The Last Garden in England

by Julia Kelly

  “We all have to get along with it,” she said, somehow unable to stop talking now that she’d begun. “I’m no different from my school friend Marcella, who lost her husband in a U-boat attack, or the wife of my cousin, whose plane was reported missing over France.”

  “You may well be right about that, Mrs. Symonds, but remember that you do not have to carry the burden of all of Highbury on your shoulders.”

  She stood abruptly. “I do not need you to tell me what I should or should not do. Good day, Father Devlin.”

  He didn’t protest as she disappeared through the door.

  • VENETIA •

  WEDNESDAY, 3 APRIL 1907

  Highbury House

  Overcast

  Matthew Goddard is proving to be a man of his word. Today he drove to Highbury House to take me to visit Mr. Johnston’s Hidcote Manor.

  My delight at an outing to meet another gardener was dampened by Mrs. Melcourt, who stood at the front door, watching her brother hand me into his old but serviceable gig. Mrs. Melcourt’s mouth pinched as Mr. Goddard climbed up and flicked the reins, and off we went.

  We rode through the Gloucestershire countryside, where the blackthorn and wych elm were blooming in the hedgerow. At Hidcote Manor, we were greeted by a stable hand who held the horse steady while we dismounted. Another man, older and graying at the temples, explained that Mr. Johnston was with his estate manager but would join us shortly if we would like to begin walking the grounds.

  We walked slowly, Mr. Goddard leaving me mostly in silence to study the garden unfolding under Mr. Johnston’s direction. But when he asked questions, they were intelligent, pointed. He may have claimed to lack a creative spirit, but he had an eye and seemed to understand the structure of the new garden.

  Snow was still mounded in the shade thrown from trees lining the fields as we reached the place where the cultivated garden gave way to countryside. A biting wind whipped the hem of my wool coat, and I settled my knitted muffler a little closer around my neck.

  “Are you too cold?” asked Mr. Goddard, a furrow etching in his brow.

  “I’ve weathered worse,” I said with a smile before turning at the crack of a breaking twig behind us.

  “Hullo, Goddard,” called the man in a flat American accent.

  “Johnston.” Mr. Goddard clasped hands with the man before turning to me. “Miss Smith, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Johnston.”

  “The pleasure is mine, sir,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Welcome to Hidcote Manor, Miss Smith.” He seemed impervious to the cold, although his clothing was far too neat for him to have come from gardening, so perhaps he hadn’t had the chance to chill to the bone yet.

  “What you’re building here is beautiful,” I said.

  “It is quite the change from before. Hidcote had a small garden, but what you see was mostly field,” said Mr. Johnston as we began to walk back in the direction of the house. “One day, I hope this area will be a wilderness of sorts. All carefully planned, of course,” he added with a smile.

  “Creating a fantasy of nature is part of the gardener’s role,” I said.

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Johnston. “And you have Goddard, who is more interested in the science of plants than their beauty.”

  “You judge me too harshly,” Mr. Goddard protested good-naturedly. “To study a plant is to understand its beauty fundamentally. Learning how two roses might cross and create something more beautiful and hardier is a revelation.”

  Mr. Johnston turned to me conspiratorially. “You should ask him to show you his greenhouses.”

  “Mr. Goddard has already been kind enough to invite me to Wisteria Farm,” I said.

  Mr. Johnston’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”

  “Miss Smith has taken on the burden of my sister’s request to incorporate some of my roses into her design,” Mr. Goddard said.

  “It’s no burden,” I said quickly. It’s true. I enjoy his company and the way he seems unable to contain his excitement for what fascinates him. Even more, I enjoy his easy manner. He doesn’t treat me as though I’m made of bone china or an oddity playing at being a gardener.

  Whether Mr. Johnston thought anything of this exchange, I couldn’t tell. Instead, he said, “Tell me about your plans for Highbury House.”

  I described the grounds to him, and he smiled when I mentioned the reflecting pool.

  “And the plantings?” he asked.

