The Last Garden in England

by Julia Kelly

  “Like a telegram,” said Wing Commander Grayson.

  The postmaster raised his hand to show a folded slip of paper.

  They stilled. Slowly a hush fell over the veranda as around them couples began to notice. Even the band stopped playing. Mrs. Dibble made her way through the parting crowd, Mr. Jeffries following solemnly behind her. When they stopped in front of Diana, the postmaster handed her the telegram.

  “I didn’t think it should wait for the morning,” he said.

  Diana looked down at the name on the paper, and her breath caught in her throat. “No.” Her voice cracked. “You’re very right, Mr. Jeffries. Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Symonds,” murmured Mrs. Dibble, shuffling backward.

  The housekeeper clearly did not want to be the one to dispense the news, but Diana couldn’t blame her. She didn’t want to, either, but she was the mistress of Highbury House. It was her responsibility.

  “Please excuse me, Wing Commander Grayson,” she said.

  He gave a nod of sympathy and a little bow.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, took a breath, and then scanned the veranda. She saw Miss Pedley and Captain Hastings walk up the steps and stop in confusion at the silent scene, but she kept looking. Finally, near the French doors to the double drawing room, she spotted the telegram’s recipient.

  She walked a straight line, watching as realization flashed on the woman’s face. Then hope that maybe she was wrong. And finally understanding that Diana would not be veering away to face someone else.

  “Miss Adderton, I think we should find some privacy,” she said.

  Miss Adderton’s hand shot out to grip Diana’s arm. “No. Please. Not Joan.”

  Joan. The mother of the little boy who had become such fast friends with Robin.

  From behind Diana, Miss Pedley and Captain Hastings rushed forward to hold Miss Adderton up. “Come on, Stella,” Miss Pedley said. “Let’s step inside, away from all of these people.”

  Diana watched as Miss Adderton nodded, letting herself be steered by the land girl.

  “Take her two doors down the corridor to my morning room. It will be more private,” Diana whispered to Captain Hastings.

  They set Miss Adderton down on the sofa while Diana lingered nearby, awkward in her own house. Miss Pedley sat next to the cook, rubbing her back and murmuring reassurances in her ear. The slow but steady thud of Father Devlin’s crutches on the corridor’s carpet announced the chaplain’s approach while Captain Hastings poured out a finger of brandy from one of the sideboard’s decanters.

  When all was settled, Diana held out the telegram.

  Miss Adderton looked up at her, eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t read it. Will you? Please?”

  Diana looked around at the other faces in the room. “Surely there’s someone more well suited for this. Father Devlin?”

  Miss Adderton’s hands trembled the brandy in her glass. “Please.”

  With her own shaky fingers, Diana unfolded the telegram and began to read the typed letters:

  We regret to inform you Joan Reynolds’s building was hit during a raid yesterday evening STOP She was killed instantly STOP

  Miss Adderton’s body collapsed against Miss Pedley’s, sobs racking her. The men stood back, grim-faced and solemn.

  Diana looked down again at the telegram in her hands, and all she could think was: That poor little boy.

  SUMMER

  • VENETIA •

  THURSDAY, 27 JUNE 1907

  Highbury House

  Hot

  Until Matthew, I never understood how a woman could lose her head over a man. It is as though, after years of practicality, I’m unable to see straight. He has blinded me with affection, tenderness, and touch. To be held by another person is deeply intoxicating, and whenever we part, I find myself craving more.

  I know that it was a mistake to kiss him and lead him back to my cottage that first night. But it felt right. It’s been easy to open the door to him again and again whenever darkness and quiet falls over Highbury House. Each time, we extinguish the lights in my cottage and wind our arms around one another in the dark. He leaves only when orange-pink dawn streaks across the sky.

  We agreed that if we’re to avoid being caught, we would have to become more careful. And so, feeling like the heroine in a penny dreadful, I began to leave my lover notes in the twisted trunk of a tree a mile down the road from Highbury House. I can now safely say that I am an expert at excuses to venture into the village.

