The Last Garden in England(104)

She let herself through one of the doors and into a sizable sitting room. Light streamed in through leaded glass windows as she turned to take it in. Although there wasn’t a scrap of furniture in the place, she could see how the room might be laid out around the iron fireplace, topped with a wide mantel.

“There’s a snug through there for the winter, and Lord Walford says the dining room and the kitchen are at the back of the house. There are three bedrooms upstairs and a smaller room for a study,” she said.

She turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching her.

“Or a nursery,” he said.

She smiled. “Or a nursery.”

“I want to see the rest of the house, but first, I should tell you something.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “I wrote to my mother asking if you could stay with my parents if you became pregnant before the war ended or if I was dispatched abroad after the war ends. She very bluntly pointed out that you were a new bride and you might not want to live with your mother-in-law in a strange home that you’ve never visited before. She also asked me if I had ever considered how lonely you might be in Colchester, where you know no one. She told me that I was being selfish.”

“Your mother sounds like a woman of strong opinions,” said Beth as neutrally as she could.

“She has a clear sense of what is right and wrong. In this case, I was in the wrong.”

“I could also have told you all of that. In fact, I did,” she said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m going to be apologizing for that for years, I’m sure,” he said sheepishly.

“Not years. Maybe days,” she said.

“I promise I will become better.”

“All I want is for us to make decisions together.” She crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “You promise you’re not angry that I spoke to Lord Walford?”

“How could I be angry at such a resourceful wife?”

They walked from room to room, Beth exclaiming when she found little delightful details. Though modest, someone had put a remarkable amount of thought into its construction. By the time they had walked over each inch of it, including the cool, dry root cellar, she was charmed.

“Could you see us living here? I know it’s not right in Highbury, but we can cycle in,” she said.

“When the petrol ration is lifted, we could save for a car,” he said.

“You’re so certain that the war will be over soon,” she said.

“Things have been changing since D-Day.” He hesitated. “I was going to wait until tonight to tell you this, but I’ve requested that my position with the Pioneer Corps become permanent.”

She sucked in a breath. “You’re not trying to return to your regiment anymore?”

He shook his head. “I put in for a transfer to a posting in London, and my commanding officer seems to think I’ll be approved. I will still need to stay in digs, but I can come up whenever I have leave. It’s possible that the role might continue after the war.”

“Are you certain?” she asked. “You were so set on returning to your men.”

He smiled. “If this transfer goes through, it will mean starting our life together all the sooner.”

She slid her hands down his arms so their fingers interlaced. “I want this house, and I want this life with you.”

“Good. Shall we tell Lord Walford?” he asked.

“Yes, but first…” She tilted her head back and kissed her husband in their future home.





? VENETIA ?


SUNDAY, 3 NOVEMBER 1907

Highbury House

Crisp and sunny

I awoke this morning to the pale autumn sun streaming through the bedroom window. I had neglected to draw the curtains last night, and I could see the corner of one of the greenhouses and yellowing leaves of the ramble. All at once, I missed the smell of the freshness and the crisp, heavy morning air.

Dressing quickly, I swept up my sketchbook and pencil. I knew the Melcourts would be at church, servants in tow. I would use the time to check my final drawings for the winter garden against the physical space. Then I would pack my things.

Outside, the weak sun felt warm when I tilted my head back to sample it. A goldfinch chirped, and leaves whispered as they floated to the earth. Underground I knew that the hundreds of bulbs Mr. Hillock’s men and I had spent hours planting would be beginning their life cycle, emerging from dormancy before the first green stem burst out of the ground in defiance of the winter.

I took my time, enjoying the solitude as I made my way through the sculpture garden with its slow-growing topiaries. I turned the corner to round the hedge between the water and poet’s gardens and walked straight to the winter garden’s gate. They key was in the lock, so I let myself in.

I breathed deep.

Starting on the right edge of the circular garden, I began a slow progression around the space, letting myself dream. Although meant to look its best at the bitterest time of the year, I wanted it to be beautiful in spring, summer, and autumn as well. Mr. Hillock and I had agreed on a climbing rose that would spread over the wall, a tribute to Matthew. Echinops’ silver spikes of leaves would rise up and show off their pale purple flowers in the summer, and by winter they would have died back to perfect pom-poms of seed heads swaying in the wind and scattering their bounty. I made a note with my pencil to ask Mr. Hillock to be sure to leave the seeds for the birds as long as he could.