The Sea Garden: A Novel

The Sea Garden: A Novel

by Marcia Willett

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781250046345
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication date: 08/12/2014
Pages: 304
Sales rank: 652,296
Product dimensions: 6.10(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.20(d)

About the Author

The Sea Garden is MARCIA WILLETT's fourteenth novel to be published in the U.S. Her novels are available in seventeen countries around the world. She lives in Devon, England.

Read an Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Summer

Journeys: all her life she’s loved journeys. She climbs onto

the train, squeezes her way past other travellers, checking

her ticket against the labels on the seats, and swings her

small case onto the luggage rack. The middle-aged couple

in the opposite seats smile at her as she slides in next to the

window, and she smiles back but hopes they won’t want to

talk to her – not just yet. First she needs to settle into the

feel of the journey, waiting for the sudden jolt as the train

starts to move, experiencing the sensation that the station,

the whole of the city, is slipping away behind her.

As Jess looks out at the people on the platform she

remembers riding in the back of the car as a small child, in

her little seat, heading out to the seaside and, years later,

when she was fetched from boarding school for an exeat

or the holidays, being allowed to sit beside the driver –

usually Mum, because Daddy was away with his regiment.

That childish sense of excitement at the prospect of

travelling is just as fresh today.

Outside the window a girl in her early teens is saying

goodbye to her parents: her small sweet face shows a

mixture of excitement and vulnerability. She is pretending

a bravado she does not quite feel: yes, she tells them, she

has her ticket; yes, she has her mobile. She displays them

again with an exaggerated show of patient resignation that

does not for a moment deceive her parents. Her father

leans to hug her and Jess sees his expression of love and

anxiety, and she is suddenly filled with a familiar sense of

desolation.

It is eight years since her own father was killed on

deployment in Bosnia but the loss is just as great: she

still misses that particular kind of loving anxiety that her

lucky friends take for granted. She misses his humour, his

directness, the deep-down certainty that he was on her

side.

‘Your mum is such a strong woman,’ people tell her. ‘So

brave.’ And yes, Mum is both strong and brave but, when

she married her diplomat lover a year later and moved

to Brussels, Jess knew that the first part of her own life

was finished: childhood was over. Then started the years

of catching the Eurostar to Brussels; of spending holidays

at the smart f lat near the EU buildings which, even now,

doesn’t feel remotely like home. Her mother is involved

in entertaining, international politics, new friends; it’s a

world away from the army and married quarters. Slowly

Jess has learned that she must forge her own way. She

worked hard at school to get a place at Bristol University

to study botany, made new friends; but she missed the

underpinning security of her father’s love, of a sense of

support, of family.

Now that she is older she realizes that part of the joy

of travelling these days is because journeys allow her to

postpone decisions and free her from anxiety about the

future. Just for this time she can put life on hold and exist

wholly in the moment.

At last the train is pulling out of Temple Meads, gathering

speed, and Jess holds her breath; her happy anticipation

returns. She feels as if she is embarking on her most

important journey so far: leaving university, heading for

London and an unrevealed future.

The couple sitting opposite are already unpacking

food – cartons and packages and Tupperware boxes – as

if they fear they might die of starvation between Bristol

and London. Now that she looks at them more closely she

sees a resemblance between them: the pouched cheeks

and round, solid bodies remind her of Tweedledee and

Tweedledum. They spread the feast out on the table between

them and the woman looks questioningly at Jess as

if she is considering offering her sustenance.

Jess feels much too excited to be hungry. She wants to

say: ‘I’ve won an award. A really important one. The David

Porteous’ Botanical Painting Award for Young Artists. I’m

going to London to collect it. Isn’t it amazing?’

But she doesn’t say it lest they think she’s boasting –

or a bit mad. Instead she stares out of the window and

wonders how well she’s done in her finals and what kind

of degree she might get. The Award – she can’t control a

little bounce in her seat at the thought of it – comes with

a cheque for ten thousand pounds.

Everyone – even her mother and stepfather – is really

impressed with this. She regards it as a breathing space, a

chance to see whether she might now pursue a career as

an artist rather than her former plan to teach. Her stepfather,

however, is still of the opinion that she should get

straight on with her teacher training. ‘You can paint in

your spare time,’ he tells her, as if her painting is just a

hobby, something she can do on the side. When she tries

to explain her passion for it he reminds her how Anthony

Trollope wrote all his books after a hard day’s work at the

Post Office. Her stepfather is prosy and didactic, and she

wants to scream at him. Her mother always looks anxious

but rather stern at these times of confrontation, which

happen more frequently since Jess left school, and Jess

knows that she will not be on her side.

