The Last Garden in England(73)

That was why, the morning after her conversation with Sydney, she’d shown up at work armed with a pair of coffee cups.

“Here,” she said, thrusting one at him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Coffee,” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “Why?”

“Can’t a friend buy a friend coffee?”

Suspiciously he took the cup. “Did they do the extra pump of hazelnut?”

“Yes. You drink the most frilly drinks,” she said.

“Nothing wrong with a little frill,” he said, opening the top of the disposable cup to let the steam off. He took a sip. “That is good.”

“I’m glad.”

He held up the cup and pointed at the green-and-white logo. “The closest location is a ten-minute drive, and you live within walking distance of your job. Why did you drive twenty minutes to get me coffee?”

She lifted her chin. “Do you ever think about leaving Turning Back Thyme?”

He shrugged. “Sure, all the time.”

“What?” she sputtered.

“Well, last week, you dropped a shovel on me.”

“That was an accident,” she muttered.

“And then there was the time you didn’t tie up my boat properly, and we nearly drifted into a riverbank.”

For that she had no defense other than having had a few Pimm’s on a boat trip with the Turning Back Thyme crew, none of whom should have been lashing boats to docks in their state.

“So you want to leave?” she asked.

“There are times when I think about it. Five years working for the same company is a long time—even with you as my boss. There are projects I’ve wanted to try, but our schedule hasn’t let me.” He paused to sip his coffee. “But I like what we have here. It’s a good little company.”

“It’s not that little,” she grumbled.

He shot her a smile. “What’s with all of the questions? What happened?”

She sighed. “Sydney’s thinking about redoing the kitchen garden. We’re supposed to move up to the Berwick job after this, and I’ve run out of grace period given the delays when we found Venetia’s plans. I can’t squeeze it in.”

“And you don’t do vegetables,” he said, finishing her thought.

“She thought about asking you.”

He cocked his head. “How does she know I’d be interested?”

“I told her you had experience with veg.”

“That’s good of you.”

A long pause stretched between them until finally he said, “I’m not in a rush to leave, Emma. But I’d be a pretty rotten friend if I didn’t level with you that I’m not going to be happy on your crew forever. I’ve other skills.”

“I know you do. I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sure you will.” He lifted his coffee. “Anytime you feel like bribing me to talk again, go right ahead.”





? VENETIA ?


MONDAY, 1 JULY 1907

Highbury House

Hot, dry. This summer will never end.

So many things have happened since I last wrote. I hardly know where to start.

After midday, when the afternoon was thick with heat and laziness, I took the note I’d written Matthew out of my writing box. Being only a passable horsewoman, I decided to walk the distance to our secret hiding place in the hedgerow. It would be good to stretch my legs, which too often are cramped under me as I dig.

As the hot road stretched before me, though, I began to regret my ambition. A dry, grassy scent enveloped me as insects danced in the sunlight. A dairy cow lowed in a field, watching me with disinterest, but most of the herd had sensibly sought the shade of a small group of trees.

It was a relief when I reached the bend in the road where the hedgerow was split by a dying English oak. It would be years before it came down, unless a storm tore it up at the roots, and a kestrel had made her nest in a hollowed-out bit of the trunk far higher than I could reach. However, it was a knot lower down I was after. The casual passerby would never have noticed it, but I could not walk or ride by without eyeing it, for it was my postbox with Matthew.

As I always did, I reached in, hoping for a letter. My fingers touched paper, and when I drew them out I found two notes. I winced. He’d written twice since we’d last seen each other, and I had only just penned my message that morning.

I slid the notes into my left pocket and was just reaching into my right when a voice hailed me.

“Good afternoon, Miss Smith.”

I squeezed my eyes shut tight, knowing that when I turned around, I would find Mrs. Melcourt in the open-topped carriage, her driver, Michaelson, pretending that he was not listening to every single word.

Easing my hand back into my pocket and wrapping my fingers around my handkerchief, I pulled it out and made a show of dabbing my forehead as I turned.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Melcourt,” I said.

The other woman frowned. “Are you quite well?”

“I must confess, I may have misjudged the summer afternoon. I went for a walk, only to find myself overtaken by the heat.”

“There are far more pleasant walks than this road,” said Mrs. Melcourt.

“That is true, but Mr. Hillock’s son, John, said that he spotted a crested cow-wheat not far from here,” I said, the first lie I could think of.