The Last Garden in England(51)

“The one thing I don’t understand is how the water and winter gardens fit,” he said.

“I’ve always found water to inspire contemplation and introspection. I meant it to represent a woman’s interior life.”

“And the winter garden?” he asked, leaning in.

“Her death, of course.”

He sat back in his chair, his cup nearly empty now. “I haven’t shown you what I brought you.”

He retrieved a bag stained dark brown with age and rain, and I held my breath when he opened the flap. He pulled out a bundle of muslin and began to unwrap it in his lap. When finally he was done, I could see three plants with their root structures bundled up.

“You brought me hydrangeas,” I breathed.

“Hydrangea aspera Villosa. I overheard you mentioning that you enjoyed them when we visited Hidcote,” he said, handing me one of the plants and taking his seat. “Mr. Johnston was happy to oblige in exchange for the delivery of several ‘Shailer’s White Moss’ he is thinking of planting.”

“You brought me hydrangeas,” I repeated, touching one of the leaves. “Thank you.”

I looked up and found him staring at me with such tenderness, my breath hitched. I’d seen that expression before, between my parents in a quiet moment when they thought no one else was watching. Never before had I thought that anyone would look at me that way, and I knew that I couldn’t turn away from it without answering his unspoken question.

Deliberately, I set down the plant and rounded the table until I stood before him. His eyes never left mine as I reached for his hands. His thumb came to rest on the top of my hand, playing tiny circles over my skin. For a moment, we simply stayed like that and then, slowly, he pulled me down until the back of my thigh brushed the top of his.

“Miss Smith… Venetia…”

His right hand traced up my arm, to my waist. His other hand rose, and he let the pad of his thumb rest against my lower lip.

“I didn’t come here to…” he said, his voice a whisper. “That is…”

I turned my lips into the palm of his hand to kiss his warm skin and whispered, “I know.”

He tilted my chin to kiss me in kind.

It had been years since I had been kissed. I could remember the thrill and fission of passion that accompanied one, but I’d forgotten the comfort. The feeling of someone else’s skin against mine. The surety of a pair of hands holding me in place.

We danced in silence, his hands spreading against my back as I twisted into him, my arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed me urgently enough to bow my back. When my fingers twined in the damp hair at the base of his neck, I thanked God for the rain.

A falling log crashed against the metal of the stove door, jolting us apart. We both laughed at our foolishness, but still the moment was broken. I slid out of his lap, immediately missing the warmth of him and his comforting scent of wet wool.

“Venetia,” he started after a moment.

I sighed. “I understand, Mr. Goddard. You are my employer’s brother, and—”

“I wish you would call me Matthew,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to go back to Mr. Goddard and Miss Smith.”

“But why?” I asked as he donned his still-wet coat and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Because”—he smiled—“I’ve desperately wanted to kiss you since I set eyes on you.”





? BETH ?


5 May 1944

Dearest Beth,

Thank you for your letter. You don’t know how much I miss the farm and hearing what you’re planting helps.

I’ve been a thorn in the side of my commanding officer, but I think I may be able to string together enough leave to make it back home to England soon. I want so badly to see you again.

As soon as I have leave, I’ll come to Warwickshire and find you. I cannot wait.

With all my affection,

Colin



Beth juggled her box of graphite pencils and her precious sketchbook from hand to hand to wipe her palm on her skirt as she stared at Highbury House’s huge iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She was in civilian clothes today—her day off—and she was determined to finally do what she’d been too intimidated to attempt for weeks. Today she would sketch in Mrs. Symonds’s garden.

“You have to come, otherwise she won’t believe I told you,” Stella had said over a cup of thrice-steeped tea the last time Beth had made her delivery rounds to the big house.

“I can’t do that! Mrs. Symonds won’t want to be bothered with the likes of me. You said yourself that she’s a tough one.”

“I don’t know about tough. I can’t figure her out, really. She’s so different than when she first came to Highbury.”

“What was she like then?” Beth asked.

“The very picture of a blushing bride. She let Mr. Symonds arrange everything except for her harp.”

“Harp?”

“She used to play, apparently. Anyway, she watched the men unload it from the back of their van like a hawk. I don’t think she breathed until it was in the music room and set up just so.”

“Now that you mention it, I can’t imagine her playing any other instrument. She’s so grand, a harp suits her,” Beth said.