by Julia Kelly
“Thank you for your assistance, Doctor,” I said, trying my best to keep the shake from my voice.
Dr. Irving hesitated, but then nodded. Before he opened the door, he gave me a little bow. “Try to rest. It is the best thing.”
As soon as I was alone, I turned my face away, knowing sleep was not for me tonight. Instead, I thought of Adam and the little house I owned and loved. I thought of my own beautiful garden that I poured love into when I was not living away. How simple things had seemed then when there was little to worry me other than my next project and whether the seeds ordered from this catalog or that one could be counted on to germinate. So much had changed since I’d come to Highbury House. I’d changed.
From somewhere outside the cottage, I heard distant shouts. I pushed myself up on my elbows, wincing at the deep soreness in my body.
“Be reasonable!” I heard Mrs. Melcourt shout.
A great pounding came at the door, and then it crashed open. “Venetia! Venetia!”
“Matthew,” I murmured, shrinking down and pulling the coverlet up around my chest.
A second later, Matthew burst through my bedroom door and dropped on his knees to the floor.
“Dearest, what happened? What is the matter?” he asked, clasping at my hands.
His sister and her husband rushed through the door after him, both gasping for breath. They had chased him all the way through the house, desperate to keep him from me.
“Matthew Goddard, what are you thinking busting into Miss Smith’s cottage like this? It’s most unseemly.”
“Venetia, what’s wrong?” he asked, ignoring his sister.
I glared at his sister and her husband. “You haven’t told him?”
“Told me what?” Matthew asked.
“It’s none of your concern, Matthew,” said Mrs. Melcourt primly.
“Venetia, what is the matter? Mrs. Creasley sent word to me that you had taken ill and the doctor was sent for,” he said.
A strange lump of hatred and gratitude for the interfering housekeeper lodged in my throat. He had a right to know. He had been the father.
He squeezed my hands tighter. “Is the baby all right?”
I heard his sister gasp and Mr. Melcourt utter “I say,” but they didn’t matter.
“No.”
His hands slipped from mine. His face was pale, his expression blank. I’d lost him.
“Matthew, this is highly inappropriate. I must insist you leave,” said Mrs. Melcourt, her voice high. She knew, I could tell she did from the way she looked at me, but she was trying valiantly to unknow.
“It is none of your business, Helen,” he said.
“Now, Matthew—”
“None of yours, either, Arthur,” he snapped at Mr. Melcourt.
“If Miss Smith has engaged in indiscretions under our roof, then I don’t see how it will be possible for her employment to continue. I will have to ask you to leave the property immediately, Miss Smith.”
Matthew shot to his feet. “She has just lost a child, Arthur. Have you no sympathy?”
“Matthew, please…” his sister started.
“It is the middle of the night,” Matthew argued.
“Then in the morning,” said Mr. Melcourt, as though this was a great concession.
Mrs. Melcourt placed a hand on his arm. “Arthur, I think we can show Miss Smith a little more courtesy than that. Miss Smith, you may stay through the duration of your recovery. You will not see anyone. You will not leave this cottage, although I doubt that would be possible given your condition. Do you understand?”
I nodded wearily, for what else could I do?
“Now, we should leave Miss Smith to rest. You, too, Matthew,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
Matthew cast a pained look at me. “Venetia, if you wish me to stay… ?”
I shrunk back. “I want to be alone.”
I could not lean on this man for comfort when I knew that so soon he would be gone from my life. Once again I would be alone in the world, unsure if even my brother would want anything to do with me once he found out why I had been dismissed from Highbury House.
“I will come back tomorrow,” Matthew promised.
“No, please don’t.”
“Matthew,” his sister said sharply from where she held the bedroom door wide for both men.
My lover cast a last look at me from over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
I expected Mrs. Melcourt to follow, but instead she closed the door softly behind them. She drew up a little needlepointed chair and sat on the edge of it.
“I find myself in an extraordinary position, Miss Smith,” she said, her tone losing all of the coaxing sweetness she’d deployed with her husband. “Even though the Lord has blessed us with three healthy children, we should have had more. Arthur may not dwell on it, but I will never forget all the children we lost.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“I do not seek your sympathy,” Mrs. Melcourt snapped. “I merely want you to understand why I stopped my husband from casting you out of this cottage at dawn. You lost a child. You also betrayed my trust when you seduced my brother.”
“I didn’t seduce your brother.”
She carried on as though she hadn’t heard me. “Matthew is a good man, but he can be naive. He skates over some of the more difficult realities in life because he does not want to engage with them.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“He will not marry you.”
I swallowed. “I don’t expect him to marry me.”
She nodded. “I’m glad we understand one another. You may recuperate here in the gardener’s cottage until Dr. Irving believes that you are fit for the train journey back to London. I ask that you not contact my brother for the duration of your stay.”