  Earlier this afternoon, however, I visited Wisteria Farm for reasons that were not entirely contrived. I needed yet more roses. A variety called ‘Belle Lyonnaise’ was to climb over arches at four points of the bridal garden, and Rosa foetida ‘Bicolor’, ‘Souvenir d’Alphonse Lavallée’, and ‘Rosearie de l’Hay’—a new favorite of mine—would be interspersed with artful casualness throughout the poet’s garden, lest we ever forget that love is like a red, red rose.

  With Matthew’s housekeeper out visiting her sister, I knew we would have nearly an entire afternoon to ourselves. We enjoyed it as best two people sneaking about can.

  As four o’clock grew closer, we forced ourselves to dress again. I fumbled with my corset, the stays even more restraining than usual.

  “This summer heat is dreadful,” I moaned.

  Matthew laughed. “Let me play lady’s maid.”

  He gently dealt with my laces and then eased on my corset cover, skirt, shirt, stockings, and boots.

  As I watched him, I wondered at how thoroughly he’d changed me since that first kiss. I read books and thought what he might say about them. When I heard a horse ride into the courtyard at Highbury, I held my breath, waiting to see if it was him.

  When he was done lacing my boots, he kissed the inside of my knee. “When can I see you again? Like this. When the sun is shining.”

  “When can you once again arrange for everyone in the vicinity of your home to be otherwise occupied?” I asked with a laugh.

  He sighed. “Venetia, I don’t want to keep stealing moments like this.”

  All at once, a wave of exhaustion hit me, and my every nerve felt oversensitive. He’d written those words in every hedgerow letter, but he’d never said them before.

  “No good will come of people finding out,” I countered. No matter how he might try to share the responsibility, there was only one reputation on the line—mine. I had overstepped the boundaries of proprietary the moment I walked in the gardens at night with a man to whom I was not affianced. And I’d thoroughly and indisputably fallen when we’d stripped each other of our clothes and made love.

  “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he promised, forehead against mine, arms around my waist.

  “I know you will try.” That was all he could do. If his sister and her husband found out, I would be turned out of Highbury House.

  Yet it wasn’t just this job that was at risk. I could lose everything. The annuity my father left was barely enough for Adam to live on, let alone me. I might think of myself as an artist, but I also worked because I had to. Now my brother and I both relied on my income.

  It was easier for Matthew. Even with the hint of eccentricity that hung about him like perfume from one of his roses, he had options. He could marry or not. He could start a business or not. He could simply be.

  “I wish that you would allow me to show you that you can trust me,” he said, as though he could read my thoughts.

  “I don’t need to trust you,” I said.

  He slipped his arms around me. “We all need trust, Venetia.”

  I twisted, unable to watch him look at me with such open, earnest hope. Still, I let him coax another kiss out of me when he led me outside to my cart.

  “You’ll write to me?” he asked. “I check our hedgerow every day.”

  My cheeks flushed, and all I could do was nod before snapping the leads. But as my horse and cart bumped its way out of the courtyard, I couldn’t resist looking back at
him, eyes fixed on me at the entry to his drive.

  SATURDAY, 29 JUNE 1907

  Highbury House

  Hot

  I lied to Matthew. I did not write to him this morning as I promised. I woke up intending to, but as soon as I donned my gardening apron and stepped out of my cottage door, I heard raised voices and braying. I hurried to the gate between Highbury House and the farm and found the usually unflappable Mr. Hillock in a dither. One of Adam’s orders must have been misread, because instead of four carts of gravel, nine donkey-drawn carts were neatly pulled up.

  After sorting out the gravel debacle, an issue arose with the reflecting pool, and then Mr. Hillock’s son, Young John, and another of the gardeners, Timothy, flew at each other in an argument while bending canes for arches. (I gather that the disagreement had more to do with a young lady in the village than it did building garden arches.)

  All in all, an exhausting day, and the reason why I couldn’t even put pen to paper to write in this diary yesterday evening. Instead, I’m stealing a few moments over the cup of tea and toast that the maid brings me each morning to write a few lines. Then, a letter to Matthew.