‘I think you should listen to him, Jess,’ she says, irritated

by the possibility of argument and the disruption of carefully

managed peace in this very controlled environment.

‘He hasn’t got where he is today . . .’

And Jess listens politely to him – reminded inevitably of

the character in that Reggie Perrin T V programme: ‘Am I

right or am I right!’ – and then does her own thing anyway.

In this case she’s considering taking a year out to

build on this amazing achievement.

Even the sight of Tweedledum and Tweedledee munching

their way steadily through sandwiches, pies and chocolate

snacks doesn’t spoil her absolute joy in this moment. Her

thoughts rest anxiously upon the new dress packed in

the bag on the rack above her head – is it suitable for a

presentation? – and on the telephone conversation she had

with Kate Porteous, David Porteous’ widow. Kate sounded

friendly, enthusiastic about the Award, looking forward to

meeting her, and Jess is grateful for the phone call.

‘Let’s meet up before the presentation,’ Kate suggested.

‘Why don’t we? Or will you be too busy with your family?’

‘No,’ Jess answered, slightly embarrassed. She has no

close family on hand to offer support or encouragement

or share her joy: no siblings or cousins; her only

surviving grandparent lives in Australia. And she doesn’t

want to go into details about Mum being too busy with

some diplomatic function to be able to get over for the

presentation. ‘But two friends from uni will be at the

ceremony.’

‘Great. Look, I’ll give you my address. David’s daughter

kept his studio and she lets me use it when I’m in London.

I was his second wife, you see. When are you planning to

travel? I’m coming up from Cornwall the day before . . .’

They talked for a little longer and so the arrangement

was made. Jess would meet Kate at David’s studio – his

actual studio, where he’d done most of his work – and

then they’d go out for supper and talk about what life was

like with the great artist. It is the icing on the cake. Jess

bites her lip to prevent herself from grinning madly with

sheer pleasure at the prospect of it all.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee are now slaking their

joint thirsts with fizzy drinks in cans; squeezed together,

they perspire and shift uncomfortably. Jess sits back in her

corner and watches the countryside sliding past beyond

the window. The journey has begun.

At much the same time, Kate’s train from Cornwall passes

across the Bolitho Viaduct, and she sees a young woman

and two small boys in the field below. They are standing

in a row, staring upwards, waving furiously at the train.

Seized by an impulse, she leans forward and waves back.

The small boys jump about, waving with both hands, and

she hopes they have seen her and redoubles her efforts.

She sinks back in her seat, aware of the quizzical glance

of the man opposite. He takes a newspaper from his briefcase

and she is relieved. She doesn’t want to get into a

conversation, to explain her actions. Instead her mind

turns to the past, towards picnics and outings when her

twin boys were small: treks over Dartmoor, afternoons

on the beach. In these memories it is always just the three

of them: she and Guy and Giles. Even in the pre-divorce

memories Mark is rarely with them. His submarine would

have been at sea, showing the f lag abroad. Then after the

divorce, years later, when Guy and Giles were at university,

there was David with whom she shared fifteen happy

years between her house on the edge of Tavistock and

David’s studio in London. She met artists, photographers,

actors, enjoyed first nights, private exhibitions, studio

parties: it was a world away from the nav y and married

quarters.

And now Guy and Giles are married with children of

their own, and David is dead – and she is on her way

to London to meet Jess Penhaligon, who has won his

Botanical Painting Award.

‘Not related to the actress?’ asked Kate, to whom the

name sounds familiar, and Jess, sounding puzzled, said

no, there were no actresses in the family so far as she

knew.

It’s rather sad, thinks Kate, that Jess has no family coming

to the ceremony. It was clear that she didn’t want to talk

about this, although when Kate said she was travelling

up from Cornwall Jess said: ‘Cornwall? My father’s family

came from Cornwall. My grandfather was in the nav y. Do

you live there?’

Kate explained that, after David died, she’d sold the

house in Tavistock and had been renting a friend’s cottage

on the north coast of Cornwall for the last three years.

