by Julia Kelly
“It’s been ages since anyone gave me anything home baked. Thank you,” said Emma.
“How have things been progressing? I know I haven’t been around much this week.”
She straightened. They usually had this conversation in the garden, where she could show Sydney and Andrew all that the crew had accomplished.
“We wanted to start on planting the long border two days ago, but the rains have been so heavy, the ground is a mud pit,” she said.
“Good for the garden, bad for the gardener,” said Sydney.
“Something like that. Charlie and Zack spent some time working on the pleached limes. It’s going to be a few years before they look their best, but the heavy prune will pay dividends. Jessa and Vishal have been working on the gazebo.”
“An indoor activity,” said Sydney, pouring tea into the mug in front of Emma and nudging the milk toward her.
“Thanks. Exactly. They’ll do as much as they can until it has to come outside to be constructed.”
“And what about the winter garden?” Sydney asked.
That was the question that had been nagging at the back of Emma’s mind since she’d seen the garden. What was behind that impenetrable wall of brick? What was hidden?
“We’ve cut back the climbing roses where they were jutting out into the rest of the garden. Other than that…” Emma shrugged. “We’ll let it die back and see if it’s any easier to assess a safe way down into the garden without damaging anything valuable.”
“Plants or people,” said Sydney.
Never a huge fan of too much sweet with her tea, Emma took what she intended to be a polite bite of the lemon drizzle cake. Flavor exploded on her tongue, and she looked up sharply at her employer. “This is so much better than I thought it would be.”
Sydney laughed. “Oh, thank you.”
“Sorry, I meant—”
“I’m just teasing,” said Sydney, popping a piece of cake into her mouth. “I only tease people I like.
“I meant to text you yesterday. I’ve found some more photographs of the garden,” Sydney continued.
“When from?” Emma asked, her attention immediately diverted.
“Well, they were tucked away in an old visitors’ book, and all of the entries are addressed to Claudia and John Symonds. I checked the family Bible. Arthur Melcourt died in 1921. The house would have passed to his eldest daughter, Claudia, because his son was killed in World War I. She was married when she inherited, but she divorced her husband, John Symonds, in 1923.”
“You have a family Bible?” Emma asked as she watched Sydney cross the room to a small table.
“On a stand in the library. I don’t think anyone’s touched it in years. It weighs a ton, but all of the family history is written in the front pages.” Sydney held up a yellowed envelope. “Here we are.”
Emma took the envelope and pulled out a series of photographs. Most of them were posed group shots with people standing in various parts of the garden.
“That looks like the shade border, doesn’t it?” Sydney asked, pointing over Emma’s shoulder at the top photograph.
“It does. I was right in thinking that Venetia used astilbe—false goatsbeard—in the shade border. It was something of a signature in her later shaded gardens, but I didn’t see it in the receipts or in her initial plans. It’s possible that she reused existing plants from Highbury’s grounds.”
“Economical,” said Sydney.
She shuffled the photograph behind the others and peered down at a group of women taking tea in a gazebo. “I should show this to Jessa and Vishal. They’ll be happy to know their design doesn’t look far off.” She peered a little closer. “And those look like roses climbing up the posts of the gazebo. Charlie owes me ten pounds. He thought clematis and jasmine; I thought roses. Both were in a plant list on the tea garden’s detail, but Venetia didn’t leave any plans for the borders.”
“So these help?” Sydney asked eagerly.
“They do,” said Emma.
“Good.”
Emma leaned back as best she could on the bar stool. “Can I ask, why are you so intent on restoring the garden as it was? Most people would think it easier to knock everything down and turf it.”
“Shouldn’t your gardener badge be revoked for saying a thing like that?” Sydney teased.
“I’m serious. Most people don’t care.”
Sydney thought for a moment. “Have you ever loved a place so much that it sunk into your bones?”
Emma shook her head. “Ever since I started working, I’ve never stayed in one place long enough.”
