The Last Garden in England

by Julia Kelly

  Mum: We’ve decided to come visit in two weeks! We’re driving up on the Saturday.

  Dad: If that’s okay with you.

  Mum: We want to see the garden you’re working on.

  Dad: Eileen, you can’t invite yourself to other people’s gardens.

  Mum: Emma will arrange it.

  She groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Sydney asked.

  “Would you mind if my parents drop by to see the garden in a couple weeks? They’re curious, and it’s been a while since I’ve worked on one close enough for them to see,” she said.

  “Of course they should come! Why don’t you all stay for tea as well?” Sydney suggested.

  “Are you sure? Mum will grill you about every aspect of the house. She’s not the most subtle woman in the world,” she said.

  “I think I can handle that.” Sydney turned to the ladder but stopped herself. “Charlie isn’t a partner in Turning Back Thyme, right?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “If Charlie has experience with veg gardens, do you think he might be interested in doing the kitchen garden as a one-time contract?” Sydney asked.

  “Oh. I really don’t know,” she said, surprised.

  “Would you mind if I asked him?”

  “Of course not. He can do whatever he likes,” she said, realizing as she said it that Charlie would probably jump at the chance to do a favor for Sydney.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” Sydney asked.

  She shook her head. “Go for it. And thank you again for the invitation to tea.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be able to come,” said Sydney.

  Alone once again, Emma picked up a pair of loppers and resumed attacking the underbrush.

  * * *

  Sydney’s questions about Charlie bounced around her brain all afternoon and evening. Did he want to take on his own jobs? She’d never really thought about that before, but maybe she should have. He could design, but he’d always told her he was more interested in the physical side of their work.

  Selfish though it might be, she couldn’t stand the idea of Charlie striking off on his own, not because he would be competition but because she’d miss him. She’d met every one of his girlfriends and drank in pubs across the Home Nations with him. She’d been at his mother’s funeral, and he’d been the one to drive her to the hospital when she’d broken her arm falling off a ladder. Charlie was her right-hand man, her confidant, her best friend.

  That was why, the morning after her conversation with Sydney, she’d shown up at work armed with a pair of coffee cups.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting one at him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Coffee,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes. “Why?”

  “Can’t a friend buy a friend coffee?”

  Suspiciously he took the cup. “Did they do the extra pump of hazelnut?”

  “Yes. You drink the most frilly drinks,” she said.

  “Nothing wrong with a little frill,” he said, opening the top of the disposable cup to let the steam off. He took a sip. “That is good.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He held up the cup and pointed at the green-and-white logo. “The closest location is a ten-minute drive, and you live within walking distance of your job. Why did you drive twenty minutes to get me coffee?”

  She lifted her chin. “Do you ever think about leaving Turning Back Thyme?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, all the time.”

  “What?” she sputtered.

  “Well, last week, you dropped a shovel on me.”

  “That was an accident,” she muttered.

  “And then there was the time you didn’t tie up my boat properly, and we nearly drifted into a riverbank.”

  For that she had no defense other than having had a few Pimm’s on a boat trip with the Turning Back Thyme crew, none of whom should have been lashing boats to docks in their state.

  “So you want to leave?” she asked.

  “There are times when I think about it. Five years working for the same company is a long time—even with you as my boss. There are projects I’ve wanted to try, but our schedule hasn’t let me.” He paused to sip his coffee. “But I like what we have here. It’s a good little company.”

  “It’s not that little,” she grumbled.

  He shot her a smile. “What’s with all of the questions? What happened?”

  She sighed. “Sydney’s thinking about redoing the kitchen garden. We’re supposed to move up to the Berwick job after this, and I’ve run out of grace period given the delays when we found Venetia’s plans. I can’t squeeze it in.”

  “And you don’t do vegetables,” he said, finishing her thought.

  “She thought about asking you.”

  He cocked his head. “How does she know I’d be interested?”

  “I told her you had experience with veg.”

  “That’s good of you.”

  A long pause stretched between them until finally he said, “I’m not in a rush to leave, Emma. But I’d be a pretty rotten friend if I didn’t level with you that I’m not going to be happy on your crew forever. I’ve other skills.”

  “I know you do. I’ll figure something out.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He lifted his coffee. “Anytime you feel like bribing me to talk again, go right ahead.”

  • VENETIA •

  MONDAY, 1 JULY 1907

  Highbury House

  Hot, dry. This summer will never end.

  So many things have happened since I last wrote. I hardly know where to start.

  After midday, when the afternoon was thick with heat and laziness, I took the note I’d written Matthew out of my writing box. Being only a passable horsewoman, I decided to walk the distance to our secret hiding place in the hedgerow. It would be good to stretch my legs, which too often are cramped under me as I dig.

  As the hot road stretched before me, though, I began to regret my ambition. A dry, grassy scent enveloped me as insects danced in the sunlight. A dairy cow lowed in a field, watching me with disinterest, but most of the herd had sensibly sought the shade of a small group of trees.