They talked about what it was like to be married to an

artist, and how difficult it was to make a living, and Jess

said proudly – though rather shyly – that she had a new

ambition: to be acknowledged by the Society of Botanical

Artists. Kate smiles to herself as the train speeds towards

Plymouth. It is a huge aspiration, but Jess might just make

it.

As the man opposite turns the pages of his newspaper,

and the refreshment trolley comes clattering along, some-

thing that Jess has said niggles at the back of Kate’s mind.

It keeps niggling whilst she asks for coffee and thinks

about the cottage she’s buying in Tavistock. She has been

persuaded that she should get back into the market while

the prices are low, and she knows it’s sensible, but she’s

not certain she wants the responsibility of buying to let,

and she can’t decide whether she wants to move back to

Tavistock. She likes living on the north coast, on the sea’s

doorstep, and within walking distance of the writer Bruno

Trevannion – landlord, friend, lover.

Her friendship with Bruno has been very important

during these last few years, since David died and Guy

moved to Canada with his little family to work with his

father in his boatyard. She misses Guy and Gemma and

their young boys, worried that their relationship – already

shaky when they moved – might have grown worse with

Gemma so far from home and depending on two such

undemonstrative men for company. Her own marriage

foundered on Mark’s lack of warmth, his detached

indifference and bitter tongue, and though Guy is not

exactly like his father there are enough similarities for

Kate to fear that history might repeat itself.

She sips the coffee, thinks about Jess again. As the

train rumbles its way slowly across Brunel’s iron bridge

Kate gazes down towards the Hamoaze, where little sails

f lit to and fro and the ferry plies between Torpoint and

Devonport. Turning to look the other way, beyond the road

bridge, she sees the familiar imposing façade of Johnnie

Trehearne’s manor house, set on the banks of the Tamar,

and suddenly she makes the connection with the niggling

thought in the back of her mind and Jess Penhaligon.

Kate remembers Jess saying, ‘My father’s family came

from Cornwall. My grandfather was in the nav y,’ and she

wonders if Jess’s grandparents might be Mike and Juliet

Penhaligon. Forty years ago Mike was a submariner, like

Mark, and a favourite with the Trehearnes. Old Dickie

Trehearne was Flag Officer Submarines, back then, and

the parties at the elegant old house above the Tamar were

legendar y.

All the young cadets knew Al and Johnnie Trehearne.

For centuries the Trehearnes had been sailors, traders,

merchantmen, and Dickie and his sons followed in

the tradition by joining the Royal Nav y. When he was

knighted, Dickie threw a wonderful party that spilled out

of the house and into the sea garden. It lasted until the

early dawn. Kate sighs, remembering: such an evening

it had been. Leaning forward to catch another glimpse

of the house, she sees the shadows from her past: young

officers in uniform, girls in long dresses. She feels the

sharp twisting pain of nostalgia; names echo like a roll call

and she murmurs them under her breath: Al and Johnnie

Trehearne, Mike Penhaligon, Freddy Grenvile . . .

On that Saturday of the party, all those years ago, she

travelled up to Plymouth on this same railway line from

Penzance, feeling shy; even awkward. She’d hesitated

about accepting the invitation.

‘Don’t start dithering,’ Cass had warned her. ‘I know

Mark’s not invited but that’s because he’s not part of the

Trehearnes’ in-crowd. So what? You’re not engaged to him

yet. Good grief, you only met him a few weeks ago. Come

and enjoy yourself. They always need extra girls and it’s

a really big party. Dickie Trehearne’s just been promoted

to Flag rank and knighted, and he’s invited loads of young

officers. You’ll adore Johnnie Trehearne. You met him at

the Summer Ball. Remember? Well, anyway, Tom and I

are going and I know you’ll just love it down there on the

Tamar.’

Beautiful, blonde, naughty – Cass was her closest

friend. Five years together at boarding school on the

north Somerset coast had created a strong bond, and both

girls were determined that the friendship would survive

beyond school. Now Cass had met a young naval officer,

Tom Wivenhoe, and was falling in love with him, she was

determined that Kate should be part of the naval scene,

too. It was because of Cass that Kate had been invited to

the Summer Ball at Dartmouth a few weeks earlier – and

now to the Trehearnes’ party.