“I don’t think it’s necessarily the amount of time you spend somewhere. It’s about a feeling. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love Highbury. Maybe it’s because it’s been in the family for so long. Granddad inherited it from his mother, Diana, when Dad was about ten. Apparently Granddad had always been a little strange, but he only became moodier and more difficult after his mother’s death. My grandparents’ marriage hung on for a couple of years, but finally Grandmama took the kids and left him.
“Dad thinks Granddad was probably depressed, but I guess they didn’t talk about these things back then. Anyway, Dad grew up, and I think he tried his best to have some sort of relationship with Granddad for my sake. Twice a year, Mum and Dad would bundle me off to Highbury for a visit. Each time was awkward, but I still managed to fall in love with this place. It was like a Victorian fairyland to me, even as I got older and could see how shabby it had become. I think it was too much house for Granddad, but he refused to let it go.”
“And you want to bring it back to life,” said Emma.
“It deserves to be filled with people and love and laughter again. And the garden, too.”
Emma picked up the photos. “If you don’t mind, I’ll show these photographs to Charlie, and we’ll incorporate them into our plans. We’ll start planting the garden rooms and borders as soon as the rain eases up.”
“Have you had any luck with Henry?” Sydney asked.
Emma shifted in her seat, thinking about how often she’d checked her phone the week after they’d met. “We talked, but he hasn’t been in touch,” she said. He was a source of information, that was all. But that didn’t explain why she’d started listening to Motown albums since meeting him.
“I’ll talk to him and get a progress report. Or better yet, you could ask him yourself. He’ll be at the pub quiz tomorrow,” said Sydney.
“I—”
“And before you tell me that you’re busy that evening—again—just know that it’s a no-pressure situation. We won’t make you do an initiation rite or anything like that. You can ask Charlie. He came a couple of weeks ago.”
And Charlie showed up to work with a sore head the next day, claiming he’d gotten caught up in a discussion with a philosophy professor from Warwick University and hadn’t noticed the bartender swapping his empties.
Still, Emma returned Sydney’s smile. “I appreciate that, but I’m not sure I’m free.”
“One of these weeks I’m going to catch you in the right mood at the right time, and you’re going to come and love it.”
“One of these weeks,” she echoed. Maybe a little time at the pub would do her good after all.
• BETH •
12 April 1944
Dearest Beth,
You don’t know how much I look forward to your letters. They remind me there’s someone besides Ma and Dad waiting at home for me, praying I return.
The little drawings you’ve done of all of the land girls and the Penworthys are very good. I feel like I almost know them. My favorite is Stella, chasing after the Bosh with a rolling pin. If we had women like that on the front, this war would be won faster.
It’s strange that you’ve met so few of the soldiers at Highbury House, but maybe that’s for the best. I’d like to keep you all for myself.
With all my affection,
Colin
The spring sun shone down str
ong and hot enough that Beth took off her cap as she crossed through the gate of Highbury House Farm. Last week, the farmer here, a Mr. Jones, had called on Mr. Penworthy, asking if he could have loan of her because she knew how to drive a tractor. Her employer had allowed her to go, but with strict stipulations.
“She’s a good one, our Beth. As good as any of the men I’ve had work here,” she’d overheard Mr. Penworthy say from around the corner of the barn where she was scrubbing mud off the tractor. “I won’t like it if I hear any word about her being mistreated.”
Beth’s heart had swelled twice its size, and she’d smiled brightly the next time she’d seen Mr. Penworthy, causing him to mutter something about cheerful girls.
Apparently she was not the only one on loan that day. In Mr. Jones’s farmyard, she saw a dozen land girls in a semicircle. She hurried to the edge and nodded hello to Christine and Anne from the dairy farm in Combrook and Alice, a girl who’d just turned eighteen and had come to help with the sheep in Alderminster. She’d seen them last at a country dance at the end of March, each one dressed in their best, imitation stocking seams drawn up the back of their calves with eye pencil and lips coated in the precious lipstick they saved for when the men from RAF Wellesbourne Mountford were allowed off the air base. Now these same girls were scrubbed clean, dressed in bulky green sweaters and loose-fitting, durable trousers. Without their makeup and with their hair pulled back, they all looked startlingly young, but, Beth supposed, that was because they were.
