My delight at an outing to meet another gardener was dampened by Mrs. Melcourt, who stood at the front door, watching her brother hand me into his old but serviceable gig. Mrs. Melcourt’s mouth pinched as Mr. Goddard climbed up and flicked the reins, and off we went.
We rode through the Gloucestershire countryside, where the blackthorn and wych elm were blooming in the hedgerow. At Hidcote Manor, we were greeted by a stable hand who held the horse steady while we dismounted. Another man, older and graying at the temples, explained that Mr. Johnston was with his estate manager but would join us shortly if we would like to begin walking the grounds.
We walked slowly, Mr. Goddard leaving me mostly in silence to study the garden unfolding under Mr. Johnston’s direction. But when he asked questions, they were intelligent, pointed. He may have claimed to lack a creative spirit, but he had an eye and seemed to understand the structure of the new garden.
Snow was still mounded in the shade thrown from trees lining the fields as we reached the place where the cultivated garden gave way to countryside. A biting wind whipped the hem of my wool coat, and I settled my knitted muffler a little closer around my neck.
“Are you too cold?” asked Mr. Goddard, a furrow etching in his brow.
“I’ve weathered worse,” I said with a smile before turning at the crack of a breaking twig behind us.
“Hullo, Goddard,” called the man in a flat American accent.
“Johnston.” Mr. Goddard clasped hands with the man before turning to me. “Miss Smith, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Johnston.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Welcome to Hidcote Manor, Miss Smith.” He seemed impervious to the cold, although his clothing was far too neat for him to have come from gardening, so perhaps he hadn’t had the chance to chill to the bone yet.
“What you’re building here is beautiful,” I said.
“It is quite the change from before. Hidcote had a small garden, but what you see was mostly field,” said Mr. Johnston as we began to walk back in the direction of the house. “One day, I hope this area will be a wilderness of sorts. All carefully planned, of course,” he added with a smile.
“Creating a fantasy of nature is part of the gardener’s role,” I said.
“Precisely,” said Mr. Johnston. “And you have Goddard, who is more interested in the science of plants than their beauty.”
“You judge me too harshly,” Mr. Goddard protested good-naturedly. “To study a plant is to understand its beauty fundamentally. Learning how two roses might cross and create something more beautiful and hardier is a revelation.”
Mr. Johnston turned to me conspiratorially. “You should ask him to show you his greenhouses.”
“Mr. Goddard has already been kind enough to invite me to Wisteria Farm,” I said.
Mr. Johnston’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”
“Miss Smith has taken on the burden of my sister’s request to incorporate some of my roses into her design,” Mr. Goddard said.
“It’s no burden,” I said quickly. It’s true. I enjoy his company and the way he seems unable to contain his excitement for what fascinates him. Even more, I enjoy his easy manner. He doesn’t treat me as though I’m made of bone china or an oddity playing at being a gardener.
Whether Mr. Johnston thought anything of this exchange, I couldn’t tell. Instead, he said, “Tell me about your plans for Highbury House.”
I described the grounds to him, and he smiled when I mentioned the reflecting pool.
“And the plantings?” he asked.
“Loose and natural, as though the garden sprung up fully formed out of nowhere,” I said, running my fingers over the broad leaves of a hydrangea. “Highbury’s rooms will all be characterized by a repetition of plants to create borders, but I don’t wish for it to feel too formal. For instance, I would plant this Hydrangea aspera Villosa in the poet’s garden or around the edges of the water garden, where it might receive a little shade. In twenty years, it should cast its own shade. Who knows what might spring up beneath it?”
“Certain plants that will shoot up like weeds given the right soil,” agreed Mr. Johnston.
A man waved to Mr. Johnston from nearer to the house.
“Please excuse me, but I see I’m needed,” said Mr. Johnston. “Please feel free to roam at will. I know you’re in good hands with Goddard, but I hope you’ll find me before you leave.”
“I’m very happy you brought me here,” I said as Hidcote’s owner walked briskly away.
“It’s me who should be thanking you, Miss Smith,” Mr. Goddard said as he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.
I laughed. “What do you have to thank me for? I’ve done nothing.”
“You’ve given me the one thing I wanted.”
My breath caught when our eyes met, an intensity I hadn’t seen before in his dark blue eyes. “What is that?”
“An afternoon with you.”
“Mr. Goddard—”
He covered my hand with his, squeezing it gently. “I just wanted you to know. Nothing else. Now, shall we walk back to the house?”
• EMMA •
I know, Mum,” said Emma, her phone clutched in her hand so hard her knuckles ached.
“I just don’t understand. Did you do something wrong?” her mother asked for the third time in ten minutes.
“Eileen,” Dad said in that tone he always used when Mum was being particularly outrageous.
“It’s a hiring freeze. They happen all the time,” she said as she turned onto Bridge Street and crossed the Tach Brook, which was running high from the spring rains.
“Are you upset, Emma?” Dad asked.
Was she? Her pride was wounded, she couldn’t deny that. And neither could she ignore the temptations of working for a foundation rather than herself: security, benefits, a regular paycheck, time off for holidays. She had none of those things right now, but she did have Turning Back Thyme.
“Emma?” her father prompted.
She shifted her canvas bag full of groceries higher on her shoulder. “I’m thinking,” she said.
“I could phone Bethany,” said Mum. “She’s very high and mighty these days and doesn’t always remember that we grew up on the same block in Croydon, but I think her cousin’s husband plays golf with the executive director at the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.”
“No thanks, Mum. If they don’t have the budget, it’s not going to help. Besides, I’m months away from finishing the job at Highbury,” she said. And months away from being able to take on more work. If only she could clone herself so that she could work two jobs at the same time…
A motorcycle sped by, its engine gunning.
“Where are you?” Dad asked.
“Just walking home,” she said.
“Home?” Mum asked.
“Bow Cottage,” she corrected herself.
“Good, because for a moment there it sounded like—”
“Oh, leave her alone, Eileen,” Dad said with a laugh. Emma could imagine him playfully nudging his wife.
“All I’m saying is that if you’re going to settle down, make it somewhere near London or Surrey, Emma. Not the Midlands,” said Mum.