by Julia Kelly
“Hello, darling. Are you playing artist’s model for Miss Pedley?” she asked.
“She’s drawing us,” said Robin.
Bobby hovered nearby. “Miss Pedley’s teaching us to draw, too.”
“Well, that is very kind of her,” said Diana, eyeing the abandoned pencils and pieces of paper covered with children’s scribbles. “However, the teacher shouldn’t also have to provide the supplies. I’ll ask Mrs. Dibble to root around the attics to see if she can find Cynthia’s old sketchbooks from when she was a girl. There must be some unused paper in there.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Pedley, her hands crossed over her sketchbook, pressed against her stomach.
“Might I have a look?” Diana asked.
“Oh, yes.” The young woman hesitated before opening the cover of the book. “It isn’t much. Just little scribbles.”
Miss Pedley turned the book to show the half-finished sketch of the two boys. Robin’s head was resting back against the tree, and Bobby’s was canted slightly to the left. Both had spindly limbs sticking out of shorts, the way that boys do. Yet for all they looked alike, there were distinct differences. Robin was confident, almost arrogant. Bobby shyer, looking out from underneath his lashes.
“Very pretty. They could be cousins posed like this,” Diana said.
“Mummy.” Robin tugged on her hand. “Mummy, I want to go show Bobby my pirate’s cave.”
“You know that you’re not allowed in the winter garden without me.”
He toed the ground. “But my pirate’s cave.”
She couldn’t help but soften. “And a very good one, I’m sure. Once I’m done with the flowers, I’ll fetch one of the keys and take you both.”
A chorus of cheers.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Miss Pedley, if you and Captain Hastings have discussed the plans for your wedding any further,” she said.
“Yes. That is, we’ve written about them.”
“Is he still in Normandy?” Diana asked.
“He’s been attached to the Pioneer Corps, so he’s been back and forth, although he’s stationed in Southampton. I don’t know when he’ll have leave, but we’ll marry then,” Miss Pedley said.
“That’s hardly helpful for planning,” she said.
“No.” Miss Pedley sighed. “And I fear it’ll get worse. He’s trying to rejoin his original unit.”
“The man’s shoulder was nearly taken apart by a bullet,” said Diana.
Miss Pedley chewed her lip. “I had hoped that he would take to being a supply officer. I don’t want him back in combat.”
“Have you told him that? Asked him to put in a transfer that will keep him in Britain?”
Miss Pedley dipping her head was all the answer Diana needed.
“And what of you? Will you remain a land girl?” she asked.
“Yes,” breathed the young woman, as though the backbreaking labor was a relief and not a burden. “Conscription means that I’ll stay on unless I become pregnant.”
“What would you do then?” she asked.
“Graeme tells me that he could make arrangements for me to stay with his parents.”
“Where are his people from?” Diana asked.
Miss Pedley’s shoulders sagged a little further. “Colchester.”
“Colchester is quite far from Highbury, and you seem to have so many friends here.”
“I know.” Miss Pedley lifted her head, and Diana was surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s silly to become upset, but it’s just that Highbury is the first place I’ve ever been happy.”
This poor girl. That she needed help was clear, but by the looks of it, Miss Pedley had few women to guide her.
“And you wish to stay?” Diana asked.
Miss Pedley nodded. “But that’s just as silly. This isn’t my home, either. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Are you certain that you want to marry this man?” Diana asked.
Miss Pedley’s answer was immediate. “Yes. I’ve known him for so little time, but yes.”
Perhaps if she were a different person, Diana would have embraced this young woman. She’d hugged Miss Pedley once, when they’d all waited with bated breath for news of Captain Hastings from the invasion, but she couldn’t break through years of “correct” behavior quite so easily again.
Instead, she said, “Well, that brings us back to the question of your nuptials. If Captain Hastings can secure leave, I suppose you’ll want to marry here. If you like, I’ll send word to the vicar, and he can help you arrange a date around Captain Hastings’s leave.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Symonds. That’s very kind,” said Miss Pedley.