  It was a relief when I reached the bend in the road where the hedgerow was split by a dying English oak. It would be years before it came down, unless a storm tore it up at the roots, and a kestrel had made her nest in a hollowed-out bit of the trunk far higher than I could reach. However, it was a knot lower down I was after. The casual passerby would never have noticed it, but I could not walk or ride by without eyeing it, for it was my postbox with Matthew.

  As I always did, I reached in, hoping for a letter. My fingers touched paper, and when I drew them out I found two notes. I winced. He’d written twice since we’d last seen each other, and I had only just penned my message that morning.

  I slid the notes into my left pocket and was just reaching into my right when a voice hailed me.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Smith.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut tight, knowing that when I turned around, I would find Mrs. Melcourt in the open-topped carriage, her driver, Michaelson, pretending that he was not listening to every single word.

  Easing my hand back into my pocket and wrapping my fingers around my handkerchief, I pulled it out and made a show of dabbing my forehead as I turned.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Melcourt,” I said.

  The other woman frowned. “Are you quite well?”

  “I must confess, I may have misjudged the summer afternoon. I went for a walk, only to find myself overtaken by the heat.”

  “There are far more pleasant walks than this road,” said Mrs. Melcourt.

  “That is true, but Mr. Hillock’s son, John, said that he spotted a crested cow-wheat not far from here,” I said, the first lie I could think of.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s a rare flower,” I said.

  The woman stared at me for a moment. But then she nodded to the carr
iage. “If you’ve had enough of hunting for flowers, perhaps you would enjoy a ride back to the house. And your work.”

  The word stung, just as she’d intended. There was nothing that I wanted less than to ride even a mile with this woman who seemed to barely tolerate my presence in her house these days, but to insist on walking home was foolish. I would only spite myself and my swollen feet in the process.

  I nodded, and Michaelson climbed down to open the door for me. Drawing up my skirts, I climbed into the carriage with his help.

  As soon as I was settled across from Mrs. Melcourt, she said, “I have just been visiting Lady Kinner. You will remember her from the ball.”

  “Yes, I recall. I hope she is in good health.”

  “Any woman with that much money and so few obligations should be. Her niece is returned from Boston.”

  My awareness sharpened, even as I fixed my gaze on the countryside passing us by.

  “Miss Orleon is such an accomplished young lady and quite charming. Matthew was taken with her when he went up to London for the Season last year.”

  I couldn’t help it when my brows shot up.

  “Is it so amusing that Matthew would have done the Season?” asked Mrs. Melcourt.

  “He seems so content at Wisteria Farm with his roses.”

  “Life is about more than flowers, Miss Smith. He has a duty to marry, and I am determined to see him marry well. He cannot continue to live on the generosity of Mr. Melcourt for much longer.”

  “Generosity?”

  “My husband provides Matthew with the use of Wisteria Farm as well as other necessities.”

  We slipped into an uncomfortable silence until the gates of Highbury House came into view. I glanced at Mrs. Melcourt, thinking to thank her for the ride back, when she leaned in. “You occupy a peculiar position in this household, Miss Smith.”

  “I do not think of myself as ‘in this household’ at all, but rather a guest of it,” I said.

  Mrs. Melcourt tilted her head. “And yet my husband pays you a wage for your work. Payment is not customary for guests.”

  I was about to reply when my heart began to pound and my head became light. My hand went to my chest.

  “Miss Smith, are you quite well?” Mrs. Melcourt asked me for the second time that afternoon, that voice of hers freezing the very air.

  But just as soon as the sensation had overtaken me, it fled. I shook my head slightly and said, “I’m fine, thank you,” resolving to apply a cool cloth to my neck and loosen my corset as soon as I could retire to the gardener’s cottage.

  Mrs. Melcourt squinted at me. “You look a little pale.”

  “Nonsense,” I said as Michaelson drew the carriage to a stop. A boy ran out from the stable and caught the lead horses to hold them.

  I had risen when Mrs. Melcourt said, “You’d do best to let Michaelson help you down.”

  “I’m made of sturdier stuff than most,” I said. I put one shaky food down on the carriage’s short ladder. My head swam again, but I sucked in a deep breath. One step. Two steps. Three steps.

  When my boot touched the ground, the world rushed closed to a pinpoint and then everything went black.

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes again, I was looking into the face of a man in a black coat with an impressive set of muttonchops, last in fashion during the previous century.

  “There you are, Miss Smith,” he said, sitting back.

  “Who are… ?” I tried to push myself up only to realize that I didn’t know where I was or how I’d gotten there.

  “I’m Dr. Irving,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  Dr. Irving looked over his shoulder, and I realized that Mrs. Creasley filled the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “You’re in my sitting room. You fainted in the courtyard,” said the housekeeper.

  “Do you remember fainting?” Dr. Irving asked.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to recall. “I remember climbing down from the carriage.”

  “Mrs. Melcourt said you fainted,” said Mrs. Creasley.

  I frowned at Mrs. Creasley’s icy tone. The woman had always been courteous, but in that moment I couldn’t help but feel like a maid who’d scorched the mistress’s linens.

