“My dear,” said the woman in white, who I presumed was Mrs. Melcourt.
The child stopped at once. From the armchair rose the barrel-chested Mr. Melcourt, wearing a suit of inky black.
“Miss Smith,” the housekeeper announced.
“Thank you, Mrs. Creasley. Please show her in,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
Mrs. Creasley stepped back so I could take her place.
“Miss Smith, I trust your journey was not too difficult,” said Mr. Melcourt with a curt nod of his head.
I watched, fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple bounced against the stiff collar of his shirt. Was every member of the household a prisoner to starch?
“It was very pleasant, thank you,” I said.
“My wife, Mrs. Melcourt,” said Mr. Melcourt.
I gave a shallow curtsy, which Mrs. Melcourt returned with a slight nod. She did not rise.
“Are those the plans?” Mr. Melcourt asked eagerly.
I lifted my cardboard tube. “They are.”
“I trust that corresponding with Mr. Hillock was helpful,” he said.
“He’s a very knowledgeable man.” A good head gardener can be a great asset in executing a new design. Long after I leave Highbury, Mr. Hillock will be charged with maintaining the spirit of my creation.
“Would you like to see the latest drawings?” I asked.
Mr. Melcourt nodded. Mrs. Melcourt managed only a small smile, sent the children away, and rose to join her husband’s side.
As I unrolled my plans on a rosewood table, I studied my employers over my steel-rimmed spectacles. I don’t strictly need them for anything other than detailed sketching, but I’ve found that people vastly underestimate a bespectacled woman, most often to my advantage.
“We will start with the overall vision for the grounds. You told me that you wanted to combine formal and natural styles for a sense of elegance and surprise. The great lawn is your formality.” I pointed to the rectangular shape that represented the long stretch of grass that already existed at Highbury House. “The view from your veranda down to the lakeside is beautiful, but it is missing something to draw the eye. A sense of drama. We will cut stairs into the slope and create a small wall edged with plantings. The stairs will lead down to a wide, shallow reflecting pool and then an uninterrupted stretch of lawn all the way down to the lake.”
“Will you remove the trees at the edge of the lake?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You have mature beech, birch, and hawthorn trees that will lend the property a sense of history. You’ll find that the most formal parts of the garden are also those nearest to the house, where you are most likely to entertain.” I glanced up at Mrs. Melcourt. “Perhaps your guests will picnic or play croquet on the lawn and then wander the long border that will run along the eastern edge of the lawn or the lime walk and shade borders opposite. As they approach the lake, the garden will naturally transition to a looser, wilder style.”
Mr. Melcourt’s lip curled. “Wilder.”
“Mr. Cunningham and Mr. McCray both hesitated when I suggested such a move, but I can assure you that they are pleased with the result,” I said, mentioning two wealthy industrialists who were members of the same London club as Mr. Melcourt.
I held my breath, because this was the telling moment. Would the Melcourts be the sort of clients who thought they wanted new, beautiful, and innovative but really sought the comforting familiarity of the strictly manicured, formal spaces of the previous century’s gardens? Or would they allow me to give them something so much more—a lived-in, lush piece of art more vibrant than any painting?
“McCray did mention that you have some radical ideas,” said Mr. Melcourt. “However, he told me that the effect has won him nothing but praise.”
When his wife raised no objections, I smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Quickly, I pulled free a detail of the long border next, showing him how tall columns of clematis would tower over roses, Echinops, campanulas, allium, and delphiniums in soft pinks, whites, silvers, and purples. I showed them how walls of hedge and brick would create garden rooms of varying themes just to the west of the shade border. I warned them that some elements of the garden would take time: the lime trees would need to be carefully pleached each year by tying in flexible young shoots to give the impression of walking between two living walls. We talked about which pieces from the Melcourts’ growing collection would look best in the sculpture garden, and where the children might play.
A distant bell rang in the house, but the Melcourts hardly looked up.
“I’ve maintained the kitchen and herb gardens to the side of the house. There’s no need to move them, and the orchard is already mature and producing fruit for you,” I said.
“But so close to the house,” murmured Mrs. Melcourt.
I understood the lady’s objections immediately. “At the moment, you have only a yew hedge separating the kitchen garden from the rest of the property. I would recommend building a wall between the kitchen garden and the garden rooms to create a greater sense of separation between the gardens for work and for pleasure. I can show you if you like.”
A man’s heavy footsteps raised all of our heads as a newcomer joined us. Unlike Mr. Melcourt’s, this man’s tie was slightly askew, and even from where I was standing I could see the splatters of mud on the cuffs of his trousers.
“Matthew!” Mrs. Melcourt exclaimed, her coolness transforming into real affection.
“Hello, Helen. You look lovely today,” said the gentleman, kissing her on the cheek before shaking Mr. Melcourt’s hand.
“Miss Smith, may I present my brother, Mr. Matthew Goddard,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“How do you do, Miss Smith,” said Mr. Goddard, taking my hand. It was warm in spite of the frozen temperatures and unexpectedly rough for a gentleman.
“I must confess, Miss Smith,” Mr. Goddard continued, “I came to Highbury House on the hope of meeting you today. I’m a great admirer of your work.”
I jerked back a fraction, breaking our connection. “You are?”
“I visited Longmarsh House last year. The gardens are exquisite,” Mr. Goddard said.
I relaxed a little, remembering Longmarsh and Lady Mallory with affection. A widow with a passion for nature and a difficult property situated high on a hill, Lady Mallory had been my first major patron after my father’s death. The project had been wildly ambitious, requiring building terraces into the hills and creating seven levels of planting. I had made mistakes along the way, as any new designer might, but when I finished, Lady Mallory had declared it her own Hanging Garden of Babylon.
“It is kind of you to say so, sir,” I said.
Mrs. Melcourt glanced between us, as though looking for something. Finally, she said, “That is great praise indeed, Miss Smith. Matthew is a talented botanist and has an eye for these things.”
My stomach dropped. Nothing gives me less pleasure than finding an amateur lurking around one of my commissions. Often he is the gentleman of the house who, having been born into wealth, decides that he should cultivate a hobby. He reads extensively about plants and even tries digging a hole from time to time, but the bulk of the work is given over to his oft-harried gardener. Winter pruning when the wind snaps the skin on your face raw. Digging drainage ditches in the hot sun. Dibbling and planting hundreds of bulbs on hands and knees to create bluebell meadows for April. The gentleman gardener wants no part of it, and so he has no practical knowledge of gardening, no matter how much he insists that his opinions should be taken into consideration.