by Julia Kelly
“Lady Gaga is not terrible pop music. And my musical tastes are evolving. You should be happy.”
“You’re usually too stuck in your ways to change. Something’s up,” he declared with all the annoying certainty of a best friend.
She closed her eyes again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, you’re wrong. I change all the time. That’s the beauty of not having a house.”
“Do you hear knocking?”
She sighed and sat up, listening. There was knocking.
“No one knows I live here,” she said.
Charlie snorted. “You’re in a village. Everyone knows where you live.”
She shot him a look, set her beer down, and hauled herself to her feet. The muscles in her legs, back, arms—everywhere really—screamed in protest. She’d helped the crew carry in hundreds of plants from the loading site so that they would be able to start digging and planting tomorrow. She’d also helped set the posts for the gazebo, turned the compost, tied in the clematis and roses in the bridal and lovers’ gardens, and on and on and on. The list never seemed to stop, and now her body was feeling the effects.
Coming in from the patio, she squinted into the dark of the cottage, bumping her shin on a coffee table that seemed to be in the way no matter where she put it. Cursing, she half hopped to the front door, pulling it open just as the person on the other side started to knock again.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, bending to rub her shin.
Henry grinned. “It is me. Are you all right?”
“Sorry. I’m glad you’re here, it’s just that I gave myself a knock on the coffee table,” she said.
“Coffee tables are the most vicious of all the furniture. They have a tendency to leap out at you when you least expect it.”
She gave a little laugh. “Something like that.” She spotted a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Are those your grandmother’s sketchbooks?”
He patted the bag. “Guilty as charged. Can I come in for a moment?”
“Sorry. Yes.”
He looked around as he walked into the entryway. “I haven’t been in here since Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan sold Bow Cottage. It’s looking good.”
“It’s just a rental, so I took it as is.” She glanced at his shirt, which read Lou Rawls in Coca-Cola font. “Who is Lou Rawls?”
“Try ‘Stormy Monday’ or ‘Love Is a Hurtin’ Thing.’ ”
Two more for the playlist. “We’re in the back garden. Do you want a beer?”
“I wouldn’t say no to one. Who’s ‘we’?”
“Charlie. Best friend and right-hand man. He was my first hire at Turning Back Thyme.”
“Sounds like a good friend to have.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” she said. And it was true. If Charlie ever told her he was moving on, she’d be happy for him and devastated in equal parts.
They stopped in the kitchen long enough for her to pull a beer out of the fridge, pop the top, and hand it to him.
“We have company,” she called to Charlie as she stepped out of the French doors. “Charlie, this is Henry Jones. He’s got Highbury House Farm, right next door to the Wilcoxes.”
“I think you filled in for me at a pub quiz. Nice to meet you in person, mate,” said Henry.
“What brings you over this way?” Charlie asked. The way he relaxed back into his chair might have fooled most, but Emma knew him too well. He was on high alert, scoping out the man. She scowled, and Charlie smirked.
“Emma thought I might have some things that would be useful for her research. Nan was here during the war,” said Henry.
“Oh, you’re the one with the sketches,” said Charlie, glancing at Henry’s shirt as though something had just dawned on him. He swigged the last of his beer and stood. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
“You don’t have to go,” she said.
Charlie smiled. “I know. Let me know what you find out, hey?”
After Charlie said his goodbyes, she glanced back at Henry.
“I always wondered what a gardener’s garden would look like,” he said.
She cringed at the patchy grass and the few drab shrubs. “It’s a rental, so I haven’t done anything with it.”
He nodded. “It must be strange being away from your home base for so long.”
“I don’t have one. Once a job is wrapping up and I’m getting ready to transition it over to a team of regular gardeners for maintenance, I’ve usually lined up my next job and am looking for a new place to live.”
“That’s nomadic,” he said.
She shrugged. “I haven’t really had a reason to stay in one place.”
He raised a brow. “What if someone gave you a reason?”
The word “yes” started to form on her lips, but she stopped it before it could be more than an idea. Yes to what exactly? Flirtation was all well and good, but what else could there be with a man she hardly knew?
She cleared her throat and gestured toward the bag. “The sketchbooks?”
“The sketchbooks. There are three.” He dragged his chair closer to hers, and she tried to ignore his heat invading her space as he pulled the sketchbooks out. “The paper’s not great quality.”
“There was a paper ration on during the war.”
“History A levels?” he asked.
“And spending too much time around archivists.”
“Well, you might be happy to know that Nan dated her sketches.” He opened the cover of one of the books. “Like in the bottom right-hand corner here.”
“Very helpful.”
“There are some sketches of people’s faces and hands. I would guess some of them are the patients who were sent here to recover from their injuries. It looks like Nan took a shot at drawing some landscapes—this plane might be from the airfield not too far away. But mostly, it’s drawings of the garden,” he said, flipping to a full-page sketch of what had to be the great lawn, planted with neat rows of vegetables.