“Welcome to Highbury House Farm, ladies,” said Mr. Jones, casting a skeptical eye over each of them. “I don’t know what it’s like on your farms, but I want to make it clear that I won’t tolerate any whinging here. If you can’t do the work, I’ll send you back. Is that clear?”
“And what work will we be doing?” a strapping girl with a crooked grin asked. The posh cut to her vowels drew some looks, and even Beth cast her an extra glance. Yet this girl leaned forward as she spoke as though she couldn’t wait to get stuck in.
Mr. Jones grunted. “Clearing land at the big house. We have a week to prepare and plant it.”
Beth’s heart sank at the idea of all that beauty sacrificed to the war effort. Each time she made her deliveries for Mr. Penworthy, she risked a little peek at the garden. She didn’t dare go as far as the lake because of the risk of being spotted by the hospital or household staff, but she loved the garden rooms with their surprising little nooks and crannies. She’d asked Stella about them, but her friend said she had far too much to do every day to spend time in the garden.
“Which of you can drive?” Mr. Jones asked. Beth and Christine put their hands up. “You’ll find the keys in the ignition. The rest of you can walk.”
Beth walked over to one of the two tractors and climbed up into the cab.
“Mind if I join you?” called a voice from the other side.
Beth peered over the seat and saw the posh woman staring at her, hands on her hips. “Climb up.”
The woman hauled herself up as Beth pressed the clutch and turned over the ignition. The tractor roared to life.
“Been driving for long?” her companion asked.
“Two or three months,” she said.
The other women shrugged. “That’s good enough for me. I’m Petunia Brayley-Hawthorn.” Beth started, and Petunia laughed. “Horrid name, I know, but it’s better than what Mummy calls me.”
Beth couldn’t resist asking, “What is that?”
Petunia made a face. “Petal.”
She laughed. “You’re right. Petunia is better. I’m Beth Pedley.”
Mr. Jones shouted over to them, “I’m not paying you to socialize, ladies!”
“He’s not paying us at all, rotten man. The government is,” said Petunia matter-of-factly.
Beth bit her lip, fighting a grin.
Highbury House Farm was, unsurprisingly, the next property over from Highbury House, as it had once belonged to the manor. However, “next door” in the country meant something very different from “next door” in town, and the slow-moving tractor took a good ten minutes to arrive at the fields that edged Highbury House’s land.
All of that time gave Beth a chance to learn that Petunia wasn’t posh. She was a bona fide blue blood—the daughter of a baron’s second son who had taken a modest inheritance from a beloved aunt and grown it to an incredible size.
“Papa was in banking before the war, but he works for the treasury doing something now. War bonds, probably. Mummy used to sit on the board of several charities, but she pivoted to war work as soon as Germany invaded Poland,” said Petunia.
“How did you become a land girl?” Beth asked, steering toward the greenhouses at the property line.
“Do you mean why this and not the Wrens?” Petunia laughed.
Beth blushed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the navy’s service is—”
“Where all the toffs like me end up,” Petunia finished with a kind smile. “I like being outside.”
Beth’s mind immediately conjured up images of Petunia in a red jacket and jodhpurs, jumping over streams in a hunt.
“And not just riding and hunting,” Petunia said, as though reading Beth’s mind. “I fish, row, camp, hike. My brothers are to blame for that.”
“How many brothers do you have?” Beth asked.
“Three, and they’re each as infuriating and wonderful as the others.”
“I wish I’d had a brother. Or a sister,” said Beth. Things might have turned out differently if that was the case. Her parents would have still died, and she still would have gone to live with Aunt Mildred, but maybe she wouldn’t have been quite so lonely.
