by Julia Kelly
“Miss Smith, may I present my brother, Mr. Matthew Goddard,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“How do you do, Miss Smith,” said Mr. Goddard, taking my hand. It was warm in spite of the frozen temperatures and unexpectedly rough for a gentleman.
“I must confess, Miss Smith,” Mr. Goddard continued, “I came to Highbury House on the hope of meeting you today. I’m a great admirer of your work.”
I jerked back a fraction, breaking our connection. “You are?”
“I visited Longmarsh House last year. The gardens are exquisite,” Mr. Goddard said.
I relaxed a little, remembering Longmarsh and Lady Mallory with affection. A widow with a passion for nature and a difficult property situated high on a hill, Lady Mallory had been my first major patron after my father’s death. The project had been wildly ambitious, requiring building terraces into the hills and creating seven levels of planting. I had made mistakes along the way, as any new designer might, but when I finished, Lady Mallory had declared it her own Hanging Garden of Babylon.
“It is kind of you to say so, sir,” I said.
Mrs. Melcourt glanced between us, as though looking for something. Finally, she said, “That is great praise indeed, Miss Smith. Matthew is a talented botanist and has an eye for these things.”
My stomach dropped. Nothing gives me less pleasure than finding an amateur lurking around one of my commissions. Often he is the gentleman of the house who, having been born into wealth, decides that he should cultivate a hobby. He reads extensively about plants and even tries digging a hole from time to time, but the bulk of the work is given over to his oft-harried gardener. Winter pruning when the wind snaps the skin on your face raw. Digging drainage ditches in the hot sun. Dibbling and planting hundreds of bulbs on hands and knees to create bluebell meadows for April. The gentleman gardener wants no part of it, and so he has no practical knowledge of gardening, no matter how much he insists that his opinions should be taken into consideration.
“Miss Smith is just showing us what she has planned for Highbury, Matthew. You should join us,” said Mr. Melcourt.
Mr. Goddard made a half bow. “I would never want to impose.”
I just managed to keep my smile. “It would be no imposition.”
Mrs. Melcourt called for a maid to fetch everyone’s things. Despite the sun, the February day was bitterly cold, so we bundled up tightly.
On the veranda, I quickly pointed out where the reflecting pool, lime walk, and borders would be. Mr. Goddard listened intently, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He asked a question here and there, but nothing more.
Then we walked down to where the edge of the lawn met the house. “There will be a gate here,” I said, gesturing beyond the kitchen garden, where now only stood a gravel path. “If we step through here, this will be the first of the garden rooms.”
“What is this one’s theme?” Mr. Melcourt asked.
“The tea garden. A gazebo will provide some shelter for you and your guests from the sun or sudden changes in weather.”
For the first time since I began describing the garden, Mrs. Melcourt’s lips curved up. “How thoughtful.” Then her eyes slid to me. “Will there be roses in this garden?”
“I thought to grow them against the pillars of the gazebo,” I said, pointing to the plans I’d brought with us.
“They’ll be Matthew’s roses, of course,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“Helen, I’m sure Miss Smith has her own suppliers.” Mr. Goddard cast me an apologetic smile. “I merely dabble in breeding roses. Please do not feel obligated to change your plans.”
“He’s too modest. I would be very pleased if you were to use Matthew’s roses.” Despite the veneer of politeness, I knew that it was more order than request.
I bristled. The roses I’d planned for the tea garden were a pale pink moss rose variety called ‘Madame Louis Leveque’ that had been developed not a decade ago. They would not be difficult to replace with something similar, but I did not appreciate Mrs. Melcort’s interference.
You must remember that a garden is a collaboration. My father’s long-held advice echoed in my head. It should be the very best of you and your clients, but never forget that it is nature to whom you must defer at all times.
And so, biting back a sigh, I said, “I’m sure we can come to an agreement on a suitable rose for the tea garden.”
“And the others, in the other rooms?” asked Mrs. Melcourt.
