meet the women of the last garden in england
1907
In her mid-thirties, Venetia Smith is undoubtedly a spinster, but that’s little matter when gardens are her passion. In an era when women of her class rarely work, she’s carved out a niche for herself as a garden designer to well-to-do industrialists, solicitors, and bankers looking to show off their wealth with sumptuous country houses. She’s an artist as much as she is a gardener, infusing her designs with hidden meanings. There should be nothing extraordinary about her latest role at Highbury House, but it will prove to be the job that changes her life forever…
How we meet Venetia on the page...
Each new garden is like an unread book, its pages brimming with possibility. This morning, as I stood on the step to Highbury House, I nearly trembled with excitement. Every garden—every hard-fought commission—feels like a triumph, and I am determined that Highbury House shall be my greatest effort yet.
But I am rushing my story.
I rang the bell, setting a dog off barking somewhere in the house, and waited, tugging at the lapels of my navy wool coat that looked so smart against the white of my shirt. Adam had approved of my appearance before sending me off on the train with a promise that he would look after the house and garden while I was in Warwickshire.
I looked around, wondering at how stark Highbury House looked stripped of the wreaths and garlands that had merrily hung on doors and windows when I visited in December. Mrs. Melcourt, the lady of the house, was out visiting that day, but Mr. Melcourt spoke to me at length before letting me walk the long lawn and tired beds of a garden so lacking in imagination it saddened me. He purchased the house three years ago and now, having done over all the rooms, turns his attention outside. He commissioned me on the recommendation of several of my past clients whom he no doubt wishes to impress. He wants a garden imbued with elegance and ambition, one that will look as though it has been in the family for years rather than being a new acquisition funded by the recent inheritance of his soap fortune.
The huge front door groaned open, revealing a housekeeper starched into a somber uniform of high-necked black with a chain of keys hanging off her like a medieval chatelaine.
“Good morning,” she intoned, her measured voice laced with Birmingham.
I gripped the cardboard tube of papers I’d carried up from London a little tighter. “Good morning. I am Miss Venetia Smith. I have an appointment with Mr. Melcourt.”
The housekeeper assessed me from the brim of my hat to the toe of my boot. Her mouth thinned sharp as a reed when she spotted the mud I’d acquired performing one last check of my roses that morning.
“I can remove them if you like,” I said archly.
The housekeeper’s back stiffened as though she’d been poked with a hatpin. “That will not be necessary, Miss Smith.”
1944
Not every girl would want to be in the rather unglamorous Women’s Land Army, but orphaned Beth Pedley is secretly delighted. She hopes that all of that fresh air and hard work tilling Britain’s land to help feed the nation in the middle of war will bond her to her fellow land girls and give her the sense of purpose and place she so longs for.
How we meet Beth on the page...
The train shuddered to a stop in Royal Leamington Spa Station, and up and down the line people began to pour out onto the platform. Beth clung to the handrail, doing her best to balance the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and avoid tipping over as she stepped down. When her practical, low-heeled shoes hit the cement, she exhaled.
At last.
The train ride from London had taken twice as long as it should’ve, inconsistent service being a hallmark of wartime travel. And that wasn’t even counting the early-morning leg of her journey up from the agricultural college where she’d done her training. But now, she was almost to Temple Fosse Farm, which would be her home for the foreseeable future.
Rebalancing her bag, she started to make her way down the platform, looking out for Mr. Penworthy. She had no idea what he looked like or if he would be able to single her out from all the other travelers. She should have changed into her uniform in the Marylebone Station loo like her land girl’s manual recommended, except she’d known that this train ride would be the last time she’d wear her own clothes in . . . well, she didn’t know how long.
Her life was about to become all soil and crops and weather and harvest. She’d heard during her training that the isolation of rural life could be difficult for city girls like her, but she’d spent her childhood on a farm. She was sure it would be like returning home. Besides, in some counties, the land girls arranged dances in neighboring villages and towns on the occasional evening. She hoped Warwickshire would be so well organized.