“Part of the garden had been requisitioned for agricultural land. I’ve seen pictures of it,” she said, running her finger just under the first row of graphite-sketched plantings.
“My grandfather was to blame for that, I’m afraid, although Dad always said Granddad helped reseed the lawn in the fifties.”
“We’re rebuilding the reflecting pool that used to be right here,” she said, tapping a blunt fingernail on the drawing.
“If you continue, there are a lot of details of plants,” he said.
She saw drawings of velvet-soft sage, reaching hazel trees, elegant lavender, bowing meconopsis, and cloudlike hydrangeas.
“She was very talented,” she said.
They were nearly through the book when he turned a page, and she gasped. A beautiful garden with curving brick walls, tall dogwoods stretching up to the sky, and lush foliage beneath. In the center was a shallow pond made from a gently sloping clay dish of water. And above the drawing, Henry’s nan had written “The Winter Garden.”
“That’s what it was supposed to look like,” she breathed.
“What is it?” he asked, leaning in.
“We haven’t been able to get into this garden yet. We don’t have access through the gate, so we need to spend some time cutting a path in, but there are no detailed plans. I didn’t want to damage something irreplaceable, so it keeps falling to the bottom of the list.”
“And this helps?” he asked.
She nodded. “Now I know what it was supposed to look like when it was mature. It’s not the exact same garden Venetia planted—nothing is ever quite as intended because some plants fail and some thrive. But this at least guides the way.”
He sat back. “Good. I’m glad it helps.”
She studied the page. She wanted to stand in the middle of it, the shallow dish of water in front of her, and put it to rights once again.
She shook her head, bringing herself back to the moment. “Is there much else in this one?”
“Just this.” He reached over and flipped to the last page of the sketchbook. One sketch dominated it. It showed two boys sitting against a background of shrubs. Their heads were bent, the hair falling across one of their brows while he watched the other play with a toy lorry.
“The detail is wonderful,” she said, admiring how the dashed pencil lines came together to form such a sure image.
“I wondered who they were.”
“Sydney’s grandfather and one of his playmates, I would think. I could ask Sydney when I’m next up at the house. She probably has some photographs,” she said.
“You should take these for as long as you need. It’ll save you time,” he offered.
“I appreciate you trusting me with them.”
The song switched, and Otis Redding’s voice filled the back patio.
“I’m happy to, but I’ll warn you, my interest’s piqued,” he said.
She hesitated, and then said, “You know, if you have the urge to see them, you could drop by.”
“Be careful, I might not be able to resist an offer like that from a woman with such good taste in music.” He nodded to the portable speaker sitting on the patio table. “ ‘These Arms of Mine.’ Great song.”
“There’s this guy who keeps coming around in these band shirts. He’s got me listening to all of this music I wouldn’t normally. It must be the power of suggestion.”
“I hope he isn’t bothering you,” he said.
She smiled. “No. He’s not bothering me.”
“Good,” he said before standing. “I should get out of your way.”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“How tired are you right now?”
“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked. “Probably an eleven.”
He laughed. “Then I should go.”
She rose and took his bottle from him as he looked around again.
“Pots,” he declared.
“I’m sorry?”
“You could get some pots and do a container garden. Then you could take them to your next cottage in your next village for your next job,” he said.
“I thought you were going home, Henry.” She laughed.
“I am. I am.”
She walked him to the front door, leaning against the jamb as he stepped out onto the porch.
“Thanks for the beer,” he said.
“Anytime.”
She went still when he put his hand on her arm and leaned in to kiss her, once on each cheek. He pulled back slightly, his voice low, and said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon.”
Then he flashed that smile she liked so much and strolled off.
* * *
Arms crossed, Emma watched the hive of activity in the poet’s garden. Vishal and Zack were laying plants out following the details she’d sketched from Venetia’s plans. Charlie and Jessa followed, methodically unpotting and planting. Someone had brought a radio, and the tinny sounds of a BBC1 jingle drowned out the sounds of a crew hard at work.
Emma had spent her day going over the sketchbooks. Henry’s grandmother had done an excellent job of recording the garden as it had been in 1944. All of the details of the plants, carefully labeled, were invaluable. Plants she wouldn’t have guessed, like jasmine tobacco and monkshood, likely kept interest during the summer season. For the first time since she’d arrived at Highbury House, Emma felt as though the winter garden wasn’t some impenetrable challenge but a manageable task.
Of course, to tackle a task she had to actually start it.
“Charlie!” she called from the poet’s garden entrance.
He looked up and adjusted his ball cap. “What?”
“Give me a hand, will you?”
He planted his spade into the ground and hauled himself up, brushing his knees as he approached. “What do you need?”
“I want to try to get into the winter garden today.”
He gave a low whistle. “Today?”
“Not all of it. I just want inside. I think I’ve figured out where we can cut without damaging anything important.” She showed him Henry’s grandmother’s sketch. “No roses, clear of trees. And if this drawing is right, no sculpture up against the wall.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, peering up over the yew to the unruly mess shooting out of the winter garden. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Then let’s get the ladders.”