  “Loose and natural, as though the garden sprung up fully formed out of nowhere,” I said, running my fingers over the broad leaves of a hydrangea. “Highbury’s rooms will all be characterized by a repetition of plants to create borders, but I don’t wish for it to feel too formal. For instance, I would plant this Hydrangea aspera Villosa in the poet’s garden or around the edges of the water garden, where it might receive a little shade. In twenty years, it should cast its own shade. Who knows what might spring up beneath it?”

  “Certain plants that will shoot up like weeds given the right soil,” agreed Mr. Johnston.

  A man waved to Mr. Johnston from nearer to the house.

  “Please excuse me, but I see I’m needed,” said Mr. Johnston. “Please feel free to roam at will. I know you’re in good hands with Goddard, but I hope you’ll find me before you leave.”

  “I’m very happy you brought me here,” I said as Hidcote’s owner walked briskly away.

  “It’s me who should be thanking you, Miss Smith,” Mr. Goddard said as he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.

  I laughed. “What do you have to thank me for? I’ve done nothing.”

  “You’ve given me the one thing I wanted.”

  My breath caught when our eyes met, an intensity I hadn’t seen before in his dark blue eyes. “What is that?”

  “An afternoon with you.”

  “Mr. Goddard—”

  He covered my hand with his, squeezing it gently. “I just wanted you to know. Nothing else. Now, shall we walk back to the house?”

  • EMMA •

  I know, Mum,” said Emma, her phone clutched in her hand so hard her knuckles ached.

  “I just don’t understand. Did you do something wrong?” her mother asked for the third time in ten minutes.

  “Eileen,” Dad said in that tone he always used when Mum was being particularly outrageous.

  “It’s a hiring freeze. They happen all the time,” she said as she turned onto Bridge Street and crossed the Tach Brook, which was running high from the spring rains.

  “Are you upset, Emma?” Dad asked.

  Was she? Her pride was wounded, she couldn’t deny that. And neither could she ignore the temptations of working for a foundation rather than herself: security, benefits, a regular paycheck, time off for holidays. She had none of those things right now, but she did have Turning Back Thyme.

  “Emma?” her father prompted.

  She shifted her canvas bag full of groceries higher on her shoulder. “I’m thinking,” she said.

  “I could phone Bethany,” said Mum. “She’s very high and mighty these days and doesn’t always remember that we grew up on the same block in Croydon, but I think her cousin’s husband plays golf with the executive director at the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.”

  “No thanks, Mum. If they don’t have the budget, it’s not going to help. Besides, I’m months away from finishing the job at Highbury,” she said. And months away from being able to take on more work. If only she could clone herself so that she could work two jobs at the same time…

  A motorcycle sped by, its engine gunning.

  “Where are you?” Dad asked.

  “Just walking home,” she said.

  “Home?” Mum asked.

  “Bow Cottage,” she corrected herself.

  “Good, because for a moment there it sounded like—”

  “Oh, leave her alone, Eileen,” Dad said with a laugh. Emma could imagine him playfully nudging his wife.

  “All I’m saying is
that if you’re going to settle down, make it somewhere near London or Surrey, Emma. Not the Midlands,” said Mum.

  “I’m less than ten miles from the M40, which is a straight shot into London,” she argued. “It could be Inverness, like my last job.”

  “Scotland,” her mother practically gasped. “This is all Charlie’s fault.”

  She rolled her eyes as the shops of Highbury came into view. “Charlie hasn’t lived in Scotland for as long as I’ve known him. Besides, no one is settling down anywhere.”

  “She knows she’s being ridiculous,” said her father, his voice richer now and clearly off speakerphone.

  “I am not!” Emma could hear Mum insist in the background.

  “She is being ridiculous,” Emma said.

  She could hear her father walking through to another room. “It’s just that she remembers what it was like to worry about money. That’s why she pushed you so hard to go to university.”

