The Last Garden in England

by Julia Kelly

  “And now you’re stuck here,” said Beth.

  “Until I can find someone to marry me, although not even that’s enough. I’ll need to get pregnant, too, before they’ll let me go.”

  “It doesn’t sound like the quickest plan,” Beth said.

  “What about you? Do you have a beau?” Ruth asked.

  “Actually, I do.” How odd that sounded.

  Ruth flipped over on her stomach and grinned. “Oh, do tell.”

  Beth drew in a breath. “His name is Colin. He grew up on the next farm over from my parents. When I moved to Dorking, we began writing to each other. It was silly, really—we were only ten—but eight years later, we’re still writing.”

  Still writing and somehow… sweethearts? She wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. One day, just after Christmas as Beth was waiting for her instructions from the Women’s Land Army, Colin had rung her at her aunt’s house.

  “I’ve been thinking. We like each other, don’t we?” he’d asked.

  “Of course we do. We’ve been friends for ages,” she said with a laugh.

  “Will you be my girl?”

  She’d bobbled the telephone receiver, barely catching it before it crashed to the floor. “What?”

  “Think about it. You’re off to your training soon. I’m being sent to Italy in just a few days. Wouldn’t it be better if we both had someone waiting for us?” he asked.

  “But, Colin, we barely see each other.”

  “But we write. We speak on the telephone sometimes,” he said.

  “But do you actually love me?” she asked.

  “More than any other girl I’ve ever met,” he said. “Besides, who would love a farmer’s son like me except the girl I’ve known all my life?”

  Pity pricked at her conscience. “That’s ridiculous, and you know it, Colin. You’re a good-looking man.”

  But despite her reasoning, by the time she hung up, she somehow had a beau.

  “Do you have a picture?” Ruth asked.

  Beth reached into her case for the sketchbook she’d lain carefully on top of her clothes. From it, she drew a photo of Colin in his uniform, wholesome and still such a stranger to her.

  Ruth scrutinized the photo with such an air of expertise that Beth blushed.

  “Not bad,” Ruth finally announced. “What’s his regiment?”

  “First Battalion, East Surrey Regiment.”

  “Where he is now?”

  “Somewhere in Italy. He can’t say more than that.”

  “It must be nice knowing that there’s a man looking forward to your letters,” said Ruth, a little wistful. “Between the air base and Highbury House, I’m determined to land one.”

  “What’s Highbury House?” she asked.

  “Then they haven’t told you yet?”

  “No.”

  Ruth grinned. “Then I think I’d better let you find out on your own.”

  * * *

  The next morning, she and Ruth both groaned as the alarm on Ruth’s bedside table rang at half past four. By five, they were dressed and finishing breakfast at Mrs. Penworthy’s big kitchen table. At half past five, Mr. Penworthy was giving Beth her first lesson in being a land girl.

  They were spreading slurry on the fields, a messy, smelly job even with the help of the tractor that Mr. Penworthy drove. Halfway through the morning, Beth had muck splattered all over her Women’s Land Army–issued gum boots and halfway up her breeches. She had shed the two wool jumpers and jacket she’d worn out that morning and was down to just a shirt. A blister was forming between her thumb and index finger.

  The strangest thing was, despite all of the discomfort, she loved it. She was outside. Each breath was cold and crisp—if laced with the scent of manure. Her muscles burned, but Mr. Penworthy had let them stop long enough to admire the sunrise coming up over the barren trees at field’s edge. She felt vital and useful for the first time in a long time.

  Ruth, however, was miserable.

  “Can we not stop for elevenses?” Ruth called out.

  Mr. Penworthy frowned from atop his tractor. “Elevenses? It’s half ten.”

  “Soon enough,” grumbled Ruth.

  “We’re nearly done,” said Beth, looking back over the three quarters of a field they’d already raked over.

  Mr. Penworthy tugged at his cap. “There’s another field to do after this one.”

  “Another?” Ruth screeched.