  • STELLA •

  JUNE 1944

  Stella should have been watching Bobby to make sure he wasn’t tearing things off the shelves of Mrs. Yarley’s shop, but all she could do was stare at the two suitcases on the shelf before her. They weren’t particularly beautiful, but she used to come in just to look at them and dream that one day they’d hold her belongings.

  Even now, she wanted to pull one down and take it back to Highbury House, the case slapping against her leg as she walked the dusty, sunbaked road. She would throw it down on her bed and fill it to the brim with clothes and her magazine cuttings of all the places she wanted to travel and her coursework. Then she would take that case to the train station and leave.

  She would leave everything behind. Warwickshire. Highbury House. The fights with Mrs. George. Men’s shouts filling the house in the dead of the night. The smell of antiseptic and clatter of the medicine cart too close to her kitchen for comfort.

  But mostly, she would leave Bobby.

  A low, deep guilt rolled through her.

  Even before Mrs. Symonds had read the telegram out, Stella was certain what it would say. She knew the moment she saw Mr. Jeffries out on the veranda that the news was for her, but she’d hoped and prayed that the evening’s tragedy would be someone else’s.

  When Mrs. Symonds read out the final “STOP,” Stella had fallen apart, at the loss of her sister, yes, but also at the death of the life she’d longed for. She would never leave Highbury. Never move to London and put to use any of her studies. Never see the places in her pictures.

  Beth had told her later that Mrs. Symonds had gone up to Stella’s attic bedroom to tell Bobby. Apparently the mistress of Highbury had cradled the boy to her when he’d begun to sob.

  Bobby had not been able to sleep on his own since, so neither could Stella, with him softly snuffling into his pillow. After one week of simultaneously burnt and underdone meals, Mrs. Symonds declared that Bobby would temporarily move to the night nursery with Robin, under the watchful eye of Nanny.

  “Are you planning a trip?”

  The familiar voice sent Stella’s eyes rolling to the ceiling of Mrs. Yarley’s shop.

  “Miss Adderton?” came her employer’s slightly short tone.

  She fixed as pleasant a smile as she could muster on her face and turned to the woman who paid her wages. “Hello, Mrs. Symonds. I didn’t realize you were coming into the village or I would have taken a list for you.”

  Mrs. Symonds’s brow furrowed. “I enjoy a little time away from the house from time to time. Are you quite well, Miss Adderton?”

  My nephew is an orphan. I hate my life, and now I can never change it. But other than that…

  “I’m fine,” said Stella.

  “How has Bobby been settling into his new routine?” Mrs. Symonds asked.

  Stella searched the other woman’s face, looking for malice or judgment, but there didn’t seem to be any edge to her employer’s tone.

  “Nanny tells me that he sometimes wakes up in the night, but he seems to be sleeping well in the cot next to Master Robin.” After a moment, she added, “Thank you for allowing it.”

  “Don’t worry too much,” said Mrs. Symonds. “Children are resilient.”

  A great crash of breaking glass erupted behind them. Both women spun around to see Bobby standing next to a pile of glass shards and what looked like fat quince fruit.

  “Bobby!” Stella gasped, rushing forward. “What happened?”

  He started to cry.

  She looked around in despair at all of the broken glass. At all of the fruit and sugar—oh, the sugar!

  “Were you tugging on the shelf, Bobby?” she asked, desperate for him to say no.

  The question only made him cry harder.

  “Bobby, please,” she said, growing increasingly conscious of the small crowd around her and the extremely red face of the shopkeeper. “Please don’t cry.”

  “Stop yelling at me!” he wailed.

  “I’m not yelling!” Except she was. She pushed her hair back from her forehead, at a loss for whether to shake him or hug him to her. Maybe both? She didn’t know. She didn’t know.

  “Bobby,” Mrs. Symonds said in a soft voice. The elegant lady had picked her way through the glass and was now standing in a syrupy puddle of quince juice. “Are you hurt?”

  Goodness, Stella hadn’t even thought to ask. Should she check him over for cuts? See if he was beginning to bruise?

