“I never had much talent for it myself, much to my mother’s disappointment. She was rather Victorian in her belief that a lady should be proficient in drawing, painting, dancing, singing, and at least one instrument. As an all-around student, I was a bit of a disappointment.”
“I can’t imagine that, ma’am,” said Beth.
“Oh, I had talent. It was just taken over completely by the harp. I had a foolish notion once that I might play professionally, but of course that was impossible.”
“The harp is such a beautiful instrument. Do you still play?”
Mrs. Symonds’s lips tightened. “I gave it up after I married. Would you care for a tour?”
The sudden snap from one subject to the next knocked Beth back a bit, but she managed to say, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
Mrs. Symonds plucked a large iron key out of a bowl on the mantel. “Come along.”
Beth followed the lady through the corridors, awed at the way she seemed to glide rather than walk. She supposed it made sense: Mrs. Symonds was from a class in which being a gentleman’s daughter still mattered. Elegance would have been trained into her from an early age.
“Little has changed in this garden since it was first planted,” said Mrs. Symonds as they strolled through a garden room planted in sweet, pale colors that Beth had only stolen a glimpse of once. “My husband could have told you about its creation in more detail. I’m afraid he was the family scholar. I do know that this is the tea garden. It has a sweet little gazebo, although it’s looking rather in need of a coat of paint. I shall have to speak to Mr. Gilligan about that.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Beth as they passed into a space filled with rich red tulips that stood tall among the spring foliage.
Mrs. Symonds seemed to relax as she looked around. “It is, isn’t it? It smells divine when the jasmine is in full bloom. I’ll take you to my favorite part.”
They wound their way through the different rooms until they reached the crushed gravel walk leading to the iron gate that Beth had seen on her first visit.
“This is the winter garden,” said Mrs. Symonds.
Beth stole a glance around as the other woman unlocked the winter garden, but the toy she’d spotted the first time she’d visited was nowhere to be seen.
Inside the winter garden’s walls, things seemed quieter, as though the dial of the volume of the entire world had been turned down. A copse of bloodred trees that lined the north wall of the circular garden were covered in pale green new leaves. Everything was still, including the pool of water in the center.
“I like the peace of this place,” said Mrs. Symonds, looking around.
“Why do you lock it?” she asked.
“When I began to work in the gardens after Murray went away to war, I learned that there are a few nastier plants that look beautiful but that you wouldn’t want a toddler putting in his mouth. I worried about Robin getting in.” Mrs. Symonds hesitated. “But I suppose I really started locking it after Murray died. We spent many days in here when we first moved to Highbury.”
“It’s special to you,” she said.
Mrs. Symonds looked down at the key in her hand, her forehead creased. “Yes. It is.”
A silence stretched between them, weighted down, no doubt, with Mrs. Symonds’s memories. When the older woman looked up, Beth saw that she’d schooled her features into the expression of aloof perfection she usually wore.
“I will leave you to your drawing, Miss Pedley. If you wish to use the winter garden, ask Mrs. Dibble for the key. There are two, so she should be able to retrieve it even if I have one. You can return it to her when you’re through. And if the boys venture in, do watch them, please,” said Mrs. Symonds.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
Mrs. Symonds handed her the key with a crisp nod. “Somehow, Miss Pedley, I feel that if anyone will appreciate the winter garden’s beauty, you will.”
* * *
Beth had drawn and rubbed out a sketch of what she thought was monkshood—although she couldn’t be sure without seeing its purple flowers in bloom—twice, when she heard children’s voices. She lifted her head in time to see a flash of blue and black race by the winter garden’s gate accompanied by a shrill “It’s open! It’s open!”
Seconds later, two little boys came crashing into the still of the garden. Immediately Beth recognized Bobby, Stella’s nephew, from a rare Saturday delivery when Bobby hadn’t been in school. The second boy, also dark-haired, although a little taller, must be Robin Symonds.
“Hello,” she called, folding her hands over her sketchbook.
The two boys froze like they’d been caught doing something naughty.
“Who are you?” asked Robin.
“I’m…” She cast around for the words, settling on, “An acquaintance of your mother’s. Who are you?”
“I’m Robin, and this is Bobby. We’re best friends,” the boy announced.
Bobby grinned, and Beth’s heart ached. She remembered wanting a friend so badly during those lonely years after her parents died. Colin had been such a lifeline, his letters and the occasional meeting in town precious to her. However, now when she got his letters, she couldn’t shake the slight nagging feeling of dread that she’d have to answer them and try her best to match the things he said.
Shaking her guilt off, she stuck out her hand for each of the boys to shake. “I’m Beth Pedley.”
“What are you doing?” Bobby asked after solemnly shaking her hand like a grown-up.
“I’m drawing. What are you doing?”
“Playing pirates. There’s buried treasure here,” said Robin.
“What’s this I hear?” a voice boomed from the other side of the wall. “Talking to pretty ladies already? You’re far too young for that.”
“Oh!” She scrambled up from her spot on the grass, spilling her sketchbook and box of pencils just as Captain Hastings came through the gate.
“We’ll help!” Robin called, surging forward. The boys fell to her feet, fighting to scoop up the pencils.
“Hello, Miss Pedley,” said Captain Hastings. “It seems as though you have acquired a couple of Prince Charmings, whether you want them or not.”
“They are true knights in shining armor,” she agreed with a laugh.
“What are you drawing?” Robin asked.
She tilted her sketchbook down to show the boys. “I’m doing a very poor job of sketching that monkshood.”
“I want to draw!” Robin exclaimed.
“Yeah!” Bobby echoed.
“Boys,” Captain Hastings warned. “Miss Pedley might not have any paper to share.”
Their faces fell.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Beth hurried to say. “Really it is. I can share.”
She flipped open the back of her sketchbook, where she kept Colin’s envelopes and bits of paper that had only been printed on one side. It would be a shame to waste good paper on bad ideas, so she often tried a quick drawing on scrap before she committed to her sketchbook. Only the occasion of drawing in a grand house’s garden had made her upend her routine.