“If he comes here, that will be his choice alone,” I said.
“Matthew will fall in line with my wishes. He always has, because he lives at Mr. Melcourt’s pleasure.”
“He doesn’t want your husband’s money,” I said.
She leaned in. “Then why does he continue to take it?”
I had no reply.
“Perhaps you are right. It is high time that Matthew find himself a bride who will bring a good settlement to the marriage. I will see that it happens by the end of the year. I will also see to it that my husband comes to his senses about this scandal. We cannot dismiss you, as too many people know about your work here. Instead, you will finish any designs remaining and instruct Mr. Hillock on the details he will need in order to complete them himself.”
The horrid woman had come to the same plan to exit Highbury House as I had. Somehow that sank me into an even darker despair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Melcourt,” I said quietly.
She arched a brow. “I’m doing what is necessary to take care of my family. I am protecting my brother from being tricked into marriage by an unsuitable woman.”
Some spirit rose in me. “Unsuitable? I am a gentleman’s daughter, just as you are.”
“We both know that we are not the same, Miss Smith. I have position and wealth such as you could never imagine. You dig in the dirt and play with plants for money,” she said.
“I have talent and artistry.”
“And I have a husband. I hold all of the cards, Miss Smith. Now, I suggest you rest. The sooner you recover, the sooner that we can be rid of one another.”
My fists clenched in the sheets to keep from lashing out with a blow. Instead, I fixed her with a look and said, “Mrs. Melcourt, I can assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure than knowing I never have to see you again.”
I will leave this place, never to see Highbury House again. I risked my livelihood and my life here, and I may pay the consequences for years to come.
• EMMA •
SEPTEMBER 2021
Emma wiped her palms against the fabric of her black pencil skirt. It had been chilly that morning in Highbury when she’d forsaken her
regular gardening clothes and put on the skirt and a thin, three-quarter-length cashmere jumper she’d set out the night before. On went a pair of black patent leather heels—just high enough to have a bit of polish but not so high that she teetered. Now she was glad she’d left her maroon coat in her car. She would be sweltering in it.
As she sat in the reception area of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society’s building, she fiddled with the strap of her handbag. She’d gone back and forth about this interview so many times. If she got the job, it would mean selling Turning Back Thyme and working in an office job for the first time in her life. It would mean stability and security. She would have a regular salary, a bonus, private health care. She’d never have to handle another client and their demands. She could make plans for holidays. She could take holidays—when was the last time she’d done that?
But mostly it would mean less stress. She’d shouldered an entire business on her own for six years. She was exhausted.
But who said you had to do it on your own?
A message from Charlie pinged her phone:
Mulch delivery is short 40 bags. Don’t worry. I already called and sorted it. Enjoy your day off!
She stared at the phone until an older woman in a twin set and buff-colored slacks approached from the elevator bank. “Miss Lovell?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Mr. Rotheby’s assistant, Amy. Will you come with me?”
Emma clicked her phone to silent, slid it into her bag, and followed Amy to her interview.
* * *
Emma pulled up to the small car park on the side of the road in a village called Cropredy and killed the ignition. She opened the back door and sat on the seat to swap her heels for mud-splattered wellies. Then she hid her purse under the driver’s seat, locked up, and set off across the bridge to the canal side.
She walked for about ten minutes over the dusty ground until a familiar yellow-and-blue stern with Darling Mae painted in white came into view.
“Ahoy, Captain!” she called up, shielding her eyes from the low-hanging sun.
Charlie, who was sitting on a deck chair with a glass of wine in his hand, looked down. “Look at you all dressed up. Date?”
“Since when have I been able to keep a date from you?” she asked.
He laughed, the gold light from the sunset catching the highlights of his brown skin as he threw his head back. “Better question: When was the last time you had a date?”
“Oh, thanks. May I come aboard?”
“Can you climb aboard in that skirt?” he asked.
She gave it a try, succeeding on her second attempt after hiking the skirt halfway up her thigh.
“You’re going to have the entire canal gossiping about me by sundown,” he said as she settled into the other deck chair. “Wine?”
“Please, but just the one. I drove over.”
“From where?”
She arched a brow. “You didn’t ask why when I told you I was taking the day off.”
“I was giving you space. Hold on.” He ducked down into the cabin and reemerged with a wineglass. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She took a long sip. “I was in London.”
Her friend let the silence stretch until finally he said, “Are you going to make me ask?”
She took a deep breath. “I had a job offer.”
“You’re not really dressed like a gardener today,” he pointed out.
The head of conservancy position… it didn’t really feel like a job for a gardener. She would have a team—not a crew. She would set policy for the Royal Botanical Heritage Society. She would consult on high-profile, special projects and have some media responsibilities. She would need to speak to donors.
