Page 24 of To Know Miss May

August’s knees creaked as he stood from where he’d been kneeling near the lavender garden. He’d spent the better part of an hour carefully trimming the overgrown broom bushes near the plants so both could better breathe. Another few months would pass by before the stems of the lavender would reveal their stunning purple flowers, but the broom bush was in full bloom, its small, yellow petals releasing its intoxicating scent of vanilla.

As August straightened further, his back protested at being hunched over for too long. He pressed a hand along his lower spine with a long stretch from side to side. If he was creaking and aching this much at nearly eight and twenty, he’d hate to think how he’d feel gardening in his fifties.

Truthfully, he didn’t need to garden for the rest of his life—nor did he need to garden now. His father’s inheritance would take care of them all if August wanted to laze about for the rest of his days. But then, he had never wished for an idle life.

And of course, if he was granted sights such as what the Mount offered him on the daily, he’d have no trouble being distracted from his aching limbs for the rest of his days, just as he had no trouble being so now.

He drew in a deep breath of the fresh, briny air that always permeated the Mount, then cast his eyes about him. Spring had arrived, and he couldn’t have been happier to be back in time to see his home returning to its full glory.

From where he stood, surrounded by patches of long grasses, dainty bluebells, and white, towering rhododendrons, August could almost convince himself that he stood in the middle of Eden, were it not for the continuous rain that pelted against his flat cap and did its best to penetrate the shoulders of his thick coat.

Behind him, a perfect view of the sea stretched out in unending miles, grey wave after grey wave drawing closer to the Mount, as if pulled by some magical force, futile to resist.

How August knew the feeling.

It was almost May, which meant the bright pink azaleas would soon pop out to show their glorious petals and the pockets of sea pinks would continue to thrive across the edges of the Mount, where not even the fierce winds and battering waves could diminish their stalwart positions.

He stood within the castle’s gardens, situated directly north of the fortress and surrounded with thick, stone walls. Beyond the vibrant camellias and the yellow lichen attached to the grey stone like paint on a canvas, the grand and imposing edifice of the castle towered above him at the highest point on the Mount.

August had been to Marazion often enough to know how large the castle truly was, but from his viewpoint below—with only a small turret pocketed with six windows and two other towers in sight—the stronghold appeared a fourth of its size.

As one of only four undergardeners for the castle and the Mount as a whole, August was one of the privileged few to see such a view, and he would be forever grateful and humbled at that fact.

Aside from the rather gloomy weather, he found nothing at which to complain. Truthfully, not even the rain was giving him grief. How could any moisture dampen his mood when such storms breathed life into the Mount?

After another sweeping glance around him and another satisfied sigh—Eden, indeed—August gathered the spare branches he’d trimmed from the hedgerows that had fallen from his wheelbarrow, piled them back in, then pushed the barrow toward his next trimming task, the gooseberries near the gates.

He hadn’t felt such peace, such harmony, in years, and he knew it was due to once again being on the Mount and doing what he loved to do the most—feeling the earth between his fingers, allowing the scent of the wet soil to saturate his senses, admiring God’s creations that he helped to cultivate and nourish.

Rain clicked against the leaves of the oak tree to the right of the pebbled pathway, the only other sound that marked the air aside from the waves below and the rhythmic creaking of the wheelbarrow’s wood.

August was certain he’d never get used to such peace, such tranquility. He knew he was biased, but honestly, who could ever not love St. Michael’s Mount?

“Moon?”

August looked up in surprise as Mr. May walked toward him, his boots crunching in the gravel as he approached.

August’s thoughts instantly returned to Miss May—where they’d continually drifted all day. Indeed, her striking eyes and small smile had lingered in the back of his mind since the night before.

“Afternoon, sir,” August said. He stopped on the pathway next to Mr. May, still raising the wheelbarrow in his hands.

“Ye be finished with the trimmin’?” Mr. May asked, his eyes settling on the broom bush.

August turned to look at his work, hopeful it met with Mr. May’s satisfaction as he continued his perusal of the yellow blooms.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be ’eaded to the bilberry bushes next to finish off the day.”

Mr. May nodded in silence. August had been quite unsettled going to work that morning, wondering if Mr. May would be upset with August for monopolizing Miss May’s attention the night before. Would he tell August to no longer speak with her because August was so clearly—though not factually—attached to Emma?

And yet, Mr. May had seemed fine all day, instructing August on his many tasks without a hint of derision. Now that he thought of it, though, the man seemed more distracted than usual.

“Did ye get the north section cleared?” Mr. May asked next.

“I did, sir.” That had been his first task of the day. Apparently, Sir John wished for all the fuchsias to be replanted elsewhere to make way for his new cacti collection he’d acquired. The man was quite eclectic in both his private and public life—possessing botanical and geological specimens, restoring the church on the Mount only a few years before, being a lifelong patron of the artist Opie, and…well, fathering fifteen children out of wedlock with two different mistresses.

Despite all of that, August admired the man’s ability to do as he wished—as did many others on the Mount. For it was a dream few could realize themselves.

“Ye be an ’ard worker, Moon,” Mr. May said, drawing August’s mind to the present. “I be grateful to ’ave brought ye on.”