“You’ve already met the brother, then,” said Mr. Hillock, pushing his felt hat back on his head with a thumb.
“Yes, when I came from London earlier this month,” I said.
“He’s a talent for the roses. He brought me a few varieties when Mr. and Mrs. Melcourt bought Highbury House. Said he wanted me to let him know how they got on.”
“And?”
Mr. Hillock scrubbed a hand over his whiskered chin and, just before Mr. Goddard came to a halt in front of us, said, “They’re growing like weeds.”
“Miss Smith, Mr. Hillock. It’s good to see you both. I was just stopping in to see my sister on my way to Warwick for some business, but she isn’t here.” Mr. Goddard looked around him. “You’re making quick progress.”
“The sooner the architecture of the garden is in place, the sooner I’ll be able to begin directing the planting,” I said.
“It looks as though you’ve already begun.” He nodded to the heavy leather gloves that were tucked into the pocket of the apron covering my long brown skirt. They were coated in mud, as were my heavy garden boots.
“There are a few good buddleia growing near the greenhouses. I was pruning them back earlier to make moving them more manageable later,” I said.
“When will you begin planting?” he asked.
“April, maybe earlier if the weather is favorable,” I said.
Mr. Goddard cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for Helen. Half of the time she tells me I’m wasting my time growing roses. The rest of the time she expands upon my horticultural genius.”
“The relationships between brothers and sisters can be complicated, as my brother Adam would surely agree. I would be happy to do what I can to incorporate some of your roses in my design,” I said.
He placed a hand to his heart. “It would be a great honor to play a small role in any design of yours, Miss Smith.” Then he bowed and left.
It wasn’t until hours later, when I was soaking my aching feet in a bath of salts and dried lavender, that I had cause to think of Mr. Goddard again when I heard a sharp rap at my door.
Hastily I dried my feet and jammed them into a pair of old slippers. I opened the door a crack, peering around.
A maid stood on the doorstep. She dropped into a curtsy. “Evening, miss.”
“Hello. What’s your name?” I asked.
The girl dipped her chin. “I’m Clara, Miss Smith.”
“Well, Clara, what can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Melcourt bids you come to dinner. If you wish,” said Clara.
If I wished. Was it a request or an order? And was the invitation willingly given or prompted by Mr. Melcourt, who seemed more interested in my work at Highbury House than his wife? For, while I might be a gentleman’s daughter, I knew that the lady would not be accustomed to inviting professional women to her table.
“Please tell Mrs. Melcourt I should be delighted to come to dinner,” I said.
I moved to close the door when Clara fished a letter out of her neatly pressed pinafore pocket. “Also, this came with the afternoon post, miss.”
I accepted the letter with thanks. She bobbed another curtsy and practically scrambled down the path. I wondered if she would race to the kitchen to tell the other maids of the eccentric woman covered in a day’s worth of dust who was going to dine with the master and mistress that evening.
I slid my finger under the letter’s seal. The message was written directly onto the back of the paper folded into an envelope.
Dear Miss Smith,
I hope you won’t feel it’s impudent of me to invite you to visit my nursery this Friday morning at eleven o’clock. It’s rare that I meet someone who shares my passion for plants, and I should welcome the opportunity to show you my collection.
Yours,
Matthew Goddard
Wisteria Farm, Wilmcote
I stared at the letter for a moment. Impudent? What could be less impudent than an invitation to view roses?
I shook my head and set the letter down to go in search of my third-best dress and a pair of shoes fit to be seen.
• EMMA •
Emma stood with her hands on her hips, staring at what had once probably been a beautiful trough of water dotted with waterlilies.
“We’ll need to dig it out entirely, repour, and reline it,” she said.
“It doesn’t look like there was a water feature,” said Charlie, making a note on his phone.
She frowned. “I’ve never heard of Venetia using pumped water in her gardens, but without plans—”
“It’s impossible to know.” Her friend nodded. “Have you got Sydney digging into the family archives?”
She gave a laugh. “You know me well.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you let an owner off the hook on a restoration.”
“In the end, it’s their garden. They have to care, too. Come here, I want to show you something.”
“It would be nice if Sydney could find a long-lost diary and cache of Venetia’s letters,” said Charlie as they set off down the overgrown yew-lined path that formed the top edge of the water garden and the mysterious room next to it.
“With a neat description of where everything was planted, and why. We can dream.”
“You know, we’ve definitely done gardens in worse shape,” he pushed.
“You might not feel that way after you see this,” she said as they broke through a gap in the yew and caught sight of the wild mess of brambles and branches over the top of the winter garden’s brick wall.
Charlie let out a low whistle. “If it looks this bad from out here…”
“I can’t even imagine what’s inside,” she finished.
“What do you know about it?”
“Sydney says it’s a winter garden,” she said.
“Then why is there a twenty-foot buddleia growing out of the middle of it? That’s not a winter plant,” he said.
“Because buddleia will seed anywhere it can. It gets even better,” she said, leading him around the curve of the wall until they got to the gate. “According to Sydney, this has never been unlocked in her lifetime.”
“Sinister,” said Charlie, giving the gate a shake. Rust shed bright orange against his dark brown skin. “It’s well made, but there’s no way it was treated like this for more than one hundred years.”
She squinted, trying to see past the tangle of branches. Even in late February, thick greenery obscured the view. The tangle of climbing rose and the bright red bark of dogwoods were easy to spot. And was that a hellebore struggling out from under an unpruned camellia? It was hard to tell.
“This looks like at least twenty, thirty years of growth. Someone’s probably used a ladder to hack at the worst of it when it’s started to creep into the rest of the garden. Look at the cuts to that dogwood,” said Charlie, pointing up at the oddly slanted tree.
“Sydney said the gardeners cut things back once a year.” Charlie shot her a look, and she added, “I’ll have her bring a new team in before we leave.”
“So how do we get into the winter garden? And what do we find when we get there?”