The Last Garden in England(78)

I swiped my handkerchief over my mouth and stood from my floral hiding spot, brushing off my skirts. This too shall pass, I told myself, as I did every day.

“Miss Smith,” a girl’s distant voice called.

I cleared my ragged throat. “I’m here.”

One of the maids I didn’t recognize poked her head through the break in the hedge from the bridal garden. “Miss Smith, Mr. Melcourt’s asked to see you in the drawing room.”

My stomach lurched. He knew.

Stiffly I nodded, tidied my gardening gloves and tools into their wicker basket, and gathered up my skirts to follow the maid to my reckoning.

She showed me to the double drawing room. How fitting that my termination should take place in the same room where I had been hired.

When I looked around, I saw that Mr. Melcourt was not alone. He was standing with a small man with unusually tanned skin, which contrasted sharply against the brilliant white of his shirt.

“Miss Smith. I’m sorry to take you away from your work,” said Mr. Melcourt pleasantly—not at all the tone of a man who was about to dismiss his garden designer.

“Not at all,” I said cautiously.

“May I present Mr. Martin Schoot? The director of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.” Mr. Melcourt smiled at his guest. “He expressed a desire to make your acquaintance.”

The Royal Botanical Heritage Society—a prestigious and pompous organization that refused to admit women to its ranks.

I fought a frown as I said, “Mr. Schoot, you’ll have to forgive me for not shaking hands. I’ve just been in the garden.”

His hand remained outstretched. “A little dirt cannot hurt me, Miss Smith. Quite the contrary. I imagine you are happiest when you are out in nature rather than confined indoors.”

Reluctantly I took his hand.

“I have been corresponding with Mr. Schoot ever since I had the idea to give new life to the gardens at Highbury House,” said Mr. Melcourt.

“I wanted very much to meet the woman behind such a large project,” he said.

“Does it surprise you that a woman should be given charge of a garden like Highbury’s, Mr. Schoot?” I asked.

I’d expected him to react as so many men do when faced with a woman’s thinly veiled scorn—poorly—but instead Mr. Schoot began to laugh. “Well met, Miss Smith. I see from the loose, natural structure of your plantings that you hold William Robinson’s designs in high regard.”

“And Gertrude Jekyll. My father gave me her book Wood and Garden not long before he died,” I said.

“It’s interesting that you mention Miss Jekyll’s work—”

Before Mr. Schoot could finish his thought, Mrs. Melcourt glided in, followed by her brother.

Matthew stumbled over the Turkish carpet when he saw me. His eyes widened, his lips opened, and then he smiled. He smiled. My stomach lurched.

“Miss Smith, you’re not in the garden,” said Mrs. Melcourt.

“I’m to blame. I expressed an interest in meeting Miss Smith, and your husband kindly obliged,” interjected Mr. Schoot.

Mrs. Melcourt’s lips pursed into a tight line before spreading into an imitation smile. “Of course. Has Miss Smith told you what she has done to work a rose or two from my brother Matthew’s collection into the garden?”

A rose or two? The garden was overflowing with Matthew’s roses now, so much so that it was impossible to turn a corner without being confronted with a reminder of him.

Matthew bowed his head. “My contribution is nothing compared to Miss Smith’s creation.”

“Come now, Matthew. You are too modest. My brother is a gifted botanist, you see,” said Mrs. Melcourt.

“My sister flatters me. I’m merely a man whose hobby has taken over his life,” said Matthew good-naturedly.

“No, that’s not right,” I said sharply. All eyes snapped to me. I shouldn’t have said more, but I won’t stand for a man with Matthew’s passion and dedication downplaying his achievements.

“Mr. Goddard has a great talent with breeding roses,” I continued. “He is far more knowledgeable than I am in the intricacies of crossing and grafting them. It has been a pleasure to watch him work.”

I caught Matthew’s smile just as Mrs. Melcourt’s eyes narrowed. “Watch him work?” she asked.

“Miss Smith has visited Wisteria Farm on several occasions to select roses for the garden. And she’s crossed a rose or two herself. I should be harvesting the seeds soon,” said Matthew.

“Several occasions?” Mrs. Melcourt asked with a thin laugh. “I hadn’t realized Miss Smith had taken such an interest.”

“Miss Smith’s opinion is invaluable to me,” said Matthew, his eyes on mine.

A deep, taunting ache ripped through me. I wanted to reach out to him—to have the right to touch him in front of all of these people. It was impossible.

“My dear, perhaps you could ring for tea,” said Mr. Melcourt, breaking the tension in the room with his innocuous request.

His wife nodded. However, before she reached for the bellpull, she called to her brother. “Matthew, you must tell me where to hang this new landscape painting Arthur bought when he was last in London.”

Matthew dipped his head. “Yes, Helen.”