In no time, Charlie and Emma had pulled two ladders, a hedge trimmer, a pair of lopping sheers, and a machete out of the old gardener’s cottage, where they stored some of their more expensive or dangerous tools. She and Charlie leaned one of the ladders up against the winter garden wall, and she began to climb.
“Watch out for that rose cane about six inches from your head,” he called out, holding the base of the ladder steady.
“Got it!” she shouted down. Less than thirty seconds later, she bumped her head into the rose and cursed as she detangled herself.
“Very slick.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she called down.
“You’re doing great, boss,” Charlie called up. She rolled her eyes.
She battled her way up into the overhanging tangle of branches, cutting as she went. If he stood on tiptoe, Charlie could just barely hand her the tools she needed, with the exception of the machete, which she kept strapped to her right hip Indiana Jones–style.
Finally, she reached the lip of the wall, Charlie carefully passed the other ladder up to her. She dropped it down as best she could, trying to stay away from the foliage. Twice as she climbed down a branch stabbed her, and she managed to put her hand straight around a rose. If she hadn’t been wearing work boots and gloves, she would have been in a world of pain.
When finally her foot touched the ground, she looked up through the foliage and found she could only see slivers of sky through the overlapping leaves.
“How are you doing?” Charlie called, his voice coming through the thicket.
“Are you at the gate?” she shouted back.
“I just ran around. How does it look?”
She gazed around her, the scent of damp, rotting undergrowth perfume-like. “Like we’re going to need a pulley system to get whatever we cut over the wall.”
“Breaking the lock is still an option,” he said.
She peered around. “No, it’s not. I can’t explain it, but it just feels wrong.”
“Fair enough. See if you can cut a spot big enough for the both of us down there, and I’ll do what I can to bring the tools over,” he called.
She drew her machete, grasped a branch, and gave it a good whack. A half hour later, Charlie gingerly stepped from the top of one ladder to the other.
“I hate heights,” he muttered.
“I know, I know.”
He passed down a lopper and stepped down to join her with a sigh of relief. “So this is the winter garden.”
“Or Celeste’s garden.”
“Still wondering who Celeste is?” he asked.
“Everything gardeners do is intentional. We create order out of nature. If she called this Celeste’s garden, there was a reason,” she said.
“Wasn’t it written in someone else’s handwriting?” he asked.
“Yes, but Celeste must mean something for someone to add it to the drawings.”
“You could reach out to Professor Waylan,” Charlie suggested, naming an academic who had helped her in the past with some of her trickier research questions.
Emma’s forehead furrowed. “I think he’s still on his annual sabbatical north.”
Something of an eccentric, the professor cut off all communication when on sabbatical except for once a month when he picked up letters on a supply run into the nearest village.
“He won’t mind a letter from you. Everyone else, maybe, but not you,” said Charlie.
She nodded. “I’ll send him a letter and ask if he knows of a Celeste connection.”
Char
lie looked around again, hands on his hips. “This is quite the jungle.”
“A fun challenge,” she said with a raised brow.
“We have different definitions of fun, you and I. For instance, ask me what I’m doing this weekend,” he said, pushing down a branch to make a cut.
“Let me guess. You’re taking the boat down one of the canals and then going to the pub.”
He shot her a look. “Okay, fine. What are you doing?”
“Hand me the loppers.” When he did, she chopped away a branch that had been jabbing her in the back. “There we go.”
“Emma, what are you doing this weekend?” he asked again.
“I was thinking about going to a garden center.”
He laughed. “This isn’t enough for you?”
“Actually, I was thinking about getting some pots. For Bow Cottage.”
He stopped. “You’ll just have to take it with you when you leave,” he said.
She smiled. “Then it’s a good thing that you own a pickup truck, isn’t it?”
• VENETIA •
FRIDAY, 17 MAY 1907
Highbury House
Warm with clear skies
So much has happened today—tonight. I’m shaking with excitement like a girl.
I’ve never had a great sense for fashion. I have dresses for dinners in the evening. However, a ball gown is quite another thing. That is why, when I tugged a little at the lace sleeves of my best evening dress earlier this evening, a touch of worry flared up. I’d been to countless dinners, but this was not just dinner. There would be dancing afterward, the ballroom filled with women dressed in their very best.
I might have given an excuse and begged off Mrs. Melcourt’s dance had it not been for the promise of seeing Matthew. In the three weeks since he kissed me, we have seen each other only briefly and never alone. He takes tea with his sister every first Thursday of the month and he makes a point to walk the developing garden with her. Twice I thought I’d caught him watching me as I worked on the long border and he smoked cigars with Mr. Melcourt on the veranda, but I couldn’t be sure.
I wanted to not worry about Matthew and what he might think of me after our interlude, but I did care. Each kiss in my life had been a calculated risk, yet I was glad for the risk I’d taken with him. I could only hope he was as well.