As she made that summertime journey from St Just,

Kate wondered if Cass was already regretting introducing

her to Mark. Tom and Mark were in the same house at the

Royal Naval College, they both had ambitions to become

submariners, but they weren’t ver y close friends. Mark

was reserved, quiet, a bit of a loner; Tom was extrovert,

noisy, loved a crowd. It was sheer luck for Kate that Mark’s

prospective partner had twisted her ankle and Tom –

egged on by Cass – persuaded Mark that Cass had a very

pretty friend who would be happy to take the poor girl’s

place at short notice.

The Royal Naval College, set high above the river, the

ball gowns, the uniforms, the Royal Marines’ Band playing

on the quarterdeck at sunset: the Summer Ball had

been the most romantic, exciting party Kate had ever been

at; she couldn’t imagine anything being more glorious.

She’d fallen in love at once; with Dartmouth, the river, the

nav y – and with the tall, handsome Mark, who seemed the

embodiment of all these glories.

Perhaps Cass had a point, thought Kate. She and Mark

had exchanged telephone numbers and addresses, and a

meeting was being planned, but she was still free to go

to a party. She was in no way committed to him and it

would be crazy to turn down such an opportunity. Mark

might even be impressed that she’d been invited to such a

popular senior officer’s party. Cass was right: it would be

fun and she’d regret it if she didn’t go.

Yet as she got down from the train, hoping her linen shift

dress wasn’t too crushed and clutching her overnight case,

she was seized again by anxiety. She would know nobody

but Cass – and Tom, just a bit but not very well yet – and

she would be hopelessly out of her depth. She wished she

hadn’t come, even contemplated hopping back into the

safety of the train, and then two young men appeared out

of the bustle of holiday crowds on the platform.

‘Kate,’ called one of them, a fair-haired, rather stocky

young man with a warm smile. ‘It is Kate, isn’t it? We met

at the Summer Ball. Johnnie Trehearne.’ She remembered

him at once and with huge relief took his outstretched hand.

‘And this is my cousin, Fred Grenvile.’ He turned to his taller

companion. ‘You said you’d met Kate at the ball, Fred.’

‘You were with Mark Webster,’ said Fred, shaking her

hand in his turn, giving her an appreciative grin. ‘We all

agreed that he didn’t deser ve you.’

She laughed, suddenly feeling delightfully confident,

and he took her bag and they all went out into the station

car park, where a Hillman Imp waited.

‘My mother’s car,’ Johnnie said rather regretfully,

patting the dented nearside bumper tenderly. ‘But she’s

ver y generous with it. Al pranged it last week and I have

to say she was ver y good about it. But then Al can do no

wrong. Did you meet my big brother, Al?’

He opened the passenger door and Kate slid in; sitting in

the sun-warmed seat, she wondered if she’d met Al. There

had been so many young men, alike in their uniforms, full

of vitality and confidence.

‘Doesn’t matter if you didn’t,’ said Fred, climbing in behind

her, leaning forward. ‘You’ll have your chance in a

minute. He wanted to come to meet you but Johnnie and

I won the toss.’

Instinctively Kate knew that this wasn’t true, that these

two young ones had been detailed off to meet a fairly

unimportant guest coming by train, and her heart was

warmed by his courtesy.

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I remember you and Johnnie but I

don’t remember Al.’

‘A-ha,’ crowed Fred triumphantly, hitting Johnnie’s

shoulder. ‘We’ve scored, Johnnie, my boy. She remembers

us but she doesn’t remember Al. It’s a first. You must be

sure to tell him, Kate, when you meet him. You will, won’t

you? I can’t wait to see his face.’

Kate glanced at Johnnie as he drove out of the car park

and saw that he was smiling too, and she was filled with

an irrational and overwhelming affection for these two;

for Johnnie and Fred.

The train rattles off the bridge and Kate sits back reluctantly

in her seat. The man sitting opposite is watching her

rather anxiously. He raises his newspaper a little higher,

screening himself, and Kate is left to her memories: the

ghosts of her youth and that first party at the Trehearnes’

house on the Tamar.

As the forty-foot yawl Alice sails through the busy waters

towards the two bridges Sophie, sitting in the cockpit,

glances up to watch the train rumbling off the bridge.

Two children are standing at a carriage window, waving,

and quickly, instinctively, Sophie waves back. Johnnie

Trehearne, standing at the helm, smiles.

‘Friends of yours?’ he asks idly.

She laughs. ‘Don’t you remember doing that when you

were little? Waving at trains and lorry drivers and passing

cars? It was always such a thrill if anyone waved back.’

