“How did you get into the garden?”
Fearful, he looked up at her. “I didn’t steal the key. I put it back.”
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Bobby. I’m not angry. I just want to know why.”
“When me and Robin were pirates, we would go into Blackbeard’s lair and take the key and then come here to look for buried treasure. Only we never found it. We had to take the key back or we might get in trouble.”
She smiled. “That’s very clever of you making sure to put it back exactly where you found it. And did you ever find buried treasure?”
He shook his head.
“Why aren’t you looking for your treasure now?” she asked.
He looked up at her, his big hazel eyes filling with tears. “Robin had the map.”
The little boy began to cry heaving sobs. The pressure in Diana’s own chest built, pushing against her heart until her own tears flowed free. Her first instinct was to run, but then she looked at the child laying prostrate on the ground. She couldn’t leave him.
She began to see a path with such clarity it seemed incredible she hadn’t thought of it before. But right now, the only thing that mattered was comforting her son’s best friend.
“Bobby,” she choked out, “I would like a hug. Would you like one as well?”
The little boy half crawled into her lap and buried his face in her chest.
• VENETIA •
FRIDAY, 18 OCTOBER 1907
Highbury House
This morning, Mrs. Creasley told me unbidden that it is the eighteenth, which means I have been a prisoner for two weeks.
Each morning, she comes with a tray. Then she helps me dress and sits me in a chair, facing the window. I stare at the garden for hours, the birds and insects flitting around before me as they do their autumnal work. I do not sketch. I do not read. I am buried too deep in the pain of the loss.
I had no other visitors, just Mrs. Creasley and the doctor. Mr. and Mrs. Melcourt do not come, which is a relief.
Matthew does not come.
MONDAY, 21 OCTOBER 1907
Highbury House
I awoke this morning and felt different. My grief is still here, but it seems different somehow. It no longer presses down on me so hard I cannot move.
When Mrs. Creasley came this morning, I said, “I should like to take a bath today, please.”
She nearly dropped her tray from the shock of hearing me speak, but she pulled herself upright and set the table just as she always does. I pulled my dressing gown on and sat down to eat a proper meal for the first time in weeks. Two maids came with a hip bath a half hour later.
In the bath, I scrubbed at days, hours, minutes of grief and came out feeling a little lighter for it. I let my hair dry before pinning it up and dressing. Then, I rejoined the world.
Mrs. Melcourt had banned me from the gardens, but I didn’t care. I needed the outdoors.
My steps were slow and deliberate. My body was punishing me for the neglect I’d shown it, yet as I walked through the ramble, I could feel myself returning in the scent of the autumn leaves crunched underfoot and the cool of the misty rain that touched my forehead.
I could not bear the thought of the children’s, lovers’, or bridal gardens. I did not want to see Matthew’s roses in the poet’s or tea gardens. Instead, I went straight to the winter garden and pushed open the gate Mr. Hillock had installed, a key already sitting in the lock with a spare hanging off its ring. Inside, the earth stood bare but freshly turned, awaiting my instructions. I sat down on the stone path and began to cry.
That was how Mr. Hillock found me, my skirts smashed under my weight and my eyes raw. He didn’t rush up to me or try to calm me. Instead, he closed the garden gate behind him and sat down next to me.
He extended a handkerchief. “It is a terrible thing to lose a child. Mrs. Hillock and I know better than some but not as much as others,” he said in his quiet, steady voice.
“I’m sorry,” I said, dabbing at my eyes.
“So am I.”
He let me sit in silence while I collected myself. When finally I handed his handkerchief back, he said, “Has Mr. Goddard been to see you?”
My heart clenched at the mention of Matthew. “No.”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how old a man grows, he will always have the foolishness of a boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been to see me, your Mr. Goddard,” said Mr. Hillock.
My heart skipped. “Why?”
The gardener lifted his flat cap and ran a hand over his balding head before replacing it. “That’s a story he’ll have to tell you himself.”
I stared out over the unfinished garden. Matthew had been to see Mr. Hillock but not me. His sister had been right. He was ruled by her, by her husband’s money, all of it.
“It’s a shame about this place,” said Mr. Hillock. “It’s the heart of the garden.”
“And you’re worried that I’m leaving it unfinished,” I said.
After a long pause, Mr. Hillock replied, “I don’t worry about the garden, Miss Smith, but if you don’t finish your work at Highbury House, there are things that will never be complete.”
“None of the sketches I’ve made for the winter garden feel right, and the Melcourts won’t allow me the luxury of time.”
“You have measurements and a feel for the place. And I’ve heard tell that the post works well these days. It even comes to gardener’s houses in little villages of no real consequence.”
When I looked up, I saw he was wearing the faintest hint of a smile.
I twisted to slowly gaze from one side of the garden to the other.
“Silver birches alone would be too obvious, don’t you think?” I asked.
Mr. Hillock tilted his head to the side. “Maybe.”
“Dogwoods, too, then. There”—I pointed to one side of the gravel path—“and there. The red bark will bring depth to the garden on the worst days of January. And grasses. We’ll need grasses for height.”
“If we plant them soon, they’ll have time to establish,” said Mr. Hillock.
“We’ll need Christmas rose,” I said, beginning to see possibility. “And sage and holly and hart’s-tongue fern and bellflowers. I’ll write to Adam and…” I trailed off, remembering abruptly that I was no longer employed at Highbury House.
“I will find the plants,” said Mr. Hillock firmly.
My shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
“The garden needs a focal point.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“A pool would look well in the center.”
“Maybe a sculptural one, different than the water garden.”
His cap came off again, but this time he held it between his hands. “It could be a memorial. If someone felt they needed to remember something,” Mr. Hillock said.
“The Melcourts would never stand for that.”
“The Melcourts never need to know.”
“You are a good man, Mr. Hillock.” I reached for the man’s grizzled, callused hand. He flinched, but then relaxed, and we sat there together in silence on the hard ground for some time.