The Last Garden in England(26)

“What do you need for your tea garden?” he asked.

I closed my eyes and envisioned the garden as it would be in five years—ten, even. Densely planted with exuberant but elegant blooms bending their gentle heads. A faint breeze dancing through the air, rustling the lime leaves just a few feet away.

“I think I should like the pale pink color of ‘Alfred de Dalmas’ with the fullness of the blooms of ‘Gloire des Mousseux’,” I said.

“A good choice,” he said, reaching for the paper marked ‘Alfred de Dalmas’. “We’ll use this because the stud usually influences the color of the bloom.”

“Usually?” I asked.

“One can never be certain. Roses are sometimes more fickle than a bored lover.” Red rose high on his cheekbones. “That is to say, ‘Gloire des Mousseux’ is such a richer pink, I would worry that Alfred’s delicateness would be lost.”

He led me out of the greenhouse to the next one, carrying the piece of paper as we went. Whereas the structure we’d just left was full of tables, this one looked like spring had been trapped under glass. Flowering rosebushes grew merrily in terra-cotta pots. Many of them wore brown paper tied up with string.

“Here we are,” he announced when we reached a bush free of paper. Several blooms were just beginning to open and reveal their many bright pink petals. “?‘Gloire des Mousseux’.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“She’s a favorite of mine. Now, if you care to do the honors?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fine-tipped paintbrush, and handed it to me. He showed me how to remove the petals and the stamens before sweeping up the pollen to dab it carefully onto the pistil. Then he dove into his pocket to pull out paper and twine to preserve the integrity of the cross. We repeated it five times with five different blooms before he declared our work done.

“And now, we wait,” he said.

I handed him back the brush. “The only problem is that I don’t have much time to wait. Mrs. Melcourt is already asking about whether the borders on either side of the great lawn will be ready in time for a party next spring.”

“And it will take far longer than that to see if our experiment has worked,” he said. “It’s a good thing, then, that this rose isn’t for them.”

“It isn’t?” I asked.

“If you can make do with planting out ‘Alfred de Dalmas’ in your tea garden, I can supply you. You can think on what you need for the other gardens.”

“?‘Madame Isaac Pereire’ will be perfect for the lovers’ garden,” I said.

“Then you shall have it. And this rose”—he gestured to the flower we’d just crossed—“whatever it might be, will be yours to do with what you wish.”

I found myself strangely touched by his thoughtfulness. “No one has ever made a rose for me before.”

“Think of it as a present—a reminder of your time in Warwickshire.”

A strange emotion lodged in my throat so that I could hardly swallow around it. “Thank you,” I managed.

“It is my pleasure, Miss Smith. Now, shall we venture inside and see what my housekeeper has managed to find for us in the kitchen? I can’t promise it will be more than simple fare.”

“That sounds delightful.”

He offered me his arm. “If you’ll indulge me, I’ll tell you over lunch about an extraordinary gentleman that I met the other day. A Mr. Lawrence Johnston who is intent on turning the fields around his new home into a gardener’s paradise.”

“Your sister mentioned his name. She said that you had supplied him with some roses.”

“Yes, and I was fortunate enough that he showed me his plans. I thought you might find him interesting because he, too, is designing a series of garden rooms,” he said.

“I should very much like to meet him,” I said.

“Then I’ll arrange it,” he said, holding a side door to the house open for me.

Inside, his housekeeper fussed us into a small dining room warmed by a rolling fire. Mr. Goddard and I sat down across from each other—bread, cheese, meats, and pickles between us—and soon were lost in conversation.

I can honestly say that I’ve never had a better meal.





? EMMA ?


The discovery of Venetia’s plans transformed Emma’s project. For two weeks, she had sifted through every relevant piece of paper she could find, taking photographs and notes. The question of who Celeste was nagged at her, but still she worked to adjust her own plans to match Venetia’s. Then came the difficult part—canceling and placing new orders, sourcing large numbers of plants, and figuring out a way to make it all come in on budget and on time for Sydney and Andrew.

Her days weren’t any less stressful as she directed the crew in the necessary work to clear the mess of plants from the garden and prepare the garden rooms to be planted out. She came home every day bone-tired, and more than a few nights, she fell asleep next to her laptop at Bow Cottage’s dining room table.

Finally, one afternoon when everyone seemed to be busy with their respective jobs, Emma set aside her gardening gloves and made the short walk from Highbury House to the farm next door in search of its owner. Her sturdy boots sucked mud with each step she took up the farmhouse’s drive, and deep grooves from tractor tires were half full of standing water. Even now, mist crept under the collars of her waxed jacket and her cream fisherman’s sweater to settle into her bones.