  Beth let out a long breath. “Mr. Penworthy, didn’t Mrs. Penworthy say that she might start painting part of the barn today?”

  The farmer stared down at her for a long moment before nodding. “Off you go, then, Ruth.”

  Ruth dropped her rake and made for the edge of the field as fast as her mud-caked boots could carry her.

  Beth went back to raking, but Mr. Penworthy didn’t start up the tractor again.

  “You’re not tired, then?” he asked.

  She stopped, holding on to the top of her rake. “I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ve ever worked as much in a single day as I have in this one morning.”

  “Will you be wanting to go paint the barn as well?” he asked.

  “If that’s what you need me to do. If you need me to stay here and rake slurry, I’ll stay here and rake slurry.”

  For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Mr. Penworthy smiled. “Up you come, then.”

  “Up?”

  He nodded to the tractor. “You’ll have to learn to drive it at some point. We’ll be planting out beetroot and wheat soon.”

  She was going to learn to drive? Colin wouldn’t believe it, after all of his letters teasing that she’d lost her country ways living in town.

  Excitement sparkled through her as she hauled herself up while Mr. Penworthy moved over for her. She nearly slipped because of the mud on her boots, but made it onto the wide bench seat.

  “Right,” she said, putting her hands on the steering wheel.

  “What have you driven before?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” she said with a grin.

  He let out a breath. “What do they teach you city folk?”

  She laughed in surprise. “Dorking isn’t exactly a city.”

  “Even worse, lass,” he said.

  “Well, I’m learning now.”

  He grunted, then launched into the basics. Ignition, clutch, gas, break, gear shift. He patiently explained how to press down the clutch, shift gears, and get the behemoth machine moving. He made her recite it again and again until the sequence rolled off her tongue smoothly.

  “All right,” he said, sitting back. “Give it a go.”

  Beth sucked in a breath, aware Mr. Penworthy was gripping the edge of his seat. She pressed the clutch firmly to the floor, turned the ignition, put the tractor into gear, and slowly let her foot off the clutch. It gave a great rumbling roar. She jumped back, lifting her foot. The beast of a machine shuddered violently and went quiet.

  “Well, you’ve stalled it.”

  She looked over at the serious, resigned expression on Mr. Penworthy’s face and all at once began to laugh. She laughed and laughed, holding on to her sides. She could hear the farmer’s low, dry chuckle that sounded as though he was blowing dust off his humor.

  “What’s this? Farmer Penworthy laughing along with a land girl? I never thought I’d see the day,” a man called out.

  Beth’s head snapped up to see a large man swathed in the greatcoat of an army officer standing on the edge of the field.

  “Captain Hastings,” bellowed Mr. Penworthy. “Stay there.” He nodded to Beth. “Down you go.”

  She scrambled down the side, landing on two solid feet in the soft earth and manure. The officer watched them as they trekked to the side of the field. It wasn’t until she was half a dozen yards away that she realized why the man seemed so broad. He had only one arm pulled through a sleeve. The other was anchored to his neck by a sling, his coat hanging over it.

  “You have company,” the man said
to Mr. Penworthy as they stopped in front of him.

  “Miss Pedley, this is Captain Hastings,” said Mr. Penworthy.

  “Graeme Hastings, of the Second Battalion, Royal Scots Fusiliers. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Pedley,” said Captain Hastings.

  “And yours, sir,” she said.

  “You must be new?” said Captain Hastings.

  “Yes, I arrived yesterday. Mr. Penworthy was just teaching me to drive the tractor.”

  “And?” Captain Hastings asked.

  “I stalled it on the first go,” she admitted.

  He laughed. “We all do. Don’t believe anyone who says otherwise. You’ll get it.”

  “Aye, I think she will,” said Mr. Penworthy.

  A glow spread through her chest at the praise. She could—would—do this.

  “May I ask what happened to your arm?” Beth said.

  “Oh, this?” he asked, glancing at the bandage as though seeing it for the first time. “Walked into a German bullet. Quite clumsy of me, really.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I take it the doctors set you straight about doing it again?”

