“No, it’s got too many letters,” said Charlie, pushing his ball cap up to scratch his forehead.
“Celeste,” said Emma. “Celeste’s garden.”
“Who was Celeste? And why is it written in someone else’s handwriting?” Sydney asked.
Emma’s gaze flicked back to the faint writing. “I don’t know about a Celeste. And you’re right. Someone else wrote that in.”
“Is it anywhere else?” Sydney asked.
Methodically Emma sifted through the sheets, revealing details of all the major parts of the garden. Some of the details even had planting lists and diagrams of the borders. The children’s garden—overgrown with self-seeding wildflowers now—had once held impatiens, foxgloves, poppies, and gerbera daisies. Down the side of the poet’s garden’s detail was a list of flowers with their corresponding poets. A detail of the winter garden was drawn on a smaller sheet of paper that looked as though it had been ripped from a notebook.
“No ‘Celeste’ on this one,” said Sydney. “Did she have a sister?”
“Just her brother, Adam,” Emma said.
“What about her mother?” Charlie asked.
Emma screwed up her lips trying to remember. “I think her name was Julie or Juliet or something like that.”
Charlie pulled out his phone for a quick search. “Her mother’s name was Juliet. Middle name Caroline.”
Emma stared down at the faint pencil markings. Who is Celeste?
“These are still good, right?” asked Sydney, interrupting Emma’s thoughts.
Emma looked up. “Do you know how rare it is to find such an important collection of drawings?”
“No idea,” said Sydney cheerfully. “Tech is my world.”
“These drawings should be in an archive somewhere, or at least preserved correctly,” she said.
“If you want them to be placed in an archive, either on loan or as a donation. It’s your choice, Sydney,” said Charlie.
“But first we want to keep them here, right?” Sydney glanced between them. “You can use them to make sure that you’re restoring Highbury House’s gardens exactly as they were.”
Emma nodded, even though proper preservation should have been her first priority. To be one of the few people in the world to know about a new set of Venetia Smith drawings was simply extraordinary.
“Well, maybe we can hold on to them until the time is right, and then you can help me find the right people to take care of them,” said Sydney with a sly smile.
“There’s a man I know, Professor Wayland, who would probably write ballads to you if he knew that you had original Venetia Smith drawings, especially for a garden we know so little about,” said Emma.
“Just wait until your friend sees this, then,” said Sydney, handing over the file folder.
Emma’s heart beat a little faster as she opened up the file. Instead of Venetia’s handwriting, she was confronted with a letter written in another—bolder, slashing—hand. She flipped it over. It was signed Adam Smith.
“This is from Venetia’s brother. He acted as her man of business when she was working in the UK,” she said.
Charlie leaned over her shoulder and began to read, “ ‘Dear Mr. Melcourt, please find included in this letter the bill of sale for thirty-six four-year-old limes intended for planting along the lime walk.’ ”
“The next one starts, ‘Dear Mr. Melcourt, Please find included in this letter the bill of sale for twelve bare-root peonies of three varieties.’ ” Emma looked up at Charlie. “There are peonies in the tea garden.”
“So this stuff is helpful?” Sydney asked.
“It’s incredible,” she said. “It’s about as close as we can get to knowing what Venetia planted without having a treatise from her on the subject.”
A knock came at the study door, and Andrew pushed it open, bearing a tea tray. “Hello. Why do I feel as though there’s a party I haven’t been invited to?”
“Oh, Andrew, you’re a star. Would you put that tray over there?” Sydney pointed to a sideboard. Emma was about to warn about liquids anywhere near the drawings and receipts when Sydney said, “We might need to have tea standing up to keep it away from the documents.”
While Andrew took milk and sugar preferences and poured tea, Sydney filled him in. When they were all settled with mugs in hands, Andrew said, “You should ask Henry if his grandmother did any sketches of the garden.”
“Oh, that is a good idea. Henry Jones owns Highbury House Farm. His grandmother, Beth, was a land girl on another local farm near here. She ended up becoming an artist of some acclaim in the sixties, doing paintings of Warwickshire landscapes.”
“We should be seeing Henry at the pub quiz this week. You’d be very welcome to come along,” said Sydney.
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Emma quickly. “If you still want to go for historical accuracy in re-creating the garden, I’m going to need to scrap most of my plans.”
“Yes,” said Sydney firmly. “Let’s bring the garden back to the way it was.”
“It’s going to delay the project,” Emma warned.
“This house is one giant delay,” said Sydney.
“She’s not wrong,” said Andrew.
“Okay, then. I’d better get started. I’m going to spend some time going through these,” said Emma.
“Do you want a hand?” Andrew asked. “I’m not promising that I’ll know what I’m looking at, but I like systems.”
“Sure,” said Emma.
“Maybe you could help me with a couple of questions about access to the property, Sydney. We’re going to need to bring in a lot of compost to improve the soil,” said Charlie.
“There’s access via the farm road and the gate at the back near the greenhouses. I can show you,” said Sydney.
“Perfect,” said Charlie.
When Sydney and Charlie left, Emma and Andrew settled into a companionable quiet. As Emma began to read through Adam Smith’s letters, she almost forgot Andrew was there. Between the letters and the drawings, it was easy to lose herself.
She was reading a three-page list of plants when Andrew cleared his throat. She looked up. “Did you find something?”
“Not unless you’re interested in the irrigation system installed in the kitchen garden in 1976,” he said.
“Not really.”
“I thought not. No, I just wanted to say, I hope you aren’t too thrown by Sydney’s invitation to the pub quiz.”
“Thrown?” she repeated.
“She wasn’t just being polite about inviting you. She’d be genuinely delighted if you came. If you wanted to.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” she hurried to say.
He laughed. “Trust me, you weren’t rude. Just know that you’re always very welcome.”
For a moment, she considered what it would be like to walk into a village pub and find friendly faces waiting for her. A tiny part of her liked the idea that someone might have a drink ready for her. That she might be a part of something. But that was where danger lay. She didn’t socialize with her clients—even those she liked—because it just made it harder to unpick her temporary life and move on at the end of a job.