The Secret Legacy: The perfect summer read for fans of Santa Montefiore, Victoria Hislop and Dinah Jeffries
uplifting citrus smell, we set to work on my handwriting. It wasn’t the scrawl of last autumn, but there was still hesitation. He wrote a sentence and I copied. Any mistakes were noted and required me to repeat the word in question. The afternoon should have felt interminable, but I loved the intimate focus of these moments: the sound of the dish of the day brewing behind us, the soft scratch of my pencil upon the paper. The quiet way he would speak, directing my hand with gentle instructions, wooing my pencil to do the right thing.
Finally we removed the pot from the heat and set it aside to cool.
‘I shall take tea now. Please call Adeline to join me.’
He left.
I stood in the empty kitchen, steamy with the fresh, hopeful scent.
I could hear Elizabeth beginning to stir but decided to leave her a while longer whilst I fetched her mother. I ran up two stairs at a time. Adeline’s door was shut. I tapped softly, then a little louder. Still no answer. I eased the door open and peeked inside. Adeline was at the far side, crouched down. She had a pencil in her hand and was tracing intricate patterns across the length of the wall where the floor tiles met the plaster. I’d noticed the Major had set a sketchbook upon the table. I didn’t think he’d had scrawling on the antique walls in mind when he had done so.
‘Madam?’
No answer. The artist was lost in her work.
I coughed. She stopped, then froze me with an icy glare. My mouth opened a little but no sound came out. She returned to her creation.
‘Madam, the Major has asked you to join him for tea.’
The speed of her pencil accelerated. Elizabeth’s cries reached us from the kitchen two floors down. These stone walls were unforgiving; thick but live, amplifying every sound.
Adeline began to weep. I went toward her.
‘Stay where you are!’ she yelled without looking at me. ‘Stop that Godawful screeching.’ She whipped round to me. I could see her eyes were bloodshot, spidered with anguish. ‘Now!’
She rose to her feet and lunged toward me, sending me flying out of the room toward the stairwell. The Major was at the table now, oblivious to the protests of his daughter.
I prepared a bottle, lifted Elizabeth, and before I returned to the dining room to feed her I told the Major about Adeline’s current mood.
He gave a stiff nod. I felt like a student who had displeased her teacher.
He stood up from the table, walked through the kitchen and placed a hand on the lower side of the cooling pot. ‘Forty-five minutes more and we will continue,’ he announced, then left. I heard the library door close behind him.
I returned to a Major tetchy with impatience. ‘You’re three minutes late.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘This is alchemy, Santina. It requires precision. I expect deeper understanding from you.’
Together we lifted the oranges out of the cooled liquid, sliced them open and scooped out the pulp and pits into a smaller pan, reserving the peel. To the pulp we added a jug of water and set it on a medium heat for about ten minutes. I held a colander whilst the Major lined it with cheesecloth, placing the cooked pulp into it.
Whilst it cooled in the cloth, dripping into a bowl underneath, we sat at the table and cut the orange peel into thin strips, his eyes darting over my work to make sure each piece was the same length and width. I followed his instructions to gather the corners of the cheesecloth, squeezing the pulpy contents into a tight ball. My hands were sticky with the juice. He handed me a towel to blot them dry and then a large wooden spoon, so I could stir these juices back into the original poaching liquid. He tipped in the peel and placed the lid back on top. As soon as I became aware of the comforting quiet in which we worked, it hardened into an awkward silence, like a tray of boiled sugar crisping into brittle.
‘This, we leave overnight,’ he said.
My eyebrows raised before I could stop them.
‘You had no idea about the importance of time in this process, did you?’
I couldn’t tell whether he was about to castigate or educate. The lines between the two were random, dirty twists of floured dough upon a tired wooden counter.
He took a breath, his eyes softened. ‘O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay, softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence, Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, The faint pang stealest unperceived away.’
This time I was tired enough to let my confusion float around me and hover, lost and soothed in the tone of incomprehensible words.
‘William Lisle Bowles wrote that, Santina. Why do you think we started the process of marmalade?’
We returned to exhausting questions: short, sharp arrows whizzing by my ear.
‘I will tell you why. Because the process is long but finite. It requires attention, stamina and precision. And so does educating oneself in another language. I do not tire easily, and I expect you to be collaborative with your attention. When you returned from your luncheon elsewhere, you were skittish, forgetful, and a little frantic, dare I say it. In this vein you will learn absolutely nothing. Now, I could have chosen a different dish, something we may have eaten right away, like the kedgeree, when we began your education back in the spring, but I didn’t. Language, education, must be savored and labored. But it is a joyful thing. Smell this room, Santina,’ his hand swept through the air, ‘smell the optimistic spray of citrus grown in this very garden beyond the terrace. How can it fail to touch you?’
His words caressed and taunted me. I could tell that he was full of something more than facts alone, but my mind prodded with uncertainty. I offered a tentative smile.
‘Look outside, Santina.’ He placed stiff hands upon my shoulders and twisted me round toward the open wooden doors. The last hands I’d had upon me were my father’s. The memory prickled down my spine to a sting. I felt the weight of his hands upon me, noticing the tips of his thumbs pressing into my shoulder blades. The garden rolled down a steep incline and the trees stretched out their branches in greedy gnarls toward the early autumn rays. Beyond, the sea had begun its descent into dusky purple, Capri’s tip golden in the dipping sun. I wanted to move but daren’t, hating myself for it.
His voice fell toward a whisper; I could feel the breath skim the top of my ear. ‘Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.’
My body softened out of trained fear to the lull of his voice.
‘That is what Aristotle said, and I’m inclined to agree.’ He straightened. ‘Tomorrow,’ he went on, removing his hands, his voice once again crisp, ‘we will heat sugar in the oven upon a tray for ten minutes. Then we will reheat the preserving liquid and add the warmed sugar. When it has all dissolved in the liquid, and not before, we will turn up the heat. We will allow it to reach a rolling boil. We will remove the pan from the burner, allow to cool for thirty minutes, and finally pour into sterilized jars. Then what?’
Another prickle of a question, which required no remedy.
‘Then, Santina, you, Adeline and I may taste the glorious marmalade throughout the winter. And when the fog rolls in once again, and the tiresome visitors have abandoned the streets at last, we will sit and savor the memory of my trees once plump with bounty. Is that clear?’
Of course it wasn’t. He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him.
I breathed in the aroma, the citrus deepening toward a warm caramel now. The setting sun streaked in from behind me, burnishing the tiny kitchen with russet rays. Only a month remained before I left for America. I couldn’t shake the sense that the lessons that remained, like the marmalade of this afternoon, would be nothing besides bittersweet.
The mid-morning sun cast hopeful arcs of light upon the curve of the cobbles as I walked Elizabeth up the hill on her new-found legs. We’d stop