“What is it?” he asked, leaning in.
“We haven’t been able to get into this garden yet. We don’t have access through the gate, so we need to spend some time cutting a path in, but there are no detailed plans. I didn’t want to damage something irreplaceable, so it keeps falling to the bottom of the list.”
“And this helps?” he asked.
She nodded. “Now I know what it was supposed to look like when it was mature. It’s not the exact same garden Venetia planted—nothing is ever quite as intended because some plants fail and some thrive. But this at least guides the way.”
He sat back. “Good. I’m glad it helps.”
She studied the page. She wanted to stand in the middle of it, the shallow dish of water in front of her, and put it to rights once again.
She shook her head, bringing herself back to the moment. “Is there much else in this one?”
“Just this.” He reached over and flipped to the last page of the sketchbook. One sketch dominated it. It showed two boys sitting against a background of shrubs. Their heads were bent, the hair falling across one of their brows while he watched the other play with a toy lorry.
“The detail is wonderful,” she said, admiring how the dashed pencil lines came together to form such a sure image.
“I wondered who they were.”
“Sydney’s grandfather and one of his playmates, I would think. I could ask Sydney when I’m next up at the house. She probably has some photographs,” she said.
“You should take these for as long as you need. It’ll save you time,” he offered.
“I appreciate you trusting me with them.”
The song switched, and Otis Redding’s voice filled the back patio.
“I’m happy to, but I’ll warn you, my interest’s piqued,” he said.
She hesitated, and then said, “You know, if you have the urge to see them, you could drop by.”
“Be careful, I might not be able to resist an offer like that from a woman with such good taste in music.” He nodded to the portable speaker sitting on the patio table. “ ‘These Arms of Mine.’ Great song.”
“There’s this guy who keeps coming around in these band shirts. He’s got me listening to all of this music I wouldn’t normally. It must be the power of suggestion.”
“I hope he isn’t bothering you,” he said.
She smiled. “No. He’s not bothering me.”
“Good,” he said before standing. “I should get out of your way.”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“How tired are you right now?”
“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked. “Probably an eleven.”
He laughed. “Then I should go.”
She rose and took his bottle from him as he looked around again.
“Pots,” he declared.
“I’m sorry?”
“You could get some pots and do a container garden. Then you could take them to your next cottage in your next village for your next job,” he said.
“I thought you were going home, Henry.” She laughed.
“I am. I am.”
She walked him to the front door, leaning against the jamb as he stepped out onto the porch.
“Thanks for the beer,” he said.
“Anytime.”
She went still when he put his hand on her arm and leaned in to kiss her, once on each cheek. He pulled back slightly, his voice low, and said, “I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon.”
Then he flashed that smile she liked so much and strolled off.
* * *
Arms crossed, Emma watched the hive of activity in the poet’s garden. Vishal and Zack were laying plants out following the details she’d sketched from Venetia’s plans. Charlie and Jessa followed, methodically unpotting and planting. Someone had brought a radio, and the tinny sounds of a BBC1 jingle drowned out the sounds of a crew hard at work.
Emma had spent her day going over the sketchbooks. Henry’s grandmother had done an excellent job of recording the garden as it had been in 1944. All of the details of the plants, carefully labeled, were invaluable. Plants she wouldn’t have guessed, like jasmine tobacco and monkshood, likely kept interest during the summer season. For the first time since she’d arrived at Highbury House, Emma felt as though the winter garden wasn’t some impenetrable challenge but a manageable task.
Of course, to tackle a task she had to actually start it.
“Charlie!” she called from the poet’s garden entrance.
He looked up and adjusted his ball cap. “What?”
“Give me a hand, will you?”
He planted his spade into the ground and hauled himself up, brushing his knees as he approached. “What do you need?”
“I want to try to get into the winter garden today.”
He gave a low whistle. “Today?”
“Not all of it. I just want inside. I think I’ve figured out where we can cut without damaging anything important.” She showed him Henry’s grandmother’s sketch. “No roses, clear of trees. And if this drawing is right, no sculpture up against the wall.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, peering up over the yew to the unruly mess shooting out of the winter garden. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Then let’s get the ladders.”
In no time, Charlie and Emma had pulled two ladders, a hedge trimmer, a pair of lopping sheers, and a machete out of the old gardener’s cottage, where they stored some of their more expensive or dangerous tools. She and Charlie leaned one of the ladders up against the winter garden wall, and she began to climb.
“Watch out for that rose cane about six inches from your head,” he called out, holding the base of the ladder steady.
“Got it!” she shouted down. Less than thirty seconds later, she bumped her head into the rose and cursed as she detangled herself.
“Very slick.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she called down.
“You’re doing great, boss,” Charlie called up. She rolled her eyes.
She battled her way up into the overhanging tangle of branches, cutting as she went. If he stood on tiptoe, Charlie could just barely hand her the tools she needed, with the exception of the machete, which she kept strapped to her right hip Indiana Jones–style.
Finally, she reached the lip of the wall, Charlie carefully passed the other ladder up to her. She dropped it down as best she could, trying to stay away from the foliage. Twice as she climbed down a branch stabbed her, and she managed to put her hand straight around a rose. If she hadn’t been wearing work boots and gloves, she would have been in a world of pain.
When finally her foot touched the ground, she looked up through the foliage and found she could only see slivers of sky through the overlapping leaves.
“How are you doing?” Charlie called, his voice coming through the thicket.
“Are you at the gate?” she shouted back.
“I just ran around. How does it look?”
She gazed around her, the scent of damp, rotting undergrowth perfume-like. “Like we’re going to need a pulley system to get whatever we cut over the wall.”