“Perhaps you could provide me with an inventory of your stock,” I said, trying my best not to grit my teeth.
Mr. Goddard sent me an apologetic look. “It would be best if you came to look for yourself. Wilmcote is just six miles away.”
“Now that’s settled, what of the other rooms?” Mr. Melcourt said.
I breathed deep, determined to regain control of my plans. “From the tea garden there will be the lovers’ garden done all in vibrant colors with your statue of Eros at the center, then the pastel children’s garden with cherry trees, followed by the all-white bridal garden. After that will be a water garden to encourage contemplation. Mr. Melcourt, I’m given to understand that you are something of a poet?”
He beamed. “I had a volume published just last year.”
Adam researches our clients well, so I already knew this. Still, I mimicked surprise and said, “It may please you to know, then, that I have planned a poet’s garden with nods to many great poets. From there, a sculpture garden to feature your collection, a winter garden, and a lavender walk. At the bottom, a gravel walk lined on the southern side by trees. Beyond those trees, before you come to the lake, will be the ramble. I’ll construct paths and plant it through with spring-blooming bulbs before it gradually fades into the wood, stretching to the lake’s edge and giving way to Highbury House Farm’s fields.”
I watched the three look between the plans and the rather uninspired, repeated boxes of bedding plants and lawn that made up the garden now. I wanted them to see it as I did. To understand what it could be.
“It will be surprising, unexpected.” I glanced at the rings on Mrs. Melcourt’s fingers and the pearl tiepin centered at her husband’s throat. “And impressive. The garden will tell a story that your guests will be able to enjoy over and over again.”
A look passed between husband and wife. Finally, Mr. Melcourt said, “I think you have quite the task ahead of you, Miss Smith. We shall look forward to seeing it come to life.”
• BETH •
21 February 1944
Dearest Beth,
It still feels strange to address you as “dearest,” but I think I’ll come to like it. We have been on the march these past two days, which is why this letter will reach you a few days late. I hope you won’t think I’m neglecting you already.
Even in February the sun sits higher in the sky than it does back home, and I find myself missing the mist of an English winter. So strange to think that just a few weeks ago, the men in my unit and I were all complaining about the sticky mud clinging to our boots during drills. The war is more real than I could ever describe on paper—not that the censors would allow it.
I think every day about the last time we spoke. Maybe I should feel guilt over asking you so abruptly to be my girl, as the American GIs would say. I hadn’t planned to do it over the telephone, but I wanted to hear your voice.
Knowing that you’re at home, waiting for me, gives me the strength to face whatever might be ahead of me in battle.
With all my affection,
Colin
The train shuddered to a stop in Royal Leamington Spa Station, and up and down the line people began to pour out onto the platform. Beth clung to the handrail, doing her best to balance the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and avoid tipping over as she stepped down. When her practical, low-heeled shoes hit the cement, she exhaled.
At last.
The train ride from London had taken twice as long as it should’ve, inconsistent service being a hallmark of wartime travel. And that wasn’t ev
en counting the early-morning leg of her journey up from the agricultural college where she’d done her training. But now, she was almost to Temple Fosse Farm, which would be her home for the foreseeable future.
Rebalancing her bag, she started to make her way down the platform, looking out for Mr. Penworthy. She had no idea what he looked like or if he would be able to single her out from all the other travelers. She should have changed into her uniform in the Marylebone Station loo like her land girl’s manual recommended, except she’d known that this train ride would be the last time she’d wear her own clothes in… well, she didn’t know how long.
Her life was about to become all soil and crops and weather and harvest. She’d heard during her training that the isolation of rural life could be difficult for city girls like her, but she’d spent her childhood on a farm. She was sure it would be like returning home. Besides, in some counties, the land girls arranged dances in neighboring villages and towns on the occasional evening. She hoped Warwickshire would be so well organized.
The crowd on the platform began to thin as people made their way to the station lobby. The wind lifted her brushed-out blond pin curls, and she was patting them back into place when she spotted an older man standing by the waiting room door, woolen flat cap clasped between his hands and olive-green waxed jacket hanging loose from his shoulders. She let her hand fall to the strap of her bag and, swallowing down a bubble of fear, walked straight up to him.