  Captain Hastings barked a laugh. “Yes, the nurses scolded me until Tuesday and back. Can’t say I’ll be seeking out a repeat experience. It’s rather shattered my shoulder.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, sobering.

  “Oh, we’ll have none of that. It earned me a very nice convalescence, and the good company of my friend Mr. Penworthy.”

  “Captain Hastings has an interest in farming,” said Mr. Penworthy.

  “Is that so?” Beth asked.

  “Actually I don’t know a thing about it, but I like walking in the fields. There’s nothing like being cooped up inside to make you feel like an invalid, and the doctors seem to approve of the exercise so long as I’m careful.” Captain Hastings turned to Mr. Penworthy. “Will Miss Pedley be taking on your deliveries to the big house?”

  Beth looked at the farmer, whose lips twitched again. “Might be” was all he said.

  “Which big house?” she asked.

  “Highbury House. It’s been requisitioned as a convalescent hospital. They specialize in bones, which is how I ended up there. Now”—Captain Hastings tipped his peaked cap—“I must be going. The sheep are rather put out when I don’t do my rounds in a timely fashion. Farmer Penworthy. Miss Pedley.”

  He rambled off as though he didn’t have a care in the world, bandaged arm or no.

  “He seems like a nice enough man,” she said.

  “Captain Hastings is better than most. I’ll say nothing against the men at Highbury House. They’ve all done their bit for Britain. Still, some of them can be…”

  “Louts?” she offered helpfully.

  He snorted. “Louts will do very well, Miss Pedley.”

  “I will consider myself warned,” she said.

  Mr. Penworthy smiled again. Aunt Mildred wasn’t a cruel woman, but she wasn’t a warm one, either. Beth had had a roof over her head and meals on the table, but little else. No kindness, no approval, no love. Colin had been her one lifeline for so long, and now he was at war. Beth could have sat in the glow of the farmer’s smile for hours.

  “Back to the tractor, then,” said Mr. Penworthy. “You’ll try again until you get it right.”

  And back to the tractor Beth went, but not without casting one last look at the disappearing figure of Captain Graeme Hastings.

  • VENETIA •

  MONDAY, 18 FEBRUARY 1907

  Highbury House

  Raw

  Papa used to tell me that the harsher the day of planting, the more vigorous the bloom. If today’s weather is any indication, the garden at Highbury House will be healthy indeed.

  I arrived at the house yesterday and have already settled myself into the old gardener’s cottage at the southern edge of the property. Mrs. Melcourt offered to give me one of the guest bedrooms in the eastern wing. However, upon learning that the gardener Mr. Hillock lives above the village shop his wife runs, I insisted on the cottage.

  I said that I needed to keep a close eye on the many plants I would propagate from cuttings and seeds here at Highbury. In truth, I’m used to my freedom. I live with Adam, but he leaves me be when I am working.

  This morning, my first day of real work at Highbury House, I bundled up against the weather and ventured out. On my last visit two weeks before, I’d left Mr. Hillock instructions to clear the grounds where the garden rooms will stand. Mr. Hillock’s men have also cut into the lawn to create the borders, and cartloads of earth have been delivered to improve the soil.

  Mr. Hillock met me at the gated entrance to the tea garden. We were discussing the lime trees that would be delivered later that week when I heard a hallo from the veranda. I looked up from under the brim of my wide gardening hat and saw Mr. Goddard wave before he came loping down the steps.

  “You’ve already met the brother, then,” said Mr. Hillock, pushing his felt hat back on his head with a thumb.

  “Yes, when I came from London earlier this month,” I said.

  “He’s a talent for the roses. He brought me a few varieties when Mr. and Mrs. Melcourt bought Highbury House. Said he wanted me to let him know how they got on.”

  “And?”

  Mr. Hillock scrubbed a hand over his whiskered chin and, just before Mr. Goddard came to a halt in front of us, said, “They’re growing like weeds.”