‘If you say so,’ he says agreeably.

They’re heading upriver under power, avoiding a little

group of racing Laser dinghies and a couple of Sunday

sailors who take their boats out only at the weekend or

at holiday time. Johnnie feels the sense of contentment

that he always has out on the river or at sea. That moment

when the anchor is hauled up, the mooring is dropped,

or as the distance widens between boat and quayside,

is when he is happiest. Perhaps, having spent his young

years in the shadow of his older brother – glamorous,

brilliant Al – it was his own way, back then, of experiencing

independence and pride in his abilities. As a child, being

alone in the dinghy – skimming over the water, testing his

skills against the wind and the tide – expanded his self-

esteem and confidence in a way that was never possible if

Al was near.

Today, as they motor up with the tide, Sophie’s presence

adds to his contentment. She is housekeeper, gardener,

chief cook and bottle-washer, companion and ally. A close

friend of his younger daughter, Sophie has been with

them since both girls left university, and now, twenty

years on, she is as dear to him as any other member of

his family.

‘One of Johnnie’s lame ducks’: this is how his mother

referred to her in those early years, when he insisted that

Sophie must be paid a salary for all the work she did.

Yet Johnnie knows how much they owe to Sophie who

has seen them through deaths and births and daily joys

and traumas, with her own off-beat common sense and

philanthropic cheerfulness. She came to them to recover

from an abortion and a broken relationship, and simply

stayed on. It’s a bonus that she loves sailing and is a very

competent sailor. After his darling Meg died, and when his

girls and their families moved abroad – Louisa to Geneva,

Sarah to Germany – he would have been very lonely

without Sophie.

Johnnie wonders if even Sophie knows just how much

he misses his girls and their children. He knows he’s lucky

that they return at regular intervals to invade the house,

sail his boats, and have parties in the sea garden. And here

again, he knows that part of their readiness to travel from

Geneva and Germany is due to the fact that Sophie is here

to plan and organize, and make things comfortable and

easy for them. They often bring friends and their children,

and they continue to celebrate birthdays and Christmases

together here on the Tamar. His throat constricts a little

as he thinks of his sweet, loving Meg; how much she has

missed, and how happy her pretty, clever daughters and

their boisterous, fun-loving children would have made

her.

The tide is sweeping in, carrying them up the wide

reaches of the river where the gulls abandon their feeding

grounds and the tawny rustling marshes are threaded

and crisscrossed with blue rivulets as the water pours into

deep muddy channels.

Sophie glances at her watch. ‘We’ll be in good time for

lunch,’ she says. ‘Rowena will be pleased.’ And a quick

humorous glance goes between them, acknowledging the

tyranny of the older generation.

Johnnie’s mother – Rowena, Lady T, the granny-monster,

depending on who speaks – continues to live with him.

Frail, dominant, ungrateful, she is still a presence to be

reckoned with, but he loves her – as far as she allows any

show of emotion – much as he has always done.

The house, with its spare elegant lines, can be seen

clearly now, set amongst lawns and shrubberies that slope

to the sea garden and the river. The sea garden, created by

one of Johnnie’s ancestors, is built on the foundations of

a quay. Its grassy spaces curl out into the river, bounded

by lavender hedges and, on the seaward edge, by a stone

balustrade. Guarding it, gazing downriver towards the

sea, stands the imposing figurehead of Circe, taken from

an old sailing ship.

Between Circe and The Spaniards, the pub on the

western bank of the Tamar in Cargreen, stretches an

imaginary line. This is the finishing line for many a

race during childhood days: Al and Mike in the Heron,

he and Fred in The Sieve. Johnnie suddenly remembers

that particularly glorious day when, for the first and last

time, he and Fred crossed the line ahead of the Heron,

and brief ly he is a boy again, laughing with Fred as they

paddle The Sieve into the boathouse.

In the end it was Al who gave The Sieve its name. Fred

discovered the boat – an old National 12 lying neglected

behind a shed in Cargreen – while he was helping in the

garden to earn extra pocket money. Its owner had gone to

war in 1942, never to return, and his widow was only too

pleased to allow Fred to take the boat away for nothing.

He consulted with Johnnie, who asked his father for

permission to put the National 12 in their boathouse so

that he and Fred could rebuild it.