She sat there in William Rotheby’s office listening to him speak enthusiastically about the guidance her real-world experience could bring to the organization and the conservation education program they wanted to start for small garden-design businesses like Turning Back Thyme. She could mentor members of staff, even teaching some of the professional courses herself if she liked. There would be a generous salary, perks, and benefits.
But she wouldn’t be a gardener any longer.
“I was at the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.”
“Loraine Jeffers told me they’re interviewing again. They called her after the hiring freeze thawed,” he said, naming one of their competitors. “If Loraine was up for it, I knew you must be in the mix.”
“I was headhunted for it just after the New Year.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
“I didn’t want to worry you or the crew if nothing came of it. We had the big job at Highbury, and Turning Back Thyme was my main priority. I didn’t want all of you to worry about where your next paycheck was going to come from.”
“Emma, I work for Turning Back Thyme because I like working here. I could get another job if I wanted to. People have offered.”
“They have?” she asked.
“You numpty, of course they have. I can run a crew. That’s valuable.”
“I’m sorry. Of course you can. I guess I was afraid that if I said anything, it might ruin our friendship.”
“I’d be a bloody awful friend if I was more worried about my job than your happiness. If the head of conservancy job is the right move for you, take it. I want you to be happy.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yeah, but it’s going to take me a couple weeks to get over the fact that you didn’t think I would be.”
“That’s fair.” She went quiet for a moment before saying, “I should take the job. They’re offering so much and it would be much less stress than running the business. It would be dumb not to.”
“But… ?” Charlie prompted.
She looked out over the water and the field dotted with cows on the other bank. “Those people in the office said such nice things and told me about the staff I’d have and what I could do. And do you know the only thing I could think of? How I wanted to be back in the winter garden, digging up the main bed.”
Charlie grinned. “You can take the girl out of the garden—”
“But you can’t get the dirt out from underneath her nails. I told them I didn’t want to move forward with the hiring process,” she said.
“Then you’re still in business?”
“Actually, I thought it’s time that we went into business. Together.”
Charlie’s chin jerked up. “What do you mean?”
“I should have asked you to become a partner years ago. You’re as much a part of Turning Back Thyme as I am.”
“Are you asking me to business marry you?”
She grinned. “I think I am. If you’ll have me.”
“You just want me to take care of the clients you don’t like,” he said.
“And payroll and a good seventy-five percent of the logistics and planning,” she said.
“You don’t enjoy it. I do,” he said.
“I was also thinking, we could run two jobs at once if we expanded to a second crew. It would mean twice the revenue and help protect against lean years. That is, if you want to do it. You can have some time to think on it.”
“As though I’d need to think on it, you numpty.”
She made a show of putting one hand on her hip. “You really need to stop calling me a ‘numpty’ if we’re going to stay friends, you deranged Scotsman.”
“Stuck-up southerner,” he threw out.
“I’m from Croydon.”
“Still the South. As business partner and best friend, can I give you some unsolicited advice?” Charlie asked.
“Doesn’t asking if you can give it make it solicited?” she asked.
“Shut up, Emma.” He laughed.
“Tell me,” she said.
“There’s been something different about you this year.”
She nodded. “I have pots.”
“You have pots. I’ve seen you going up to the house for a cup of tea with Sydney
or talking about the remodel with Andrew. You like them, and you like that village and that little house. You feel at home in Highbury.”
Home. The word seemed to expand to fill her chest. She didn’t know why, but she fit in Highbury. She loved the little cottage with the wood-burning stove and the huge beams on which she accidentally hit her head if she wasn’t careful. Somehow Lucy’s pub quiz had become a weekly habit, and the owners of the small grocery on Bridge Street knew her by name. And when she sat in her garden these days, she spent most of her time redesigning it a dozen different ways in her head.
“I think I want to stay in Highbury,” she said. “It feels right.”
“That’s the way I feel about the Darling Mae,” he said.
“But you’re mobile,” she said.
“The stretch of canal might change, but the boat stays the same.”
She set her glass down. “I’m going to head back to the cottage. I’m exhausted. Thanks for the wine.”
“Thanks for the business deal,” Charlie replied.
He waited until her leg was hitched over the railing of the Darling Mae to call out, “You know, if you did want to set down some roots in Highbury, you might start by asking that farmer out.”
She just saved herself from slipping. “I swear to God, Charlie, if I fall into the canal, I’m going to kill you.”
“Henry came by the gardens looking for you today.”
“Charlie!”
She just managed to hop off the bow onto the safety of solid ground, her blush fierce and her friend’s laughter following her back down the canal path.
• DIANA •
OCTOBER 1944
Diana was lying on Robin’s bed when Father Devlin came to her.
“Mrs. Symonds, I thought I might sit awhile,” he said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to greet a woman lying in a child’s bed, a jumper pillowed under her head.