The Last Garden in England(94)

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“He will not marry you.”

I swallowed. “I don’t expect him to marry me.”

She nodded. “I’m glad we understand one another. You may recuperate here in the gardener’s cottage until Dr. Irving believes that you are fit for the train journey back to London. I ask that you not contact my brother for the duration of your stay.”

“If he comes here, that will be his choice alone,” I said.

“Matthew will fall in line with my wishes. He always has, because he lives at Mr. Melcourt’s pleasure.”

“He doesn’t want your husband’s money,” I said.

She leaned in. “Then why does he continue to take it?”

I had no reply.

“Perhaps you are right. It is high time that Matthew find himself a bride who will bring a good settlement to the marriage. I will see that it happens by the end of the year. I will also see to it that my husband comes to his senses about this scandal. We cannot dismiss you, as too many people know about your work here. Instead, you will finish any designs remaining and instruct Mr. Hillock on the details he will need in order to complete them himself.”

The horrid woman had come to the same plan to exit Highbury House as I had. Somehow that sank me into an even darker despair.

“Thank you, Mrs. Melcourt,” I said quietly.

She arched a brow. “I’m doing what is necessary to take care of my family. I am protecting my brother from being tricked into marriage by an unsuitable woman.”

Some spirit rose in me. “Unsuitable? I am a gentleman’s daughter, just as you are.”

“We both know that we are not the same, Miss Smith. I have position and wealth such as you could never imagine. You dig in the dirt and play with plants for money,” she said.

“I have talent and artistry.”

“And I have a husband. I hold all of the cards, Miss Smith. Now, I suggest you rest. The sooner you recover, the sooner that we can be rid of one another.”

My fists clenched in the sheets to keep from lashing out with a blow. Instead, I fixed her with a look and said, “Mrs. Melcourt, I can assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure than knowing I never have to see you again.”

I will leave this place, never to see Highbury House again. I risked my livelihood and my life here, and I may pay the consequences for years to come.





? EMMA ?


SEPTEMBER 2021

Emma wiped her palms against the fabric of her black pencil skirt. It had been chilly that morning in Highbury when she’d forsaken her regular gardening clothes and put on the skirt and a thin, three-quarter-length cashmere jumper she’d set out the night before. On went a pair of black patent leather heels—just high enough to have a bit of polish but not so high that she teetered. Now she was glad she’d left her maroon coat in her car. She would be sweltering in it.

As she sat in the reception area of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society’s building, she fiddled with the strap of her handbag. She’d gone back and forth about this interview so many times. If she got the job, it would mean selling Turning Back Thyme and working in an office job for the first time in her life. It would mean stability and security. She would have a regular salary, a bonus, private health care. She’d never have to handle another client and their demands. She could make plans for holidays. She could take holidays—when was the last time she’d done that?

But mostly it would mean less stress. She’d shouldered an entire business on her own for six years. She was exhausted.

But who said you had to do it on your own?

A message from Charlie pinged her phone:

Mulch delivery is short 40 bags. Don’t worry. I already called and sorted it. Enjoy your day off!



She stared at the phone until an older woman in a twin set and buff-colored slacks approached from the elevator bank. “Miss Lovell?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Mr. Rotheby’s assistant, Amy. Will you come with me?”

Emma clicked her phone to silent, slid it into her bag, and followed Amy to her interview.



* * *



Emma pulled up to the small car park on the side of the road in a village called Cropredy and killed the ignition. She opened the back door and sat on the seat to swap her heels for mud-splattered wellies. Then she hid her purse under the driver’s seat, locked up, and set off across the bridge to the canal side.

She walked for about ten minutes over the dusty ground until a familiar yellow-and-blue stern with Darling Mae painted in white came into view.

“Ahoy, Captain!” she called up, shielding her eyes from the low-hanging sun.

Charlie, who was sitting on a deck chair with a glass of wine in his hand, looked down. “Look at you all dressed up. Date?”

“Since when have I been able to keep a date from you?” she asked.

He laughed, the gold light from the sunset catching the highlights of his brown skin as he threw his head back. “Better question: When was the last time you had a date?”

“Oh, thanks. May I come aboard?”

“Can you climb aboard in that skirt?” he asked.

She gave it a try, succeeding on her second attempt after hiking the skirt halfway up her thigh.

“You’re going to have the entire canal gossiping about me by sundown,” he said as she settled into the other deck chair. “Wine?”