“What were your plans for a wedding breakfast?” she asked.
“I hadn’t thought, yet. It all seems so daunting, especially with rationing on,” Miss Pedley said.
“You must have a wedding breakfast. You’ll have it at Highbury House,” Diana said before she could second-guess her offer—or consider how Miss Adderton would feel about it.
“At Highbury?” Miss Pedley asked.
“On the veranda, if you like, or in the morning room if it’s raining. Highbury House might be a convalescent hospital, but I think it’s proven it can still manage a party when called upon.”
Miss Adderton would be in a foul mood at the idea of having to magic a wedding breakfast out of thin air and thin rations—or maybe not. She’d seen the way Miss Pedley had stayed by Miss Adderton’s side when the telegram came.
Cynthia would be another matter.
“Are you sure it wouldn’t be a bother?” Miss Pedley asked.
“None at all,” Diana lied through a smile. Miss Pedley’s wedding breakfast was sure to become another battleground on which Diana and her virtuous sister-in-law squared off. “Well, I should leave you to your drawing.”
She was halfway across the garden room when Miss Pedley called out, “Am I giving up too much if I agree to move to Colchester after the war?”
Slowly Diana looked over her shoulder. “Love can make women do ridiculous things. Intelligent women become silly. They give things up they never intended…” She trailed off. “Just know that you can tell him what you want. You can demand what you need.”
“What did you give up for Mr. Symonds?” asked Miss Pedley.
Diana adjusted the trug so it sat higher on her arm before answering, “Everything.”
* * *
That afternoon, after she’d made her rounds to visit with the soldiers, Diana stood in front of the music room that had been reduced to storage when the hospital moved in.
She smoothed her skirt and then set her shoulders back. It was just a room. It didn’t think ill of her.
And yet, when she opened the door, the air felt thick with regret, like taking tea with a now-distant acquaintance who’d once been a dear companion.
Softly she closed the door behind her. The maid, Dorothy, must come to air the room out every once in a while; it smelled fresh and there was hardly any dust floating in the light through the gap in the navy curtains. And standing in the corner, just where she’d left it, was her harp.
She approached it as a rider might a shy horse. Her fingers grazed over the felt cover. She’d wanted this instrument with every ounce of her being when she was fifteen. She’d been talented. Her teacher had even encouraged her to study at a conservatory. She’d asked her parents for permission. Begged for it. Shortly afterward, she’d been sent to Switzerland to be “finished” instead.
Reverently Diana removed the cloth cover. The folds fell away, revealing the harp’s deep walnut soundboard and brass pedals. Pulling up a chair, she eased the instrument back against her shoulder, stopping to hitch her skirt up a little. With a deep breath, she placed her thumb to middle C and plucked.
A discordant twang rang out, making her jump.
“Of course it’s out of tune,” she murmured.
She nearly set the harp upright again, ready to cover
it and leave the room, but then she spotted her son’s sheet music on the piano. If Robin could have music, why couldn’t she?
She retrieved her tuning fork and tuning key from the bookcase, then worked methodically, slowly bringing the harp back to life.
When at last the final string had been tightened to the right tone, she placed her hands to the strings and began a Leduc piece that she could have played in her sleep when she’d been practicing seriously. However, although she could still remember the notes, her hands had lost much of their agility.
She finished the piece, making a note to herself to oil the pedals, and then switched to a Schubert piece she’d once loved. Halfway through, she stopped to shake out her aching hands. Her fingers were moving at half the speed they had when she’d last played years ago.
When an hour later she covered her instrument and let herself out of the music room, she knew she didn’t want to wait that long again.
• VENETIA •
WEDNESDAY, 24 JULY 1907
Highbury House
Hot and dry. Will rain ever come again?
I have neglected to write these last weeks, but could anyone fault me for it?