  “Are you hurt, Bobby?” Mrs. Symonds asked again, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  Sniffling, Bobby shook his head.

  “That’s good, isn’t it? We wouldn’t want for you to be hurt because then you might not be able to play with Robin,” said Mrs. Symonds. “Now, can you tell me what happened? It will be all right. Just tell me.”

  “I thought there was chocolate,” he said in a voice as small as a field mouse.

  “I must say, that would be something. Chocolate is a treat these days. Did you try to climb on the shelves to get to it?” asked Mrs. Symonds.

  Another nod.

  Clucks and tuts from the other shoppers. Stella shot a fierce glare at them, and one or two took a step back.

  “Mrs. Symonds, that was a dozen jars of quince in syrup,” said the shopkeeper, wringing her hands.

  A dozen jars? Think of the cost, let alone the sugar coupons.

  “I’ll take care of it, Mrs. Yarley. First, however, I think it’s probably best if we see to this mess, don’t you?” asked Mrs. Symonds.

  Stella watched in amazement as the shopkeeper actually retreated and returned with a broom and dustpan.

  “Here,” said Stella, holding out her hand.

  As she swept up the glass to allow Mrs. Yarley to get at the syrup with a mop and bucket, Mrs. Symonds checked Bobby over for cuts. Stella couldn’t help but watch how gentle she was with him, wiping away his tears as she went.

  When the mess was cleaned up, Mrs. Symonds said, “Now, Bobby, do you remember learning about consequences at school?”

  He hesitated.

  “Everything we do has an impact on something or someone. You knew that you weren’t supposed to climb on the shelves, didn’t you?”

  His lip trembled, but to his credit he didn’t begin crying again. “Yes, Mrs. Symonds.”

  “Good. I’m glad you aren’t hurt, but you will have to have a punishment, with your aunt’s permission.” Mrs. Symonds glanced up at her, and Stella nodded, unsure. She’d never punished a child before.

  “Now, I need an assistant for a big project in the library. Every afternoon for the next two weeks, you’re to come to the library right after school and help me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Symonds,” he murmured.

  “Good.” Mrs. Symonds turned to Mrs. Yarley. “Please send the bill to Highbury Hou
se, and I will settle it.”

  “A good amount of sugar went into those preserves,” said Mrs. Yarley.

  “I will account for the loss of sugar as well,” Mrs. Symonds promised before turning to Stella. “Now, shall we walk home?”

  “Come on, Bobby,” Stella beckoned after murmuring another apology to Mrs. Yarley.

  The little boy walked by her side through the village, but as soon as they were clear of Church Street, he began to twist at her hand.

  “Bobby, why don’t you run ahead and see if you can catch Mr. Gilligan in the lane? He was coming into the village to see about buying some more twine for the climbing roses,” said Mrs. Symonds.

  As soon as Stella released his hand, Bobby was off like a shot. She watched him run away, the edge of his shirttail coming untucked.

  “I thought that Mr. Gilligan went out this morning,” said Stella.

  “He did,” said Mrs. Symonds.

  They walked in silence for a while, Stella aware of the great divide between them.

  “I prayed for a girl.”

  Stella cast her a glance. “I’m sorry?”

  “When I was carrying Robin, I prayed for a little girl. I thought it would be easier because at least I knew what it was like to be girl. But the moment I heard Robin cry, I knew he was what I wanted. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been hard, though.”

  “When Mr. Symonds passed—”

  Mrs. Symonds gave a little hollow laugh. “Long before that. Even before the war, Murray was back and forth to his London surgery. On Nanny’s Wednesday afternoons off, I would spend the hours wondering how I was going to make it through another moment of being alone with Robin. I would turn my back for one moment and he’d climb the nursery curtains or hop from sofa to end table.”

  “What did you do when it became too much?” Stella asked.

  “I once took him to the winter garden and locked us both in just so I could keep him from wandering off while I tried to finish embroidering Murray’s handkerchiefs.”

  “Did it work?”

  Mrs. Symonds’s laugh was genuine. “Of course not. If I looked away for one moment, he’d be trying to grab a rose or eat a worm he’d found.”