“Mr. Penworthy?” she asked, her voice shaking a little despite her false confidence.
He looked over as a man might examine a cow for sale at market. “You’re the land girl then?”
She nodded. “My name is Elizabeth Pedley.”
“That’s a long name for such a little thing,” he observed.
“My parents called me Beth, and I might be little but I’m strong.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that so? The last girl they sent us wasn’t much to write home about.”
“What happened to her?” she asked.
“Still working the farm. We can’t afford to be too picky. It was Mrs. Penworthy’s idea to get a second girl up.” He passed a hand over his head and stuck his cap on. “It’s best to agree with Mrs. Penworthy when she gets an idea into her head. Come on now. It’ll be dark soon.”
He reached out to take Beth’s bag, but she held on to it, resolute.
He grunted. “Suit yourself.”
Beth followed the farmer down the train station’s steps and out to a horse and cart that was tied up on the gate. “Have you ever ridden in a cart?”
“Not in a long time,” she answered honestly. “My parents owned a farm.”
“They don’t have it anymore?”
“They died.” A beat stretched between them as it so often did when she talked about being an orphan. “I lived with my aunt in town until I turned eighteen and joined the Women’s Land Army.”
“Fuel is kept for farmwork now, so a cart it is,” said Mr. Penworthy.
She nodded, grateful he didn’t offer her any platitudes about being so sorry for her loss.
When Mr. Penworthy let down the gate for her, Beth hauled up her bag into the back of the cart.
“Will you be wanting to ride in the back or up front?” he asked.
“Up front, please.”
“Suit yourself,” he said again.
She climbed up and settled herself in. Mr. Penworthy did the same, and then took up the reins. With a click of his tongue, the horse set off.
If Beth had thought they would talk on this journey to the farm, she was mistaken. The road was rutted, and the February air had a wicked bite to it. She spent half the time trying to stop her teeth from chattering and the rest of it with her hand clamped on her cap to keep it from falling off. By the time Mr. Penworthy turned off the road at a sign with “Temple Fosse Farm” painted on it, her fingers felt as though they were about to fall off.
As soon as the horse and cart slowed, the side door of the farmhouse burst open. “Len Penworthy, what are you doing letting that girl ride all the way from the train station in only that thin coat?” demanded a tall woman with a canvas apron tied around her. “She’ll catch her death.”
“That will be Mrs. Penworthy,” murmured Mr. Penworthy.
Beth’s eyes cut to him, but she was surprised to see no annoyance or weariness in his expression, only affection.
“Now, you must be Miss Pedley,” said Mrs. Penworthy, who bustled up to her.
“Please call me Beth,” she said.
“Beth it is, then.”
The older woman steered her by the shoulders straight into the kitchen. A huge black iron stove emanated warmth from one corner, and an array of vegetables midchop rested on the table. The scent of stew, something rich, wafted up to her, and Beth nearly whimpered. It had been so long since she’d had a good homemade meal.
“You sit right down here, and I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Penworthy.
Her husband made to sit down at the other end of the table, but Mrs. Penworthy threw over her shoulder, “You go tell Ruth that she’s to come meet Beth.”
Mr. Penworthy gave a deep sigh. “I’ll see if she’ll come.”
As soon as he was out of the room, Mrs. Penworthy said, “You mustn’t mind him. Farming isn’t for everyone, and Ruth has had a hard adjustment to it. Still, she might make it easier on herself if she realized she wasn’t in Birmingham anymore.”
“I hope that I find it easier. I’ve lived with my widowed aunt Mildred in Dorking since I was ten.”
If Mrs. Penworthy thought anything of Beth living with her aunt rather than her parents, the farmer’s wife didn’t say anything. Instead, she asked, “And will she not miss you back in Dorking?”
Beth hesitated. “I think she is glad to know that I’m doing my bit in the war.”