It was clear that his father was delighted with their

initiative. He drove them round the head of the river to

Cargreen, loaded the boat onto his trailer, brought it back

and installed it in the boathouse.

It took more than a year to restore her. The boys earned

money where they could, saved their pennies, bought the

timber and other things they needed, and spent all their

spare time working on her. They loved their boat and as

they worked on her they tried out names for her: nothing

seemed quite right.

‘Avocet?’

‘Boring.’

‘Queen of the Tamar?’

‘Pretentious.’

‘Al’s Doom?’

‘You must be kidding.’

One afternoon at tea-time, after a few hours’ work in

the boathouse, Johnnie and Fred wandered up to the sea

garden. Al was there with Mike, and Johnnie called out:

‘She’ll be ready to launch tomorrow. We’ll be taking you

on any time now.’

His father strolled to meet them, carrying his teacup,

smiling at the two younger boys.

‘Good work,’ he said approvingly. ‘We’ll do the job

properly and Mother shall break a bottle of champagne

against the bow in the approved manner.’

Johnnie beamed at him, thrilled at the prospect of an

official launch to honour the hard work he and Fred had

put in. He knew that his father did not quite approve of

the way that Al commandeered the Heron so that nobody

else got a look-in, but this fellow feeling was unspoken

between them, not to be acknowledged. Yet Johnnie was

comforted by their complicity.

‘And after the launch we’ll do sea trials,’ said Fred,

unable to contain his excitement. ‘Just to check her out.’

‘Don’t forget to have the coastguard on standby.’ Al’s

voice was amused, not quite jeering. He lounged on the

grass near his mother, confident of her approval, and she

smiled at his remark. Mike leaned against the balustrade,

grinning. ‘A couple of Jumblies,’ Al continued more contemptuously,

encouraged by his mother’s partisanship,

‘going to sea in a sieve.’

And the name stuck.

‘We beat the old Sieve again today, Mother.’

‘How many times now has The Sieve capsized, Freddy?

Shouldn’t it be in The Guinness Book of Records?’

So Al and Mike teased and mocked the two younger

boys and continue to win their races. This was usually

because they were more focused, more determined – they

were competitive even with each other – whilst Johnnie

and Fred were content simply to enjoy themselves.

And then, on that particularly magic afternoon, The Sieve

beat the Heron; sailing inboard around the windward

buoy, and on to cross that invisible line stretched between

Circe and The Spaniards, ahead of Mike and Al. Johnnie

cheered and saluted Circe as they skimmed past the sea

garden, heading for the boathouse. They dropped the

sails and paddled her in through the big doorway, joyfully

reliving every moment of the race, comparing notes.

They were too busy at first, furling the mainsail, to

notice the grim faces of Al and Mike as they paddled the

Heron into the boathouse behind them. Not for these two

the gracefulness in defeat expected – even demanded –

of Johnnie and Fred. Al snarled at Mike, who snapped

back; they blamed each other, and so bitter were their

recriminations that the pleasure of success was almost

done away with; almost but not quite. Johnnie and

Fred remained quietly exultant, tasting the first sweets

of triumph, and it was then that Johnnie realized the

friendship between Al and Mike was not of the same depth

as the bond that existed between him and Fred. Perhaps it

was then he ceased to env y his older brother.

And now, remembering, Johnnie sees the foreshadowing

of the dangerous quality of that deep rivalr y between Al

and Mike, usually masked by their apparently close-knit

friendship. Here the seeds were sown that f lowered so

disastrously years later, when Mike won the beautiful

Juliet, whom Al desired. Johnnie remembers the four of

them – he and Fred, Al and Mike – sailing home from

another race; the raised voices, the sudden gybe of the

boat and then Mike’s frantic voice: ‘Man overboard!’ and

he and Fred scrambling from their bunks below. They

searched all night but Al’s body was never found.

As he slows the engine and circles the buoy, Johnnie

salutes Circe as he always does, and Sophie goes forward

to pick up the mooring. They are home.

Table of Contents

Contents

Title Page,
Copyright Notice,
Dedication,
Prologue,
Tavistock,
Tamar,
Tavistock,
Tamar,
Tavistock,
Tamar,
Tavistock,
Tamar,
Tavistock,
Tamar,
Tavistock,
Tamar,
Also by Marcia Willett,
Copyright,

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The Sea Garden 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Too many characters with confusing relationships but still enjoyable.