The Last Garden in England(28)

“I’m hopeful any sketches might give me some clues,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair. “My sister, Tif, and I cleaned out her house after she died. Tif didn’t take much—she lives in London so she has less than zero space. I ended up with the lot of Nan’s things. I’m sure I have at least a few of her sketchbooks.”

Emma sat up. “Could you dig them out? I hate to take up your time when you’re obviously busy, but…”

He laughed. “But you’re going to anyway. Don’t worry about it. I’m always happy to help Sydney and Andrew.”

“Have you known them long?” she asked.

“About a year since. I would see Sydney’s grandfather, Rob, around a fair bit. He wasn’t a talkative man, but we’d say hello.”

She frowned. “I would have thought you’d known each other longer. Sydney mentioned a pub quiz.”

“Have you been recruited to Menace to Sobriety yet?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the team name. I come along most weeks, although unless the subjects are about farming, classic soul music, or British military history I’m not particularly helpful,” he said.

“I would be gardening, garden writers, historic gardens, so you’ve got a more diverse knowledge base than I do,” she said.

“We need to bribe the quiz master to start gardening. Even out your chances of getting some questions you could ace when you come along.”

“Oh, I’m not coming to the quiz,” she said quickly.

“Why not?”

“It’s not really my thing.”

He cocked his head to one side. “You don’t have to drink, if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t really need to help with the questions, either. The same team wins every week. We never stand a chance.”

“I’m usually exhausted in the evenings.” The excuse sounded as lame as it was.

“I get that. Farming means early hours. If you do ever change your mind, though, you know where to find us,” he said.

She didn’t actually, but since she’d only seen one pub in Highbury so far—the White Lion—she could make a pretty educated guess. Not that she would be going.

Her phone chirped. She glanced at it as a text from Charlie flashed up:

Rosewood’s sent the wrong order. Everything’s got to go back.



“Dammit,” she cursed softly. Any more delays and she was in danger of running so far behind on this project that she’d cut into all of the grace period she’d built into the contract.

“Trouble at work?” Henry asked.

She shoved her phone into her back pocket. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Is the business just you?” he asked.

“Yeah. I started it after I got tired of working for other people.”

He gave a low whistle. “That is impressive going it alone.”

“Thanks, I think,” she said.

He flashed a grin. “It’s a compliment. Want to give me your number? I’ll look around for those sketchbooks this weekend and give you a shout when I find them.”

He grabbed his phone off his desk and held it out. She hesitated. It had been ages since she’d given her number to a man, but they weren’t sitting in a bar or even on the opposite ends of a dating app. This was work.

She tapped in her number, and when he took the phone back, he shot her a quick text.

“Now you can message me if you ever need anything,” he said.

“From a farm?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

“You never know. You might wake up one day and think, ‘I could really use Henry’s hay baler.’?”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks,” she said when she reached the front door of his office.

“Maybe I’ll see you around at the White Lion. It’s tradition to buy new neighbors a drink.”

“Is it?”

“Sure,” he said.

She found herself considering his offer. A simple drink with a nice man who had an easy way about him sounded appealingly novel, but almost immediately she dismissed the idea. Forming bonds with anyone in Highbury would only make it tougher when she inevitably left.

“Maybe sometime,” she said.

Out in the rainy farmyard, she pulled her collar up closer around her neck. Even though the mud clung to her boots harder than ever, she couldn’t help but feel a little lighter.





? BETH ?


19 March 1944

Dearest Beth,

Reading your letters makes me want to be back on the farm again. I’m glad to hear how much you are enjoying your work. It warms this farmer’s heart to know that you’ll soon be as comfortable in the field as anyone.

I have forty-eight hours’ leave coming to me, and I’ll be spending it with Clifton, Macintyre, and Bates. I can’t say yet when I will have enough leave to make the trip back to England. When I do, though, we’ll go anywhere you want: tea, dinner and dancing, whatever. It’s strange to think that it will be our first date.

With all my affection,

Colin



“Now, you’re sure you know where you’re going?” asked Mrs. Penworthy as Beth once again checked the leads on the horse and trap.