“Feeding starving Britain?” came a sharp question. Beth looked up as a woman with an hourglass figure and a cloud of perfect red curls floating around her shoulders walked in. Even with clothing coupons rationing what everyone could buy, this woman was well-dressed in a cream ribbed turtleneck and a tweed skirt. On anyone else, it might have seemed dowdy, but she looked as though she was about to serve her guests a round of drinks after a long day’s hunt.
“Be nice, Ruth,” said Mrs. Penworthy.
Ruth’s eyes cut from the farmer’s wife to Beth and back. Then a smile cracked her face. “I’m only teasing, Mrs. P. I’m Ruth Harper-Greene.”
Beth frowned at Ruth’s double-barreled name. Girls like Ruth usually ended up secretaries or worked on switchboards, where their crisp accents would be best shown off.
She shook Ruth’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Let’s all have a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Penworthy cheerfully. “I’m afraid it’s just chamomile, but needs be in war.”
Mr. Penworthy did not rejoin them until dinner, which, though comprising solely root vegetables, was easily the best meal Beth had had in months. Afterward, Ruth showed Beth to their room.
As soon as the door was closed, Ruth flopped on the bed. “What an absolute bore. I swear that if something interesting doesn’t happen soon, I’ll scream.”
“The Penworthys seem very kind. I’m sure I’ll like it here,” Beth said.
Ruth pushed up on her elbow and shot her an assessing look. “Yes, well, you’ve likely never spent time in London. Or even Birmingham. Warwickshire is something of a disappointment, to say the least.”
Beth pursed her lips and set about unpacking her things.
“Oh, I’ve offended you,” said Ruth, getting up to catch Beth’s line of sight.
“You haven’t offended me,” said Beth. “I’m just happy I’ll be of some use.”
“Yes, well, we all have to be useful, don’t we?” snorted Ruth as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a match.
“Please don’t smoke in here,” said Beth, a little sharper than she’d meant.
&
nbsp; Ruth looked up, the cigarette hanging from her mouth. “The mouse has a bite.”
“I’m not a mouse. And I would appreciate it if you would not smoke in this room.”
“Why not?” Ruth challenged.
“Because my aunt Mildred smokes, and I never could stand it.” Beth turned around fully to face her roommate, her arms crossed over her chest. “We don’t have to like each other, but we do need to bump along together. It would be easier if we agreed upon that from the beginning.”
Silence stretched between them. Not having had much practice, Beth’d never been very good at gauging this sort of interaction. Maybe she’d gone too far. She didn’t want to make an enemy out of her roommate within the first few hours of meeting her. But then Ruth took the cigarette from her lips and slowly slid it back into the packet.
“I’m sorry. I can be a horrible child when I don’t get my way, and these last months, nothing seems to have gone my way,” said Ruth.
“You mean being a land girl?” Beth asked.
Ruth laughed. “You’re not just a pretty face, are you, Bethy?”
“Don’t call me Bethy. It sounds horrid.”
“I hate it here, Beth. I hate the work, and the early hours, and that there’s not a damned thing to do for fun. I hate that I hate it because Mr. and Mrs. Penworthy have been nothing but kind and patient with me, and I’ve been utterly beastly.”
“Why don’t you apply for a transfer? Or become a Wren or a WAAF,” said Beth, even more convinced than ever that the navy or the Royal Air Force’s women’s auxiliaries would suit Ruth far better.
Ruth flopped back onto her bed again. “The Wrens won’t have me because I was kicked out of the ATS.”
Beth couldn’t help it when her eyes flicked to Ruth’s stomach. “Kicked out?”
“Not because I was pregnant or anything like that, you goose,” Ruth laughed. “I drank on base and stole an officer’s car. Thought I’d be able to toddle off down the road and find some fun, but I crashed it into the gate instead. Silly of me, really. After that, none of the auxiliary branches would take me. Becoming a land girl was my very best option out of a lot of rubbish. Conscription waits for no woman.”