At last Caliban showed her the notebook and she saw a full page of writing. He came to sit beside her as she read: It’s a very difficult job to move a large tree, for the roots mirror the tree above. Thus, as tall as the tree might be, so far below the ground do the roots reach. Of course one cannot move such a mass of earth, for there is no machine to dig so far nor one to move it could it be dug up. But…
She marked her place with her finger and looked up. “But if you can’t dig up the roots, how—?”
He rolled his eyes and leaned forward, tapping the page below her finger.
“Oh.” She bent over the notebook, continuing to read, aware that he was looking over her shoulder now, reading his explanation along with her.
But as a tree’s branches might be cut—quite sharply sometimes—and the tree still live, indeed thrive, it is believed that the roots as well might be cut. In this way a tree can be moved with its roots in a ball of dirt that, in comparison to the tree’s height, is quite small indeed.
Lily turned her head—to find that his face was quite close to hers. She blinked, for a moment forgetting what her question was. Then it came to her. “You say here in comparison to the tree’s height. But the earth and roots might still be quite big, mightn’t it?”
He smiled slowly, as if particularly pleased with her question, and she couldn’t help smiling in return.
He reached around her, his arms nearly embracing her, and wrote in the notebook on her lap, Very good. Yes, the root ball should be quite big, even so.
“Should be?”
His breath was warm against her ear. I confess. I’ve never attempted to transplant a fully grown tree. I shall do so, however, this afternoon. Would you like to watch?
If someone had asked her a fortnight ago if she’d like to watch a tree being planted, she would’ve looked at the questioner quite pityingly. But right now, this moment, she was rather excited at the prospect.
Perhaps too many viewings of Caliban’s nude chest had addled her brain.
In any case she gazed into his thickly lashed brown eyes and smiled brilliantly. “Yes, please.”
His grin was quick and all-encompassing and, she couldn’t help but think, solely for her. As she watched, it faded a bit and his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips parted almost unconsciously, and she leaned a little forward, her own eyes on that wide, masculine smile.
“Mama,” Indio interrupted, his cheeks smeared with the remains of a jammy tart. “Can I show Caliban my boat now?”
Lily jerked back from Caliban, feeling her cheeks heat, and caught the amused glance he gave her as he turned more leisurely to the boy.
“Yes, of course,” she replied, repressing the urge to stick her tongue out at the maddening man. He’d started it—whatever it might’ve been—after all.
She watched as Indio eagerly crawled over with the boat. Caliban held it carefully, seeming to understand how important the toy was to her son, as Indio pointed out its best features and Daffodil poked her nose eagerly into the matter.
When at last they rose by some unspoken male accord, she noticed with a pang that Indio came only to Caliban’s waist. The man towered over the boy, so much taller and broader that his gentleness was all the more moving as a result. They walked to the pond’s bank and Indio launched his boat. Caliban restrained Daffodil from jumping in after.
This man was not at all like Kitty’s husband. Not at all.
APOLLO WATCHED THAT afternoon as the machine containing his oak tree was hauled into the garden. Elegant in its simplicity, it was a sort of modified cart, and indeed two dray horses labored to pull the contraption in from the dock. Two wheels were at one end with a flat bed where the tree’s huge roots lay. The bed narrowed into a long tongue that held the tree’s trunk and was supported by a smaller single wheel. The horses were harnessed to the root end, where the bulk of the weight rested.
The entire thing had been brought down the Thames on a barge. Tree and machine had been especially ordered from a fellow garden architect whom Apollo had been corresponding with under the pseudonym Mr. Smith. He’d been quite specific in his order, including both diagrams and copious notes, and was pleased with the result before him: his oak lay like a colossus fallen, the roots spidering out from the earth-encased base.
Now all they had to do was get the tree in the ground without mishap.
Lily stood to one side with Indio and Daffodil capering at her feet. The gardeners had apparently become used to their presence in the garden, for there had been no questions when they’d stayed to watch.
Apollo almost literally twitched with the desire to direct the operation himself. Herring, the head gardener, was a good Yorkshireman, able to read and follow Apollo’s written instructions, but he was plodding and not much of a thinker. He had a hard time compensating when something didn’t go as planned.
And many things might not go as planned with the oak tree.
Two of the gardeners—dark-haired brothers from Ireland—steadied the cart while a third man—a short, wiry Londoner, new to Harte’s Folly just this week—led the horses. Herring shouted orders while Apollo, ignominiously demoted to dullard while in the company of the other gardeners, stood by with a shovel.
“Hold it there!” Herring called, and studied the notes Apollo had left him the week before. “Says here that the master wants the cart pulled to near the hole, then the horses to be unhitched there.” He nodded to himself. “Makes sense, that.”
The horses were dutifully unhitched and Apollo, along with the Irish brothers, put his back into hauling the tree the remaining few feet over the hole. If he’d measured the hole correctly and his correspondent had followed his measurements, the wheels should be just wide enough to straddle it.
He watched as the cart trundled into place and felt a surge of satisfaction in a job well done.
“Pretty as a lamb at its ma’s tit, that,” Herring said admiringly, then seemed to remember Miss Stump. “If’n you’ll pardon an old countryman’s expression, ma’am.”
She waved cheerily. “Not at all, Mr. Herring.”
She exchanged an amused glance with Apollo and then he turned back to the work. The root ball now lay over the hole with the tree trunk extending to one side, parallel to the ground. Daffodil was nosing about the hole, as curious as usual, and Apollo gently toed her aside. Awful if the little dog should be stepped on as the men labored. All that was needed now was to haul the tree upright, cut its ropes and drop it—gently—into the waiting hole.