The Last Garden in England(25)
“Precisely. Although that also means there’s little to hide a garden’s flaws.”
“How did you come to grow roses?” I asked as we walked into one of the greenhouses, a rush of seductive warmth washing over me.
He passed a hand along the back of his neck and looked around him at the tables filled with lines of plants in various stages of growth. “Like many young men, I had something of a feckless youth. My mother and father always hoped I would amount to something, but I seemed determined to prove that aspiration wrong. I intentionally did little at Cambridge except for irritate my tutors. And one night I was caught in a rather embarrassing state,” he said.
“How embarrassing?” I asked.
“Enough that I’m not certain my sister would approve of my speaking to a young lady about it.”
I raised a brow. “I’m a confirmed spinster of thirty-five, Mr. Goddard.”
“Surely you’re not—That is to say, you don’t look—”
I put the poor man out of his misery with a smile. “Thank you, but I’m quite happy with my age. It is rather liberating. For instance, today I was able to borrow a horse from your brother-in-law and ride it several villages over to visit a gentleman to discuss roses. No blushing debutante could do the same.”
He nodded and then stopped in front of a row of pots to check the place where he’d grafted a scion stem to a rootstock. “This is ‘Souvenir de la Malmaison’. Do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a bourbon rose that throws off exuberant flowers in blushing white that almost seem to overwhelm the bush that they grow on, and the scent… it’s sweeter than perfume.”
“Sweet enough to be a welcome accompaniment as a group of ladies take tea outdoors together?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said with a smile before moving to the table behind us. “Or maybe you’d like a shot of crimson for dramatic effect. ‘Madame Isaac Pereire’ could be just what you need.”
I thought of the lovers’ garden I had planned to create directly to the west of the tea garden. I wanted to shock a visitor walking from the calming, feminine plantings of pale purple heliotrope, light pink echinacea, and creamy peonies into a room almost obscene with color. Rich red roses, deep purple salvia, and the red flowering spikes of persicaria. Banana plants, Japanese maples, dahlias, tulips—I wanted it to make people gasp.
“Maybe it will be easier to start with what I need,” I said, drawing out my notebook from my skirt pocket. It fell open to a bird’s-eye view of the entire garden.
“And what would that be?” he asked, turning the notebook so that he could get a better look. The very edge of his littlest finger brushed the side of my hand. Heat flushed my cheeks, and I cleared my throat.
“I need jewel tones for the lovers’ garden, the palest pinks for the children’s and tea gardens, and pure white for the bridal garden.”
He tapped the page where I’d written “Poet’s Garden” and said, “A clever homage to my brother-in-law’s hobby. I think you’ll find Arthur is always most amenable when he believes the person he’s speaking to fully appreciates his place in the world.”
“Are you not fond of Mr. Melcourt?”
Mr. Goddard laughed. “Quite the contrary, I think he’s the perfect match for my sister. Helen can be one of the most stubborn, determined women I’ve ever met. She has certain ideas of how the world should be, and she finds it very irritating when all of us don’t fall neatly into line.”
“She seems to expect great things from all those around her,” I admitted.
“I will confess that it becomes tiresome sometimes. I’m rather set in my bachelor ways, so I sometimes chaff when I’m summoned to Highbury House for long dinners. I dare say you’ll have seen it for yourself: never a quiet night of cold meats and simple wine at my sister’s table.”
“I have,” I said. “My own life is rather quiet by comparison. My brother, Adam, moved to Wimbledon two years ago when I began to travel more often for my work. We often find ourselves happy to picnic on a second meal of whatever Cook made for lunch rather than sit through an entire five courses.”
“You will find no such concessions to economy or practicality at Highbury. Tell me, Miss Smith, have you ever crossed roses before?” he asked.
“I—I can’t say that I have,” I said, stumbling over the abrupt change in subject. “I’ve crossed other plants. My father used Gregor Mendel’s experiment with pea plants to teach me about recessive and dominant traits.”
“Roses operate in much the same way. Colors, scents, foliage, flowering patterns—all are traits that may be passed down through generations. If you’ll come with me,” he said, gesturing to a glass-and-wood cabinet.
“I’ve been collecting and drying out pollen from various roses I wish to use as the stud.” He unlocked the cabinet with a small key that hung from his watch fob and held open the doors. “Would you care to choose one?”
I peered around him and found myself confronted with dozens of roses stripped of their petals. Each of them sat on a small piece of card, carefully labeled in pencil.
“?‘Souvenir de Madame Auguste Charles’, ‘Alfred de Dalmas’, ‘Shailier’s White Moss’, ‘Gloire des Mousseux’.” I straightened. “I don’t know what to choose.”