Softly she closed the door behind her. The maid, Dorothy, must come to air the room out every once in a while; it smelled fresh and there was hardly any dust floating in the light through the gap in the navy curtains. And standing in the corner, just where she’d left it, was her harp.
She approached it as a rider might a shy horse. Her fingers grazed over the felt cover. She’d wanted this instrument with every ounce of her being when she was fifteen. She’d been talented. Her teacher had even encouraged her to study at a conservatory. She’d asked her parents for permission. Begged for it. Shortly afterward, she’d been sent to Switzerland to be “finished” instead.
Reverently Diana removed the cloth cover. The folds fell away, revealing the harp’s deep walnut soundboard and brass pedals. Pulling up a chair, she eased the instrument back against her shoulder, stopping to hitch her skirt up a little. With a deep breath, she placed her thumb to middle C and plucked.
A discordant twang rang out, making her jump.
“Of course it’s out of tune,” she murmured.
She nearly set the harp upright again, ready to cover it and leave the room, but then she spotted her son’s sheet music on the piano. If Robin could have music, why couldn’t she?
She retrieved her tuning fork and tuning key from the bookcase, then worked methodically, slowly bringing the harp back to life.
When at last the final string had been tightened to the right tone, she placed her hands to the strings and began a Leduc piece that she could have played in her sleep when she’d been practicing seriously. However, although she could still remember the notes, her hands had lost much of their agility.
She finished the piece, making a note to herself to oil the pedals, and then switched to a Schubert piece she’d once loved. Halfway through, she stopped to shake out her aching hands. Her fingers were moving at half the speed they had when she’d last played years ago.
When an hour later she covered her instrument and let herself out of the music room, she knew she didn’t want to wait that long again.
• VENETIA •
WEDNESDAY, 24 JULY 1907
Highbury House
Hot and dry. Will rain ever come again?
I have neglected to write these last weeks, but could anyone fault me for it?
Being with child, I have learned, is a misery. Ever since Dr. Irving’s diagnosis, I have been struck down by nausea and fatigue, as though my body has now been given permission to betray me each day.
This morning, I found myself on my knees behind a buddleia in the children’s garden, trying to bring up the morning’s meager breakfast of tea and toast. I understand the irony of planting a garden meant to bring children joy when I am so miserable with my condition, but that is reason to move swiftly. I will show before my work at Highbury House is complete.
To think that I will never see this garden completed makes my heart ache, but an aching heart and an intact reputation is better than disgrace. I have a plan. Sometime in September, I will begin to feign an illness—what type I have not yet decided. It must be serious but not too grave, only requiring a period of uninterrupted rest and, if I’m lucky, a doctor’s recommendation of warmer climes. I will leave plans, detailed drawings, and plant lists for Mr. Hillock to finish the garden. Then I will take myself away for six or eight months to a place where I know no one and hire a discreet woman to help me with the birth. After arranging for the child to be placed with a family who will love her, I’ll return to England.
It is the only way.
Everywhere I turn, sacrifices arise. I have given up Matthew. There was no argument. No grand tragedy played out. Instead, I’ve stayed close to Highbury House. I no longer venture to the hedgerow, and if I must pass it, I keep my eyes resolutely on the ground in front of me.
I swiped my handkerchief over my mouth and stood from my floral hiding spot, brushing off my skirts. This too shall pass, I told myself, as I did every day.
“Miss Smith,” a girl’s distant voice called.
I cleared my ragged throat. “I’m here.”
One of the maids I didn’t recognize poked her head through the break in the hedge from the bridal garden. “Miss Smith, Mr. Melcourt’s asked to see you in the drawing room.”
My stomach lurched. He knew.
Stiffly I nodded, tidied my gardening gloves and tools into their wicker basket, and gathered up my skirts to follow the maid to my reckoning.
She showed me to the double drawing room. How fitting that my termination should take place in the same room where I had been hired.
When I looked around, I saw that Mr. Melcourt was not alone. He was standing with a small man with unusually tanned skin, which contrasted sharply against the brilliant white of his shirt.
“Miss Smith. I’m sorry to take you away from your work,” said Mr. Melcourt pleasantly—not at all the tone of a man who was about to dismiss his garden designer.
“Not at all,” I said cautiously.
“May I present Mr. Martin Schoot? The director of the Royal Botanical Heritage Society.” Mr. Melcourt smiled at his guest. “He expressed a desire to make your acquaintance.”
The Royal Botanical Heritage Society—a prestigious and pompous organization that refused to admit women to its ranks.
I fought a frown as I said, “Mr. Schoot, you’ll have to forgive me for not shaking hands. I’ve just been in the garden.”
His hand remained outstretched. “A little dirt cannot hurt me, Miss Smith. Quite the contrary. I imagine you are happiest when you are out in nature rather than confined indoors.”
Reluctantly I took his hand.
“I have been corresponding with Mr. Schoot ever since I had the idea to give new life to the gardens at Highbury House,” said Mr. Melcourt.
“I wanted very much to meet the woman behind such a large project,” he said.
“Does it surprise you that a woman should be given charge of a garden like Highbury’s, Mr. Schoot?” I asked.
I’d expected him to react as so many men do when faced with a woman’s thinly veiled scorn—poorly—but instead Mr. Schoot began to laugh. “Well met, Miss Smith. I see from the loose, natural structure of your plantings that you hold William Robinson’s designs in high regard.”
“And Gertrude Jekyll. My father gave me her book Wood and Garden not long before he died,” I said.
“It’s interesting that you mention Miss Jekyll’s work—”
Before Mr. Schoot could finish his thought, Mrs. Melcourt glided in, followed by her brother.
Matthew stumbled over the Turkish carpet when he saw me. His eyes widened, his lips opened, and then he smiled. He smiled. My stomach lurched.
“Miss Smith, you’re not in the garden,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“I’m to blame. I expressed an interest in meeting Miss Smith, and your husband kindly obliged,” interjected Mr. Schoot.
Mrs. Melcourt’s lips pursed into a tight line before spreading into an imitation smile. “Of course. Has Miss Smith told you what she has done to work a rose or two from my brother Matthew’s collection into the garden?”
A rose or two? The garden was overflowing with Matthew’s roses now, so much so that it was impossible to turn a corner without being confronted with a reminder of him.