  “And instead I got my qualifications at the Royal Horticultural Society,” she said, remembering those arguments all too well. “I would have been miserable at university.”

  “I know. Just like I know that your mother means well,” Dad said.

  She sighed. “I know she does.”

  “You’re a good daughter,” he said.

  “You two could come up sometime and see Highbury. You might like it,” she said.

  “I don’t know if your mother would feel more or less worried if that happens.”

  “That would have really bothered me when I was in my early twenties,” she said.

  “And now?” he asked.

  “Now I think that I’m an adult and I can set boundaries, and Mum can respect them.” For the most part.

  “Smart girl,” said Dad.

  At a tap on Emma’s shoulder, she turned around to see Henry dressed in a black T-shirt with Jones & Cropper & Steinberg & Jackson. written on it. He gave her a little wave.

  “Dad? Why don’t I call you back tomorrow? We can talk more about a visit,” she suggested.

  “Anytime, love,” he said.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Henry as she ended the call.

  “I was just catching my parents up on a few things,” she said. “I don’t understand your T-shirt.”

  He looked down. “It’s Booker T. and the M.G.s,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Ah.” She made a mental note to look it up when she got home.

  “Are you close to your parents?” he asked.

  “For the most part, although Mum drives me crazy most of the time. She constantly worries I’m putting my entire life into a company that is on the brink of folding.”

  “Is it?” he asked.

  She huffed a laugh. “No, but she wasn’t exactly thrilled when I told her I was training to be a garden designer. Or a few years later when I decided to start my own business,” she said.

  “What did she think you should do?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Not a clue. She worked as a receptionist for a solicitor for a while, so she was pretty hung up on me becoming a solicitor when I was a teenager.”

  “Children disappointing their parents is practically tradition.”

  “Isn’t farming the same business your father was in?” she asked.

  “Have you ever seen that Monty Python sketch where the playwright father rages at his son for deciding to be a coal miner?”

  “Sure. It spoofs pretty much every novel D. H. Lawrence ever wrote,” she said.

  He nodded. “That was Dad.”

  “So your father wanted you to do anything except for farming…”

  “Which is why, rebel that I am, that’s all I could imagine doing.” He gestured behind him. “Are you coming in?”

  “Coming in?” She looked up to see the sign for the White Lion.

  “I thought that maybe you’d given in to Sydney this week,” he explained.

  “I would love to,” she said, surprised that she actually would. “But I’ve got these with me.” She held up her bag of groceries.

  “Anything perishable?” he asked.

  “A pint of milk and some Greek yogurt,” she said.

  “Come with me.” He was halfway to the pub door before he turned and said, “If you want.”

  Emma hesitated a moment. She had a budget spreadsheet to update, sculpture-repair vendors to contact. And she should probably open the email from her accountant she’d been avoiding all day. But when she saw Henry holding open the pub door for her, she realized that going home to an empty cottage simply didn’t sound appealing.

  Inside, the pub was hot, people all squeezed around round tables and high stools. On each table, a piece of paper and pencil sat waiting amid sweating drinks. She couldn’t see Sydney and Andrew through the wall of people.

  When Henry reached the bar, he leaned in and shouted over a Little Mix song, “What are you having?”

  “A pint, please,” she shouted.

  He stuck out his hand. “Give me your shopping.”

  She frowned but handed him the canvas bag just as the bartender, an older woman with a deep tan, heavy black eyeliner, and long black clip-in extensions, sidled over.

  “Henry, are you up to no good?” the woman asked.

  “I certainly hope so. Dinah, this is Emma Lovell. She’s working on restoring Sydney and Andrew’s garden,” said Henry.

  Dinah stuck her hand out over the bar. “Any friend of Sydney and Andrew is welcome at the White Lion, but be careful of this one.” Dinah nodded to Henry. “I’ve been throwing him out of this pub since he was fourteen.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Emma, tucking her hair back behind her ears.

  “Give us two pints, would you?” Henry asked.

  Dinah picked up a pint glass and began to pull cask ale with a practiced ease. “You’re staying for the quiz?”

