revealing a jagged rip in the fabric as long as her hand.

“What is it, Bea?” Mr. Taylor asks, his voice deepening as he rushes over.

“Oh, my parasol’s ripped. It must have happened somehow in the coach. Gosh, this is one of my favorites, too.”

Mr. Taylor’s expression hardens. He seizes the broken parasol from his sister, examining the hole.

“Caleb!”

Caleb approaches, hands loosely at his sides.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you see the quality of the parasol you gave to Miss Taylor?”

“I do see now that it has a hole, sir. I apologize for missing it when I fetched it for her.”

“Is this the quality you think befits Miss Taylor? The parasol of a beggar?”

“Beau, please, it isn’t that—”

Mr. Taylor points his finger to silence his sister. She recoils. Junie looks around in confusion and sees Violet and Mrs. McQueen cast their eyes to the ground.

“I can’t say that I knew it had a hole, sir,” Caleb says. “I just fetched it from the coach.”

Mr. Taylor sighs, stiffens, and fixes his jaw. Junie studies the way he rolls the parasol top between his palms, his thick hands against the fragile lace. In an instant, he grips hard and swings the parasol down on Caleb’s neck with a roar. Caleb careens to the ground, the force of the blow more than his body was prepared to bear. Mr. Taylor raises the parasol again and cracks it over Caleb’s back. The wood splinters over his spine. Violet screams while her mother peers down into the rosebushes. Miss Taylor leaps in front of her brother as he readies to strike again.

“Beau, please! I am certain I have another parasol in my bedroom. There is no sense in ruining the whole afternoon.”

Mr. Taylor paces back from Caleb, tossing the shattered parasol into the bushes, eyes cold. Junie wants to run to Caleb, lift the boy to his feet, and get him away from this monster, but Bess’s look from across the garden tells her to stay still. Caleb slowly pushes himself to his feet, his arms shaking. Mr. Taylor turns to face the women.

“My apologies for the disruption, ladies. The heat has gotten to me. I’ll retire inside,” Mr. Taylor says. “Caleb, go check the coach to see what happened to the parasol, if there are any loose nails or the like.”

Caleb musters a nod before leaving the garden. Mr. Taylor begins marching toward the house.

“I’d be happy to accompany you back inside, Mr. Taylor,” Mrs. McQueen calls. “Ladies, will you come inside, as well?”

“Miss McQueen didn’t finish showing me the lettuce roses, but I will need another parasol,” Miss Taylor says.

“Junie, go fetch one from Miss Taylor’s room, won’t you?” Mrs. McQueen says. “Bess, go see that my room is ready for an afternoon rest.”

Junie’s attention perks. Caleb’s plan has worked. She is being sent to the Emerald Room alone.

But looking at the blood speckled on the garden stones, her stomach twists in nausea and guilt. What seems an impossible sacrifice to Junie is routine enough for Caleb to face and walk off. What monsters have been let loose inside Bellereine?

She scurries to the main house before she can find out.