The Last Garden in England(35)

“It’s been ages since anyone gave me anything home baked. Thank you,” said Emma.

“How have things been progressing? I know I haven’t been around much this week.”

She straightened. They usually had this conversation in the garden, where she could show Sydney and Andrew all that the crew had accomplished.

“We wanted to start on planting the long border two days ago, but the rains have been so heavy, the ground is a mud pit,” she said.

“Good for the garden, bad for the gardener,” said Sydney.

“Something like that. Charlie and Zack spent some time working on the pleached limes. It’s going to be a few years before they look their best, but the heavy prune will pay dividends. Jessa and Vishal have been working on the gazebo.”

“An indoor activity,” said Sydney, pouring tea into the mug in front of Emma and nudging the milk toward her.

“Thanks. Exactly. They’ll do as much as they can until it has to come outside to be constructed.”

“And what about the winter garden?” Sydney asked.

That was the question that had been nagging at the back of Emma’s mind since she’d seen the garden. What was behind that impenetrable wall of brick? What was hidden?

“We’ve cut back the climbing roses where they were jutting out into the rest of the garden. Other than that…” Emma shrugged. “We’ll let it die back and see if it’s any easier to assess a safe way down into the garden without damaging anything valuable.”

“Plants or people,” said Sydney.

Never a huge fan of too much sweet with her tea, Emma took what she intended to be a polite bite of the lemon drizzle cake. Flavor exploded on her tongue, and she looked up sharply at her employer. “This is so much better than I thought it would be.”

Sydney laughed. “Oh, thank you.”

“Sorry, I meant—”

“I’m just teasing,” said Sydney, popping a piece of cake into her mouth. “I only tease people I like.

“I meant to text you yesterday. I’ve found some more photographs of the garden,” Sydney continued.

“When from?” Emma asked, her attention immediately diverted.

“Well, they were tucked away in an old visitors’ book, and all of the entries are addressed to Claudia and John Symonds. I checked the family Bible. Arthur Melcourt died in 1921. The house would have passed to his eldest daughter, Claudia, because his son was killed in World War I. She was married when she inherited, but she divorced her husband, John Symonds, in 1923.”

“You have a family Bible?” Emma asked as she watched Sydney cross the room to a small table.

“On a stand in the library. I don’t think anyone’s touched it in years. It weighs a ton, but all of the family history is written in the front pages.” Sydney held up a yellowed envelope. “Here we are.”

Emma took the envelope and pulled out a series of photographs. Most of them were posed group shots with people standing in various parts of the garden.

“That looks like the shade border, doesn’t it?” Sydney asked, pointing over Emma’s shoulder at the top photograph.

“It does. I was right in thinking that Venetia used astilbe—false goatsbeard—in the shade border. It was something of a signature in her later shaded gardens, but I didn’t see it in the receipts or in her initial plans. It’s possible that she reused existing plants from Highbury’s grounds.”

“Economical,” said Sydney.

She shuffled the photograph behind the others and peered down at a group of women taking tea in a gazebo. “I should show this to Jessa and Vishal. They’ll be happy to know their design doesn’t look far off.” She peered a little closer. “And those look like roses climbing up the posts of the gazebo. Charlie owes me ten pounds. He thought clematis and jasmine; I thought roses. Both were in a plant list on the tea garden’s detail, but Venetia didn’t leave any plans for the borders.”

“So these help?” Sydney asked eagerly.

“They do,” said Emma.

“Good.”

Emma leaned back as best she could on the bar stool. “Can I ask, why are you so intent on restoring the garden as it was? Most people would think it easier to knock everything down and turf it.”

“Shouldn’t your gardener badge be revoked for saying a thing like that?” Sydney teased.

“I’m serious. Most people don’t care.”

Sydney thought for a moment. “Have you ever loved a place so much that it sunk into your bones?”

Emma shook her head. “Ever since I started working, I’ve never stayed in one place long enough.”

“I don’t think it’s necessarily the amount of time you spend somewhere. It’s about a feeling. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love Highbury. Maybe it’s because it’s been in the family for so long. Granddad inherited it from his mother, Diana, when Dad was about ten. Apparently Granddad had always been a little strange, but he only became moodier and more difficult after his mother’s death. My grandparents’ marriage hung on for a couple of years, but finally Grandmama took the kids and left him.

“Dad thinks Granddad was probably depressed, but I guess they didn’t talk about these things back then. Anyway, Dad grew up, and I think he tried his best to have some sort of relationship with Granddad for my sake. Twice a year, Mum and Dad would bundle me off to Highbury for a visit. Each time was awkward, but I still managed to fall in love with this place. It was like a Victorian fairyland to me, even as I got older and could see how shabby it had become. I think it was too much house for Granddad, but he refused to let it go.”