The Last Garden in England(50)

He tried to step out to cede the covered space to me, but I waved him away. “I’m already soaked through. There’s no point in you getting wet, too.”

I took the cottage key out of my pocket and unlocked the door. “Given the circumstances, I think we would both do well to dry our boots,” I said over my shoulder.

Mr. Goddard hesitated, but when I began to ease off my boots, he gingerly put his leather bag down and did the same. As he finished, I went to the woodstove to coax the dying embers back to life. When I turned back, I saw that he’d lined his boots up perfectly with mine against the wall. The sight of it rooted me to the spot. Surely I’d seen Adam’s boots lined up next to mine countless times before, but this felt different.

“I could make us tea while you change.”

I gave a start. “I do apologize. I’m forgetting my manners.”

“I should apologize. I’ve barreled into your home without warning. Perhaps I should—”

“No. Please stay. And I will make the tea. This is my house, for a time, even if it sits on Mr. Melcourt’s grounds.” I moved for the door to the small kitchen.

He caught me gently by the elbow, bringing me to a pause in front of him. “Miss Smith, please, allow me. I can assure you, I’m not such a helpless bachelor.”

The warmth of his hand through the wet fabric sent a shiver up my arm. I nodded because I didn’t think I could say anything without my voice trembling.

In the privacy of my bedroom, I peeled off my wet things and hung them on the iron bed frame before dressing again. Everything felt deliciously dry and soft against my skin, from my chemise and stockings to my shirt and skirt. There was no saving my hair—not that it had been much to look at, jammed up under a hat for hours. Instead, I dragged a comb through it and tied it back with a ribbon to keep it off my face. When I finished, I felt like a girl of eighteen again, fresh and hopeful.

The kettle was whistling in the kitchen when I returned. The fire was beginning to chase off the damp of the day, but rather than sit by it, I went to the large table in the center of the room. Across it lay plans, catalogs, and correspondence.

I put on my spectacles and flipped through the plans for the gardens until I reached the detail of the poet’s garden and began noting down an adjustment. A soft clearing of the throat brought me back. Mr. Goddard was standing in front of me, grasping a tea-laden tray with both hands.

“Where shall I put this?” he asked.

I quickly cleared a spot for him. Carefully, he set the tea tray down and drew up a chair.

Automatically, I began to set up cups and handle the strainer. “Do you take milk?”

“Yes, and a lump of sugar, even though Helen thinks it’s terribly childish of me,” he said.

I dropped the lump in for him and passed the cup over. “You should take your tea however you choose.”

“That advice doesn’t surprise me one bit coming from you,” he said, settling back in his chair and crossing his ankle at the knee to rest the teacup on it.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You strike me as the sort of woman who does whatever she’s set her mind to without waiting for anyone else’s opinion.”

I flushed. “That’s not true. The very nature of my work means that I have to take a good number of people’s opinions into account.”

“You forget, Miss Smith, that I’ve watched you charm my sister and her husband.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” I said before I could think to stop myself.

He only laughed. “You’ve seen Helen’s drawing room. Gilded and expensive. If she had her way, we’d be living with French knot gardens à la Louis XIV, with enormous Carrara marble fountains at the end of every sight line. And Arthur… I don’t know that Arthur has a creative bone in his body.”

“Despite his poetry?” I asked.

“You are too kind to his poetry,” he said. “Arthur’s garden would likely be a stretch of lawn with statuary and topiary and nothing else.”

“You forget that I’ve given them a sculpture garden.”

He studied me for a moment. “You have, and I suspect, much like the poet’s garden, you’ve done that because you know indulging their pretentions means that you’ve been able to create exactly what you want otherwise. Did they ask for an all-white garden?”

I smiled into my tea and said softly, “No.”

“Do you know, I’ve been wondering about why you’ve chosen the rooms that you did, and I think I’ve finally figured it out.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Each room represents the life of a woman. The tea garden is where polite company comes to meet, all with the purpose of marrying a girl off. The lovers’ garden speaks for itself, I should think, and the bridal garden is her movement from girl to wife. The children’s garden comes next. I would guess that the lavender walk represents her femininity, and the poet’s garden stands for a different sort of romance than the lovers’ garden.” He sifted through the plans on the table and pulled free the detail of the statue garden. “Aphrodite, Athena, Hera. All of the pieces in the statue garden will be depictions of the female form. Am I right?”

I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. It was a little trick I used sometimes, weaving in a theme to the plantings, but never before had I done anything so blatant. No one had ever noticed before, yet this man had seen right to the heart of it.