The Last Garden in England(24)

“She’s not wrong,” said Andrew.

“Okay, then. I’d better get started. I’m going to spend some time going through these,” said Emma.

“Do you want a hand?” Andrew asked. “I’m not promising that I’ll know what I’m looking at, but I like systems.”

“Sure,” said Emma.

“Maybe you could help me with a couple of questions about access to the property, Sydney. We’re going to need to bring in a lot of compost to improve the soil,” said Charlie.

“There’s access via the farm road and the gate at the back near the greenhouses. I can show you,” said Sydney.

“Perfect,” said Charlie.

When Sydney and Charlie left, Emma and Andrew settled into a companionable quiet. As Emma began to read through Adam Smith’s letters, she almost forgot Andrew was there. Between the letters and the drawings, it was easy to lose herself.

She was reading a three-page list of plants when Andrew cleared his throat. She looked up. “Did you find something?”

“Not unless you’re interested in the irrigation system installed in the kitchen garden in 1976,” he said.

“Not really.”

“I thought not. No, I just wanted to say, I hope you aren’t too thrown by Sydney’s invitation to the pub quiz.”

“Thrown?” she repeated.

“She wasn’t just being polite about inviting you. She’d be genuinely delighted if you came. If you wanted to.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” she hurried to say.

He laughed. “Trust me, you weren’t rude. Just know that you’re always very welcome.”

For a moment, she considered what it would be like to walk into a village pub and find friendly faces waiting for her. A tiny part of her liked the idea that someone might have a drink ready for her. That she might be a part of something. But that was where danger lay. She didn’t socialize with her clients—even those she liked—because it just made it harder to unpick her temporary life and move on at the end of a job.

“Thank you,” she finally said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”





? VENETIA ?


FRIDAY, 8 MARCH 1907

Highbury House

Rain overnight; overcast

This morning, I borrowed a horse from Mr. Melcourt’s stables and rode to Wilmcote after overseeing the final marking of the lime walk. The trees were delivered yesterday, and I’ve already written to Adam to ask him how he had possibly found thirty-six four-year-old limes in such short order. He will only tease me and remind me that he can work his own magic with paper and a pen.

I will admit that I am finding my employers as challenging as much of their ilk, but not so much that I cannot abide them. I dine with the Melcourts every night unless I beg off with a headache. However, Mrs. Melcourt remains high-handed. Just two days ago, she spent both the soup and fish courses espousing her brother’s virtues.

“Mostly he is a collector, but he sometimes sells plants to a very select group of gardeners, such as Mr. Johnston,” she told me, the diamonds on her fingers glinting in the candlelight as she dipped her silver spoon into broth. “Do you know Mr. Johnston?”

“I don’t have that pleasure,” I said.

“He is a wealthy American who just purchased a house near Chipping Campden, although the rumor is his mother gave him the funds. I can’t imagine how Matthew met him.”

“Has Mr. Goddard ever considered going into the horticultural business?” I asked.

Mrs. Melcourt looked up sharply. “My brother is a gentleman, Miss Smith. He has no interest in trade.”

She did not, I noted, look to her husband, whose fortune had been built on the back of his father’s business acumen that was so shrewd there is a bar of Melcourts Complexion Clearing Soap in my bath back in Wimbledon.

I spent most of my ride to Mr. Goddard’s home this morning thinking about how the younger Mr. Melcourt and his wife seemed intent on washing the newness from their money. I was so engrossed I nearly missed the sign for Wisteria Farm. However, when I looked through the gate, there could be no mistaking I had arrived: a huge wisteria clambered over the front of a two-story farmhouse, ready to explode into leaf and bloom.

“Miss Smith!”

I twisted in the saddle to see Mr. Goddard emerge from a gap in the hedgerow some hundred yards away.

“The entrance to the nursery is just a little further down the road. Shall we walk?”

I let him hold my horse’s reins so I could slide down. We walked the animal to a wide wooden gate that led into a yard lined on two sides with greenhouses, with a barn squared off to the lane. Everywhere I looked were roses. Climbing up the wall around the yard, their bare stems waiting for the spring. In terra-cotta pots large enough to hold three plants at a time. In a border leading to another garden. In the greenhouses, where long rows of plants sported neatly wrapped grafting joins.

“Welcome to my laboratory,” he said with a smile. “It’s a shame it isn’t later in the year so you could see the roses in bloom,” he said.

“The yard alone must be spectacular in June.”

“It is, if I might be so bold. Still, I think there’s something beautiful about a garden in winter,” he said.

“Everything is stripped back and exposed. You can see the structure of the garden,” she said.