Petunia was happily nattering away. “If I’m out of doors, I’m happy. Being a land girl seemed like the best way to make sure I could stay outside and still do my service. I think it gave Daddy a moment of pause, but Mummy is just happy I’m out of her way.”
They broke through the tree line, and Petunia gasped.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Beth asked, a strange sense of pride filling her chest as she gazed out over the view from the edge of the lake up to the house. “I think it might be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“It seems a shame to tear it all up for broad beans or whatever they’ll put in here,” said Petunia.
They stopped behind the other tractor, and Beth killed the ignition. A few patients in bath chairs or using crutches slowly walked the grounds closer to the house, and Beth could feel their eyes on her. They were curious looks—not hostile—and she could understand why. They didn’t see women driving huge tractors every day.
She started to climb down from the cab when a man’s outstretched hand, an exposed shirt cuff, no jacket, appeared. She looked over her shoulder and found Captain Hastings grinning up at her.
“You look as though you have the matter well in hand, but I thought I would give my assistance. Just in case,” he said.
Her work at Temple Fosse Farm had kept her in the barn and out of the fields, so it had been a solid week since they’d last spoken, and she found herself surprised at how pleased she was to see him. Pleased and… a little bit guilty because the last time she’d written to Colin she’d reassured him that she hardly spoke to any of the injured soldiers at Highbury House.
But when she returned Captain Hastings’s grin, she couldn’t help the little tug of attraction low in her stomach. She took his hand, even though she was fully capable of jumping down herself. When she hit the ground, however, he winced.
“I’ve hurt your shoulder,” she said.
“It’s nothing.”
“Captain Hastings.”
“The day I let a pesky injury dampen my gallantry, I shall have to give up, Miss Pedley,” he said.
“Well, we can’t have that. Petunia,” she said, turning to her new friend, “this is Captain Hastings. He sometimes walks out along Mr. Penworthy’s fields and stops for a chat.”
“Lovely name,” he said.
> Petunia looked him up and down and then laughed. “It’s a terrible name, but it’s mine.”
“What brings the land girls to Highbury House today?” he asked.
Beth sobered. “We’re to tear up the gardens.”
His brows shot up. “Really?”
“The land has been requisitioned,” said Petunia.
She frowned. “You seem surprised.”
He used his good hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Not surprised, per se. It’s only that I saw Mrs. Symonds this morning after she returned from London. She mentioned wanting to spend some time in the garden this afternoon after helping some of the men with their letters home.”
Beth’s brow furrowed. “Landowners are supposed to receive a notice that their land has been requisitioned, aren’t they?”
“They are,” said Captain Hastings.
“What if Mr. Jones is wrong? What if he’s overstepping his bounds? Mrs. Symonds needs to know,” she said in a rush, her thoughts racing. But she couldn’t slow down. If there was a chance to preserve this beautiful place for just a little longer, she had to try.
“Thank you, Captain Hastings.” Beth turned to Petunia. “Do your best to stall Mr. Jones. Ask lots of questions. Be a pest.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult for me. Where are you going?” Petunia called after her.
“To find Mrs. Symonds!”
* * *
Beth couldn’t just burst into Highbury House demanding to see the lady of the manor. Mrs. Symonds didn’t know her from Adam.
But one person did.
When Beth flung the kitchen door open, Stella swung around and a wooden spoon clattered to the counter next to her. The cook pressed a hand to her heart. “Goodness me, I thought we were being invaded.”
Beth gasped for breath. “You are. We need to find Mrs. Symonds right now.”
“Mrs. Symonds?”
“Where is she? I have to talk to her.”
“You haven’t even met her.”
“Stella!” she cried. “The land girls are here to tear apart Mrs. Symonds’s garden.”
Stella whipped off her apron so fast it tugged her scarf off her hair. “Come with me.”