The Last Garden in England(13)

He rambled off as though he didn’t have a care in the world, bandaged arm or no.

“He seems like a nice enough man,” she said.

“Captain Hastings is better than most. I’ll say nothing against the men at Highbury House. They’ve all done their bit for Britain. Still, some of them can be…”

“Louts?” she offered helpfully.

He snorted. “Louts will do very well, Miss Pedley.”

“I will consider myself warned,” she said.

Mr. Penworthy smiled again. Aunt Mildred wasn’t a cruel woman, but she wasn’t a warm one, either. Beth had had a roof over her head and meals on the table, but little else. No kindness, no approval, no love. Colin had been her one lifeline for so long, and now he was at war. Beth could have sat in the glow of the farmer’s smile for hours.

“Back to the tractor, then,” said Mr. Penworthy. “You’ll try again until you get it right.”

And back to the tractor Beth went, but not without casting one last look at the disappearing figure of Captain Graeme Hastings.





? VENETIA ?


MONDAY, 18 FEBRUARY 1907

Highbury House

Raw

Papa used to tell me that the harsher the day of planting, the more vigorous the bloom. If today’s weather is any indication, the garden at Highbury House will be healthy indeed.

I arrived at the house yesterday and have already settled myself into the old gardener’s cottage at the southern edge of the property. Mrs. Melcourt offered to give me one of the guest bedrooms in the eastern wing. However, upon learning that the gardener Mr. Hillock lives above the village shop his wife runs, I insisted on the cottage.

I said that I needed to keep a close eye on the many plants I would propagate from cuttings and seeds here at Highbury. In truth, I’m used to my freedom. I live with Adam, but he leaves me be when I am working.

This morning, my first day of real work at Highbury House, I bundled up against the weather and ventured out. On my last visit two weeks before, I’d left Mr. Hillock instructions to clear the grounds where the garden rooms will stand. Mr. Hillock’s men have also cut into the lawn to create the borders, and cartloads of earth have been delivered to improve the soil.

Mr. Hillock met me at the gated entrance to the tea garden. We were discussing the lime trees that would be delivered later that week when I heard a hallo from the veranda. I looked up from under the brim of my wide gardening hat and saw Mr. Goddard wave before he came loping down the steps.

“You’ve already met the brother, then,” said Mr. Hillock, pushing his felt hat back on his head with a thumb.

“Yes, when I came from London earlier this month,” I said.

“He’s a talent for the roses. He brought me a few varieties when Mr. and Mrs. Melcourt bought Highbury House. Said he wanted me to let him know how they got on.”

“And?”

Mr. Hillock scrubbed a hand over his whiskered chin and, just before Mr. Goddard came to a halt in front of us, said, “They’re growing like weeds.”

“Miss Smith, Mr. Hillock. It’s good to see you both. I was just stopping in to see my sister on my way to Warwick for some business, but she isn’t here.” Mr. Goddard looked around him. “You’re making quick progress.”

“The sooner the architecture of the garden is in place, the sooner I’ll be able to begin directing the planting,” I said.

“It looks as though you’ve already begun.” He nodded to the heavy leather gloves that were tucked into the pocket of the apron covering my long brown skirt. They were coated in mud, as were my heavy garden boots.

“There are a few good buddleia growing near the greenhouses. I was pruning them back earlier to make moving them more manageable later,” I said.

“When will you begin planting?” he asked.

“April, maybe earlier if the weather is favorable,” I said.

Mr. Goddard cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for Helen. Half of the time she tells me I’m wasting my time growing roses. The rest of the time she expands upon my horticultural genius.”

“The relationships between brothers and sisters can be complicated, as my brother Adam would surely agree. I would be happy to do what I can to incorporate some of your roses in my design,” I said.

He placed a hand to his heart. “It would be a great honor to play a small role in any design of yours, Miss Smith.” Then he bowed and left.

It wasn’t until hours later, when I was soaking my aching feet in a bath of salts and dried lavender, that I had cause to think of Mr. Goddard again when I heard a sharp rap at my door.

Hastily I dried my feet and jammed them into a pair of old slippers. I opened the door a crack, peering around.

A maid stood on the doorstep. She dropped into a curtsy. “Evening, miss.”

“Hello. What’s your name?” I asked.

The girl dipped her chin. “I’m Clara, Miss Smith.”

“Well, Clara, what can I do for you?”

“Mrs. Melcourt bids you come to dinner. If you wish,” said Clara.

If I wished. Was it a request or an order? And was the invitation willingly given or prompted by Mr. Melcourt, who seemed more interested in my work at Highbury House than his wife? For, while I might be a gentleman’s daughter, I knew that the lady would not be accustomed to inviting professional women to her table.