Being with child, I have learned, is a misery. Ever since Dr. Irving’s diagnosis, I have been struck down by nausea and fatigue, as though my body has now been given permission to betray me each day.
This morning, I found myself on my knees behind a buddleia in the children’s garden, trying to bring up the morning’s meager breakfast of tea and toast. I understand the irony of planting a garden meant to bring children joy when I am so miserable with my condition, but that is reason to move swiftly. I will show before my work at Highbury House is complete.
To think that I will never see this garden completed makes my heart ache, but an aching heart and an intact reputation is better than disgrace. I have a plan. Sometime in September, I will begin to feign an illness—what type I have not yet decided. It must be serious but not too grave, only requiring a period of uninterrupted rest and, if I’m lucky, a doctor’s recommendation of warmer climes. I will leave plans, detailed drawings, and plant lists for Mr. Hillock to finish the garden. Then I will take myself away for six or eight months to a place where I know no one and hire a discreet woman to help me with the birth. After arranging for the child to be placed with a family who will love her, I’ll return to England.
It is the only way.
Everywhere I turn, sacrifices arise. I have given up Matthew. There was no argument. No grand tragedy played out. Instead, I’ve stayed close to Highbury House. I no longer venture to the hedgerow, and if I must pass it, I keep my eyes resolutely on the ground in front of me.
I swiped my handkerchief over my mouth and stood from my floral hiding spot, brushing off my skirts. This too shall pass, I told myself, as I did every day.
“Miss Smith,” a girl’s distant voice called.
I cleared my ragged throat. “I’m here.”
One of the maids I didn’t recognize poked her head through the break in the hedge from the bridal garden. “Miss Smith, Mr. Melcourt’s asked to see you in the drawing room.”
My stomach lurched. He knew.
Stiffly I nodded, tidied my gardening gloves and tools into their wicker basket, and gathered up my skirts to follow the maid to my reckoning.
She showed me to the double drawing room. How fitting that my termination should take place in the same room where I had been hired.
When I looked around, I saw that Mr. Melcourt was not alone. He was standing with a small man with unusually tanned skin, which contrasted sharply against the brilliant white of his shirt.
“Miss Smith. I’m sorry to take you away from your work,” said Mr. Melcourt pleasantly—not at all the tone of a man who was about to dismiss his garden designer.
“Not at all,” I said cautiously.
“May I present Mr. Martin Schoot? The director of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.” Mr. Melcourt smiled at his guest. “He expressed a desire to make your acquaintance.”
The Royal Botanical Heritage Society—a prestigious and pompous organization that refused to admit women to its ranks.
I fought a frown as I said, “Mr. Schoot, you’ll have to forgive me for not shaking hands. I’ve just been in the garden.”
His hand remained outstretched. “A little dirt cannot hurt me, Miss Smith. Quite the contrary. I imagine you are happiest when you are out in nature rather than confined indoors.”
Reluctantly I took his hand.
“I have been corresponding with Mr. Schoot ever since I had the idea to give new life to the gardens at Highbury House,” said Mr. Melcourt.
“I wanted very much to meet the woman behind such a large project,” he said.
“Does it surprise you that a woman should be given charge of a garden like Highbury’s, Mr. Schoot?” I asked.
I’d expected him to react as so many men do when faced with a woman’s thinly veiled scorn—poorly—but instead Mr. Schoot began to laugh. “Well met, Miss Smith. I see from the loose, natural structure of your plantings that you hold William Robinson’s designs in high regard.”
“And Gertrude Jekyll. My father gave me her book Wood and Garden not long before he died,” I said.
“It’s interesting that you mention Miss Jekyll’s work—”
Before Mr. Schoot could finish his thought, Mrs. Melcourt glided in, followed by her brother.
Matthew stumbled over the Turkish carpet when he saw me. His eyes widened, his lips opened, and then he smiled. He smiled. My stomach lurched.