  “Miss Smith would appreciate a cup of tea, I’m sure,” Dr. Irving said. “Not too strong, but with plenty of sugar.”

  There was a slight narrowing at the housekeeper’s eyes, but she nodded nonetheless.

  As soon as the door closed, the doctor’s cheerful expression fell. “Miss Smith, have you experienced fainting spells before?”

  “No.”

  “Does your mother have a habit of fainting?” he asked.

  “I was not aware of such a habit. She’s dead.”

  He pursed his lips. “And have you been experiencing any other symptoms?”

  “I don’t understand. Symptoms of what?”

  He sighed. “Have you felt unable to eat or drink?”

  “No.”

  “Light-headed?”

  “Other than this afternoon, no.”

  “I beg your pardon for being so forward, but have you noticed that your clothing no longer fits as it once did?” he asked.

  I frowned. “I have some things that fit me better than others, but you must understand, Dr. Irving, there are aspects of my work that require a degree of physical exercise that most ladies do not engage in.”

  “I cannot find fault in your desire for exercise, Miss Smith. In fact, I wish more ladies and gentlemen would engage in activities in the fresh air.”

  “Then you agree that there is nothing wrong with me.”

  “I do apologize for the intimacy of this, Miss Smith, but when was the last time you experienced your courses?”

  I looked up sharply. “What?”

  “When were your last courses?” he asked slowly as though translating for someone who spoke another language.

  I did a quick count in my head, trying my hardest to remember back to the last time I’d needed the bundle of rags I kept in a plain box in my wardrobe. Surely it was just a few weeks ago. When the arbors went in between the poet’s garden and the water garden. I remembered needing to excuse myself to check for—

  That was two months ago, before the Melcourts’ party.

  “Dr. Irving”—my voice high with rising panic—“surely you are not suggesting—”

  “That you might be with child? I’m afraid when a hale and hearty lady faints, and then the housekeeper who is called to help ease her corset finds that the lady in question has been wearing her laces looser than the notches in them might suggest, I must ask the obvious question.”

  “It is hot. No lady likes to wear her corset close when the weather is as it has been,” I insisted.

  The doctor looked on with some sympathy.

  Shame collapses on me. It is one thing for the doctor to suggest that I might be with child, but if the housekeeper knew…

  I buried my face in my hands. I needed time to think. Time to figure out what I could do, for I mustn’t lose the garden at Highbury or my livelihood.

  After a moment, the doctor said, “I take it, then, that you were not aware of the possibility of your condition.”

  It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  “I’m thirty-five years old,” I said.

  “A great many women older than you have borne healthy children safely,” he said.

  I swallowed. “Dr. Irving, I’m unmarried.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, I gathered as much when Mrs. Creasley called you Miss Smith.”

  I grabbed his hand. “I cannot have this baby.”

  He pulled back, his avuncular jocularity gone. “Miss Smith, think very carefully what you say next. There are things in this world that are not only an affront to God but a crime.”

  I sank back, miserable knowing that this doctor wouldn’t help me even if he knew how.

  He began collecting his things and placing them carefully into his
brown leather medical bag.

  He was halfway to the door when I stopped him. “Dr. Irving, please would you do me the courtesy of not telling Mr. and Mrs. Melcourt.”

  The doctor pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Melcourt will ask me for my bill.”

  “If you could tell them you treated me for a nervous condition…”

  “I would not betray the confidence of a lady. But Miss Smith, you do know that at some point it won’t matter what I do or do not tell the Melcourts. They will know. Everyone will.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said weakly.

  He left, plunging the room into silence and leaving me in despair.

  • DIANA •

  JULY 1944

  Diana’s trug bounced against her side as she snipped another long-stemmed bloom and placed it into the shallow basket. All around her in the tea garden bees hummed fat and lazy in the summer sun, going about their industrious days a little slower than usual.

  She’d always loved this time of year. She could cope with the dreariness of winter, but she craved sultry air. She enjoyed late nights on the veranda with a glass of something cool and sweet in her hand. In her parents’ home, she’d never have dared to wear anything but the cotton nightgowns her mother selected for her. In her own home, however, she’d learned the delicious freedom of sleeping nude in the summers.

  No longer sharing a bed with a fever-hot man at night was one of the few aspects of widowhood that she’d allowed herself to enjoy. She might long for the weight of Murray’s hand on her back as she fell asleep, but she didn’t miss the way his mere presence would stifle her. Now she went straight from the cool of her bath into bed.

  Passing into the lovers’ garden, she heard a woman’s voice from over the hedge.

  “Remember, it’s important that you stay still,” the woman said, followed by little boys’ giggles.

  Curious, Diana poked her head into the children’s garden. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with their backs against one of the cherry trees were Robin and Bobby. A few feet away sat Miss Pedley with her sketchbook.

  “Mummy!” Robin shouted as soon as he saw her. He was up like a shot, throwing himself at her legs. Her heart swelled just looking down at the top of his little blond head. Some days she thought it was a miracle he was here; others he reminded her of Murray so much it was almost painful.