  “Apparently I am,” she said.

  “Lucy is starting in a few minutes,” said Dinah, putting down a full glass in front of Emma.

  “Would you mind sticking this in the fridge in the back, Dinah?” Henry asked, handing over the groceries. When Dinah gave him a look, he added, “They’re Emma’s, not mine.”

  “For Emma, I’m happy to,” said Dinah, depositing another pint in front of Henry. “That’ll be eight pounds fifty.”

  Before Emma could move, Henry had paid for the drinks. She was going to protest, but Dinah said, “Let him. It’ll be his penance for when he insists that he has the right answer and costs you the win.”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” said Emma.

  “He doesn’t. Don’t be shy about asking for your groceries whenever. This lot can wait a few minutes for drinks,” said Dinah before peeling off to the back.

  “I like her,” said Emma, taking a sip of her ale.

  “I’m legally required to like her. She’s my aunt. I read some P. G. Wodehouse for my A levels. When Bertie Wooster called his aunt Agatha ‘the nephew-crusher,’ I knew exactly what he meant. Come on, let’s see if we can get through this crowd.”

  Henry dropped his shoulder and pushed through as Emma did her best not to spill her drink or wing someone with her cross-body bag. When the crowd opened up, she found herself in front of Sydney, Andrew, and two others at a low table.

  “Hi!” Sydney cried, jumping up and nearly knocking over her gin goblet. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I captured her just in front of the pub and dragged her in,” said Henry.

  “Welcome,” said Andrew.

  “Here, take a seat and I’ll introduce you around,” said Sydney, pulling her bag off an empty seat.

  “Thanks,” said Emma.

  “This is Jaya Singh. She’s the head of events for the Priory in Temple Kinton, just down the road,” said Sydney.

  Emma shook hands with the woman who, despite her youthful appearance, had a striking head of salt-and-pepper hair.

  “And this is Colby Powell. He’s
a professor at the University of Warwick,” said Sydney.

  “I’m what they call a pinch hitter in the States,” said Colby.

  “Colby’s our resident American,” said Jaya.

  “It’s lovely to meet you both,” said Emma.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and others,” a voice came over the microphone, “we’re ready to begin.” The noise in the pub fell to a dull hubbub, and a woman onstage raised her brows. “That’s much better. I’ve had the misfortune of knowing most of you my entire life, but for those I haven’t met, I’m Lucy MacFarlane, and I’ll be your quiz master.” Hoots and hollers from the crowd. “Enough of that now. You all know pub quizzes are serious business. If you’ll sharpen your pencils, our first round will be Sport.”

  Andrew groaned, and Sydney pulled the paper closer to her. “Colby and I have this, unless you have a secret bank of sports knowledge you’re ready to unleash on all of us, Emma.”

  “I watch a bit of football, and Dad pretends to like cricket,” she said.

  “Excellent. My husband is mad about cricket, but he’s away on business,” said Jaya.

  “I’ll do my best,” Emma said.

  Andrew touched the rim of her glass with his. “With a team name like ‘Menace to Sobriety,’ that’s all any of us can hope for.”

  * * *

  Menace to Sobriety lost.

  Badly.

  “I can’t believe Artificial Intelligence won again,” Sydney groused as she, Emma, Andrew, and Henry walked down Church Street. Colby, who’d nursed one glass of wine, had left them at the bar to drive back to his house near the university, and Jaya had waved them goodbye from the front door of her cottage on Heather Lane. Bow Cottage was on the same side of the village as the road to Highbury House, so Emma was getting an escort home. Strangely, she found that she didn’t mind.

  “You say that every time,” said Andrew, pressing a kiss to Sydney’s forehead.

  “But this time we had Emma. We were supposed to win,” said Sydney, flashing the soft smile of a tipsy woman at her. “You did very well. We wouldn’t have made it through the geology round without you.”

  “That is a fact,” said Henry, who had been walking quietly by her side.