“Miss Smith, you’re not in the garden,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“I’m to blame. I expressed an interest in meeting Miss Smith, and your husband kindly obliged,” interjected Mr. Schoot.
Mrs. Melcourt’s lips pursed into a tight line before spreading into an imitation smile. “Of course. Has Miss Smith told you what she has done to work a rose or two from my brother Matthew’s collection into the garden?”
A rose or two? The garden was overflowing with Matthew’s roses now, so much so that it was impossible to turn a corner without being confronted with a reminder of him.
Matthew bowed his head. “My contribution is nothing compared to Miss Smith’s creation.”
“Come now, Matthew. You are too modest. My brother is a gifted botanist, you see,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“My sister flatters me. I’m merely a man whose hobby has taken over his life,” said Matthew good-naturedly.
“No, that’s not right,” I said sharply. All eyes snapped to me. I shouldn’t have said more, but I won’t stand for a man with Matthew’s passion and dedication downplaying his achievements.
“Mr. Goddard has a great talent with breeding roses,” I continued. “He is far more knowledgeable than I am in the intricacies of crossing and grafting them. It has been a pleasure to watch him work.”
I caught Matthew’s smile just as Mrs. Melcourt’s eyes narrowed. “Watch him work?” she asked.
“Miss Smith has visited Wisteria Farm on several occasions to select roses for the garden. And she’s crossed a rose or two herself. I should be harvesting the seeds soon,” said Matthew.
“Several occasions?” Mrs. Melcourt asked with a thin laugh. “I hadn’t realized Miss Smith had taken such an interest.”
“Miss Smith’s opinion is invaluable to me,” said Matthew, his eyes on mine.
A deep, taunting ache ripped through me. I wanted to reach out to him—to have the right to touch him in front of all of these people. It was impossible.
“My dear, perhaps you could ring for tea,” said Mr. Melcourt, breaking the tension in the room with his innocuous request.
His wife nodded. However, before she reached for the bellpull, she called to her brother. “Matthew, you must tell me where to hang this new landscape painting Arthur bought when he was last in London.”
Matthew dipped his head. “Yes, Helen.”
The tension in my shoulders eased a little bit as
he drifted off, but still I started when Mr. Schoot said, “You mentioned before that you’re an admirer of Miss Jekyll, Miss Smith. Have you considered writing yourself?”
“I keep a garden journal, but that isn’t meant for the public,” I said.
“Do you have a mind to try your hand at an article? Or maybe more. The society is starting a journal. I should like it very much if you would consider writing for it.”
From across the room, I watched Matthew’s eyes flick from Mr. Schoot to me and back again.
“That is incredibly flattering,” I said.
“Then you’ll consider it?” the director asked.
“I’m afraid I must decline, Mr. Schoot. It would not sit well with my conscience to write for an organization that would not allow me to join its ranks.”
Mr. Melcourt shifted from foot to foot. “Miss Smith…”
Mr. Schoot put up a hand. “The lady is correct. There have been rumblings questioning the exclusion of women for some time now. I’m afraid, however, that changing the mind of the board has proven to be a challenge. I’m sure you understand, Miss Smith.”
I did not. Not at all.
“To turn down such an opportunity… And with the possibility of writing about a garden such as here at Highbury,” Mr. Melcourt floundered.
Ah. It was not enough that I was giving Mr. Melcourt a beautiful garden for his family. He wanted a famous one.
“Nonetheless,” I said carefully, “I must decline until the day that women are admitted as full members.”
Mr. Schoot rocked back on his heels. “You may find that day comes sooner than you think, Miss Smith.”
I gave him a small smile. “I hope so, Mr. Schoot.”
* * *
I escaped from the Melcourts’ drawing room as quickly as I could, striding across the great lawn, past the reflecting pool that had been completed the previous month, and down to the lake’s edge.
When I could be sure that trees shielded me from view, I pressed my hand to my forehead, willing away my headache. I needed time to think. I needed space. I needed to be alone.