“Miss Smith is just showing us what she has planned for Highbury, Matthew. You should join us,” said Mr. Melcourt.
Mr. Goddard made a half bow. “I would never want to impose.”
I just managed to keep my smile. “It would be no imposition.”
Mrs. Melcourt called for a maid to fetch everyone’s things. Despite the sun, the February day was bitterly cold, so we bundled up tightly.
On the veranda, I quickly pointed out where the reflecting pool, lime walk, and borders would be. Mr. Goddard listened intently, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He asked a question here and there, but nothing more.
Then we walked down to where the edge of the lawn met the house. “There will be a gate here,” I said, gesturing beyond the kitchen garden, where now only stood a gravel path. “If we step through here, this will be the first of the garden rooms.”
“What is this one’s theme?” Mr. Melcourt asked.
“The tea garden. A gazebo will provide some shelter for you and your guests from the sun or sudden changes in weather.”
For the first time since I began describing the garden, Mrs. Melcourt’s lips curved up. “How thoughtful.” Then her eyes slid to me. “Will there be roses in this garden?”
“I thought to grow them against the pillars of the gazebo,” I said, pointing to the plans I’d brought with us.
“They’ll be Matthew’s roses, of course,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“Helen, I’m sure Miss Smith has her own suppliers.” Mr. Goddard cast me an apologetic smile. “I merely dabble in breeding roses. Please do not feel obligated to change your plans.”
“He’s too modest. I would be very pleased if you were to use Matthew’s roses.” Despite the veneer of politeness, I knew that it was more order than request.
I bristled. The roses I’d planned for the tea garden were a pale pink moss rose variety called ‘Madame Louis Leveque’ that had been developed not a decade ago. They would not be difficult to replace with something similar, but I did not appreciate Mrs. Melcort’s interference.
You must remember that a garden is a collaboration. My father’s long-held advice echoed in my head. It should be the very best of you and your clients, but never forget that it is nature to whom you must defer at all times.
And so, biting back a sigh, I said, “I’m sure we can come to an agreement on a suitable rose for the tea garden.”
“And the others, in the other rooms?” asked Mrs. Melcourt.
“Perhaps you could provide me with an inventory of your stock,” I said, trying my best not to grit my teeth.
Mr. Goddard sent me an apologetic look. “It would be best if you came to look for yourself. Wilmcote is just six miles away.”
“Now that’s settled, what of the other rooms?” Mr. Melcourt said.
I breathed deep, determined to regain control of my plans. “From the tea garden there will be the lovers’ garden done all in vibrant colors with your statue of Eros at the center, then the pastel children’s garden with cherry trees, followed by the all-white bridal garden. After that will be a water garden to encourage contemplation. Mr. Melcourt, I’m given to understand that you are something of a poet?”
He beamed. “I had a volume published just last year.”
Adam researches our clients well, so I already knew this. Still, I mimicked surprise and said, “It may please you to know, then, that I have planned a poet’s garden with nods to many great poets. From there, a sculpture garden to feature your collection, a winter garden, and a lavender walk. At the bottom, a gravel walk lined on the southern side by trees. Beyond those trees, before you come to the lake, will be the ramble. I’ll construct paths and plant it through with spring-blooming bulbs before it gradually fades into the wood, stretching to the lake’s edge and giving way to Highbury House Farm’s fields.”
I watched the three look between the plans and the rather uninspired, repeated boxes of bedding plants and lawn that made up the garden now. I wanted them to see it as I did. To understand what it could be.
“It will be surprising, unexpected.” I glanced at the rings on Mrs. Melcourt’s fingers and the pearl tiepin centered at her husband’s throat. “And impressive. The garden will tell a story that your guests will be able to enjoy over and over again.”
A look passed between husband and wife. Finally, Mr. Melcourt said, “I think you have quite the task ahead of you, Miss Smith. We shall look forward to seeing it come to life.”
• BETH •
21 February 1944
Dearest Beth,
It still feels strange to address you as “dearest,” but I think I’ll come to like it. We have been on the march these past two days, which is why this letter will reach you a few days late. I hope you won’t think I’m neglecting you already.
Even in February the sun sits higher in the sky than it does back home, and I find myself missing the mist of an English winter. So strange to think that just a few weeks ago, the men in my unit and I were all complaining about the sticky mud clinging to our boots during drills. The war is more real than I could ever describe on paper—not that the censors would allow it.
I think every day about the last time we spoke. Maybe I should feel guilt over asking you so abruptly to be my girl, as the American GIs would say. I hadn’t planned to do it over the telephone, but I wanted to hear your voice.
Knowing that you’re at home, waiting for me, gives me the strength to face whatever might be ahead of me in battle.
With all my affection,
Colin
The train shuddered to a stop in Royal Leamington Spa Station, and up and down the line people began to pour out onto the platform. Beth clung to the handrail, doing her best to balance the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and avoid tipping over as she stepped down. When her practical, low-heeled shoes hit the cement, she exhaled.
At last.
The train ride from London had taken twice as long as it should’ve, inconsistent service being a hallmark of wartime travel. And that wasn’t even counting the early-morning leg of her journey up from the agricultural college where she’d done her training. But now, she was almost to Temple Fosse Farm, which would be her home for the foreseeable future.
Rebalancing her bag, she started to make her way down the platform, looking out for Mr. Penworthy. She had no idea what he looked like or if he would be able to single her out from all the other travelers. She should have changed into her uniform in the Marylebone Station loo like her land girl’s manual recommended, except she’d known that this train ride would be the last time she’d wear her own clothes in… well, she didn’t know how long.
Her life was about to become all soil and crops and weather and harvest. She’d heard during her training that the isolation of rural life could be difficult for city girls like her, but she’d spent her childhood on a farm. She was sure it would be like returning home. Besides, in some counties, the land girls arranged dances in neighboring villages and towns on the occasional evening. She hoped Warwickshire would be so well organized.
The crowd on the platform began to thin as people made their way to the station lobby. The wind lifted her brushed-out blond pin curls, and she was patting them back into place when she spotted an older man standing by the waiting room door, woolen flat cap clasped between his hands and olive-green waxed jacket hanging loose from his shoulders. She let her hand fall to the strap of her bag and, swallowing down a bubble of fear, walked straight up to him.