The Last Garden in England(109)

“Hi!”

Emma looked up, squinting against the glare of the overcast day. At the top of the ladder into the garden stood Henry. His hair was, as always, a mess, and he wore his usual crooked smile—the one that made her heart flip.

“Hi. Are you looking for Sydney or Andrew?” she asked.

He came by looking for you. Charlie’s teasing words pinged around in her brain.

“Actually, I’m looking for you.” Henry hitched a long leg over the wall, and she watched him climb down. She was a little disappointed that his T-shirt was covered up by a black cable-knit jumper.

As soon as Henry was off the ladder, he looked around. “This is going to be beautiful.”

“Thanks. It’ll be another full year before you can really start to see things come together, but it’ll get there,” she said.

“I heard that Sydney’s got you re-creating the kitchen garden and doing some work on the orchard,” he said.

She laughed. “I took Charlie on as a business partner, and his first act was to overrule my decision to pass on the kitchen garden. It was a coup.”

“I didn’t take Charlie for a despot, but maybe all he needed was a little taste of power. How are you feeling about the project?”

“It won’t be historically accurate—we’re planting more disease-resistant vegetables, for instance—but it should be fun. Zack and Vishal are measuring for raised beds right now.”

“I saw. Sydney walked me through.” Henry gestured to her spade. “Have you got another one of those?”

She nodded and retrieved the one Charlie had been using earlier. When she passed it over to him, their fingers brushed. Another flip.

“How deep?” Henry asked, seemingly oblivious to what just the thought of seeing him did to her. Or maybe it had always been this way, and she’d just tried her best to ignore it.

“About a foot more,” she said.

He grunted and sank the spade into the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, she did the same on her end of the hole.

“What did you want to see me about?” she asked, tipping her head to keep her ponytail out of her face to watch him.

“I just wanted to see you. It’s been a while, and I wondered where you’d gone. I thought maybe you’d started to think about what you might do after Highbury.”

A smile twitched her lips. “I have another garden job lined up, but I thought I’d keep Bow House for a little while.”

He looked up sharply. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll be working up in Berwick-upon-Tweed, but I’ll commute back on the weekends.”

“What about your nomadic lifestyle?” he asked casually.

“I’ve realized there might be some merits to staying in one place for a while,” she said, thinking about the appointments she already had lined up with a local real estate agent to see properties around Highbury.

“You know, we never did have those welcome-to-the-neighborhood drinks,” Henry said.

She laughed. “We’ve gone to pub quizzes together.”

“Welcome drinks needs to be one-on-one. It’s a rule,” he said.

She drove her spade into the earth again, but this time it didn’t budge.

“You okay there?” he asked.

“I must have hit a taproot or a rock,” she said. But when she wiggled the spade, she heard the scrape of metal against metal. She pointed. “Hand me that trowel, please.”

He did, and she crouched on the ground, bringing up trowels full of dirt.

“Can you work on the other side?” she asked.

Shortening his stroke so as not to hit her, he cut away to expand the hole while she dug around. It took some effort, but in a few minutes they’d exposed the top of a tin box studded with nails.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It’s loose enough over here. I think I can lift it.”

“Got it,” he said.

They both heaved, and the rest of the box broke free from the earth. A padlock hung from a rusted loop.

“Let’s see that trowel?” Henry said.

She handed it over, and he used it to knock the loop clean from the box in a few strokes.

“I know a few historians who would be livid with you right now,” she said.

“Good thing they aren’t here, then, isn’t it?” he asked cheerfully. “Do you want to do the honors?”

She nodded and slowly opened the lid.

Inside was an oil cloth. She lifted it and found dozens of old photographs of a young boy. In some he was alone, but in others he stood with an elegant woman, posed formally for the camera.

“Who’s this?” Henry asked.

“No idea,” she said, lifting one of the pictures.

“We should show this to Sydney,” said Henry, pulling out his phone, dialing, and putting it on speaker. “Hey, Syd?”

“You all right?” Sydney asked.

“You’re going to want to come to the winter garden. Emma and I found something,” he said.

“What is it?” Sydney asked.

“Come and see,” he said.

“Okay, but bring it over the wall. I’m not up to climbing ladders today,” Sydney said.

“Will do.”