  “Miss Smith, Mr. Hillock. It’s good to see you both. I was just stopping in to see my sister on my way to Warwick for some business, but she isn’t here.” Mr. Goddard looked around him. “You’re making quick progress.”

  “The sooner the architecture of the garden is in place, the sooner I’ll be able to begin directing the planting,” I said.

  “It looks as though you’ve already begun.” He nodded to the heavy leather gloves that were tucked into the pocket of the apron covering my long brown skirt. They were coated in mud, as were my heavy garden boots.

  “There are a few good buddleia growing near the greenhouses. I was pruning them back earlier to make moving them more manageable later,” I said.

  “When will you begin planting?” he asked.

  “April, maybe earlier if the weather is favorable,” I said.

  Mr. Goddard cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for Helen. Half of the time she tells me I’m wasting my time growing roses. The rest of the time she expands upon my horticultural genius.”

  “The relationships between brothers and sisters can be complicated, as my brother Adam would surely agree. I would be happy to do what I can to incorporate some of your roses in my design,” I said.

  He placed a hand to his heart. “It would be a great honor to play a small role in any design of yours, Miss Smith.” Then he bowed and left.

  It wasn’t until hours later, when I was soaking my aching feet in a bath of salts and dried lavender, that I had cause to think of Mr. Goddard again when I heard a sharp rap at my door.

  Hastily I dried my feet and jammed them into a pair of old slippers. I opened the door a crack, peering around.

  A maid stood on the doorstep. She dropped into a curtsy. “Evening, miss.”

  “Hello. What’s your name?” I asked.

  The girl dipped her chin. “I’m Clara, Miss Smith.”

  “Well, Clara, what can I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Melcourt bids you come to dinner. If you wish,” said Clara.

  If I wished. Was it a request or an order? And was the invitation willingly given or prompted by Mr. Melcourt, who seemed more interested in my work at Highbury House than his wife? For, while I might be a gentleman’s daughter, I knew that the lady would not be accustomed to inviting professional women to her table.

  “Please tell Mrs. Melcourt I should be delighted to come to dinner,” I said.

  I moved to close the door when Clara fished a letter out of her neatly pressed pinafore pocket. “Also, this came with the afternoon post, m
iss.”

  I accepted the letter with thanks. She bobbed another curtsy and practically scrambled down the path. I wondered if she would race to the kitchen to tell the other maids of the eccentric woman covered in a day’s worth of dust who was going to dine with the master and mistress that evening.

  I slid my finger under the letter’s seal. The message was written directly onto the back of the paper folded into an envelope.

  Dear Miss Smith,

  I hope you won’t feel it’s impudent of me to invite you to visit my nursery this Friday morning at eleven o’clock. It’s rare that I meet someone who shares my passion for plants, and I should welcome the opportunity to show you my collection.

  Yours,

  Matthew Goddard

  Wisteria Farm, Wilmcote

  I stared at the letter for a moment. Impudent? What could be less impudent than an invitation to view roses?

  I shook my head and set the letter down to go in search of my third-best dress and a pair of shoes fit to be seen.

  • EMMA •

  Emma stood with her hands on her hips, staring at what had once probably been a beautiful trough of water dotted with waterlilies.

  “We’ll need to dig it out entirely, repour, and reline it,” she said.

  “It doesn’t look like there was a water feature,” said Charlie, making a note on his phone.

  She frowned. “I’ve never heard of Venetia using pumped water in her gardens, but without plans—”

  “It’s impossible to know.” Her friend nodded. “Have you got Sydney digging into the family archives?”

  She gave a laugh. “You know me well.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you let an owner off the hook on a restoration.”

  “In the end, it’s their garden. They have to care, too. Come here, I want to show you something.”

  “It would be nice if Sydney could find a long-lost diary and cache of Venetia’s letters,” said Charlie as they set off down the overgrown yew-lined path that formed the top edge of the water garden and the mysterious room next to it.

  “With a neat description of where everything was planted, and why. We can dream.”