The Last Garden in England(6)

“I will,” she promised. She hung up and turned back to her groceries, trying to shake off the creeping doubt that Mum was right.





? VENETIA ?


TUESDAY, 5 FEBRUARY 1907

Highbury House

Sunny; winds out of the east

Each new garden is like an unread book, its pages brimming with possibility. This morning, as I stood on the step to Highbury House, I nearly trembled with excitement. Every garden—every hard-fought commission—feels like a triumph, and I am determined that Highbury House shall be my greatest effort yet.

But I am rushing my story.

I rang the bell, setting a dog off barking somewhere in the house, and waited, tugging at the lapels of my navy wool coat that looked so smart against the white of my shirt. Adam had approved of my appearance before sending me off on the train with a promise that he would look after the house and garden while I was in Warwickshire.

I glanced around, wondering at how stark Highbury House looked stripped of the wreaths and garlands that had merrily hung on doors and windows when I visited in December. Mrs. Melcourt, the lady of the house, was out visiting that day, but Mr. Melcourt spoke to me at length before letting me walk the long lawn and tired beds of a garden so lacking in imagination it saddened me. He purchased the house three years ago and now, having done over all the rooms, he’s turned his attention outside. He commissioned me on the recommendation of several of my past clients whom he no doubt wishes to impress. He wants a garden imbued with elegance and ambition, one that will look as though it has been in the family for years rather than being a new acquisition funded by the recent inheritance of his soap fortune.

The huge front door groaned open, revealing a housekeeper starched into a somber uniform of high-necked black with a chain of keys hanging off her like a medieval chatelaine.

“Good morning,” she intoned, her measured voice laced with Birmingham.

I gripped the cardboard tube of papers I’d carried up from London a little tighter. “Good morning. I am Miss Venetia Smith. I have an appointment with Mr. Melcourt.”

The housekeeper assessed me from the brim of my hat to the toe of my boot. Her mouth thinned sharp as a reed when she spotted the mud I’d acquired performing one last check of my roses that morning.

“I can remove them if you like,” I said archly.

The housekeeper’s back stiffened as though I’d poked her with a hatpin. “That will not be necessary, Miss Smith.”

The woman led me to a double drawing room and gestured to me to wait just outside the door. I could see that the room was undeniably grand, with a half-open set of pocket doors that could divide the hand-tooled wood-paneled walls. At one end, a carved marble fire surround stood watch over a roaring blaze. Overhead, a large chandelier glinted with electric lights in dozens of glass cups, illuminating tapestries and paintings. Yet the grandest ornament of all sat at the center of the room: a tiny blond woman in a white wool day dress belted with a slash of black. Across from her were three children, sitting in a row, their nanny watching over the eldest girl as she read out, “Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing!’?”

“My dear,” said the woman in white, who I presumed was Mrs. Melcourt.

The child stopped at once. From the armchair rose the barrel-chested Mr. Melcourt, wearing a suit of inky black.

“Miss Smith,” the housekeeper announced.

“Thank you, Mrs. Creasley. Please show her in,” said Mrs. Melcourt.

Mrs. Creasley stepped back so I could take her place.

“Miss Smith, I trust your journey was not too difficult,” said Mr. Melcourt with a curt nod of his head.

I watched, fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple bounced against the stiff collar of his shirt. Was every member of the household a prisoner to starch?

“It was very pleasant, thank you,” I said.

“My wife, Mrs. Melcourt,” said Mr. Melcourt.

I gave a shallow curtsy, which Mrs. Melcourt returned with a slight nod. She did not rise.

“Are those the plans?” Mr. Melcourt asked eagerly.

I lifted my cardboard tube. “They are.”

“I trust that corresponding with Mr. Hillock was helpful,” he said.

“He’s a very knowledgeable man.” A good head gardener can be a great asset in executing a new design. Long after I leave Highbury, Mr. Hillock will be charged with maintaining the spirit of my creation.

“Would you like to see the latest drawings?” I asked.

Mr. Melcourt nodded. Mrs. Melcourt managed only a small smile, sent the children away, and rose to join her husband’s side.

As I unrolled my plans on a rosewood table, I studied my employers over my steel-rimmed spectacles. I don’t strictly need them for anything other than detailed sketching, but I’ve found that people vastly underestimate a bespectacled woman, most often to my advantage.

“We will start with the overall vision for the grounds. You told me that you wanted to combine formal and natural styles for a sense of elegance and surprise. The great lawn is your formality.” I pointed to the rectangular shape that represented the long stretch of grass that already existed at Highbury House. “The view from your veranda down to the lakeside is beautiful, but it is missing something to draw the eye. A sense of drama. We will cut stairs into the slope and create a small wall edged with plantings. The stairs will lead down to a wide, shallow reflecting pool and then an uninterrupted stretch of lawn all the way down to the lake.”