The crowd on the platform began to thin as people made their way to the station lobby. The wind lifted her brushed-out blond pin curls, and she was patting them back into place when she spotted an older man standing by the waiting room door, woolen flat cap clasped between his hands and olive-green waxed jacket hanging loose from his shoulders. She let her hand fall to the strap of her bag and, swallowing down a bubble of fear, walked straight up to him.
“Mr. Penworthy?” she asked, her voice shaking a little despite her false confidence.
He looked over as a man might examine a cow for sale at market. “You’re the land girl then?”
She nodded. “My name is Elizabeth Pedley.”
“That’s a long name for such a little thing,” he observed.
“My parents called me Beth, and I might be little but I’m strong.” His mouth twitched. “Is that so? The last girl they sent us wasn’t much to write home about.”
“What happened to her?” she asked.
“Still working the farm. We can’t afford to be too picky. It was Mrs. Penworthy’s idea to get a second girl up.” He passed a hand over his head and stuck his cap on. “It’s best to agree with Mrs. Penworthy when she gets an idea into her head. Come on now. It’ll be dark soon.”
He reached out to take Beth’s bag, but she held on to it, resolute.
He grunted. “Suit yourself.”
Every single day Stella Adderton hopes she’ll wake up and find herself some place other than the servant’s quarters at Highbury House. Thanks to years of correspondence courses and careful saving, her dream is almost within her grasp. However, when her sister shows up at Highbury House’s kitchen door with Stella’s nephew in tow, she finds herself tied tighter to this life she hates than ever before.
How we meet Stella on the page…
Stella slammed the door of the larder so hard the clock on the wall trembled and threatened to fall to the floor.
“Mrs. George,” she barked at Highbury House Hospital’s head cook. “This is the second time in as many weeks that you’ve made off with my milk.”
“Miss Adderton, please,” Mrs. Dibble, Highbury House’s housekeeper and a member of regular staff like Stella herself, said with a gasp.
Mrs. George, that miscreant in blue serge and white linen, slowly wiped her hands on her apron while the two junior cooks who reported to her watched in wide-eyed fascination, a potato and a knife frozen in each of their hands.
“Miss Adderton, think of what you’re saying. Are you really accusing me of stealing?” asked Mrs. Dibble.
“I’m sure Mrs. Adderton wouldn’t—”
“I’m not accusing you,” Stella cut off Mrs. Dibble. “I’m telling you that I know you stole the milk from the larder again. And eggs. There were six in the green bowl just this morning. Now there are just four.”
The four chickens that Mrs. Symonds had let her keep in a corner of the kitchen garden weren’t laying as much as they had just six months ago, and eggs were becoming more and more precious. And real milk that wasn’t powder in a can was practically liquid gold. Stella didn’t even want to think of the criminal acts she would commit for a taste of real cream in real coffee.
“This hospital doesn’t need your eggs and milk. We have our own rations,” said Mrs. George.
“And what about the time I caught you in my flour, red-handed?”
The woman dropped her eyes to the pile of carrots in front of her. “That was a biscuit-making emergency. I had every intention of replacing the flour I used.”
“A likely story,” Stella muttered.
“Excuse me, Miss Adderton,” said a meek voice from across the room. Stella spun around on her heel to face Miss Grant, the diminutive junior cook who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. “What?” she demanded.
Miss Grant opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. “What is it, Miss Grant?” she prompted, trying to soften her tone.
“I broke the eggs this morning. I backed into the counter and I must have hit it just the right wrong way because the bowl tipped over and two eggs rolled out and fell onto the floor, and I’m very sorry, miss.” The truth poured out of the young woman like a waterfall until at last she was spent and her shoulders slumped forward.
Mrs. George shot her a scathing look.
Oh, why doesn’t the bloody floor open up and swallow me whole?
Diana Symonds world fell apart when her husband was killed soon after he enlisted—or it would have if she could afford to let anyone see that sort of weakness. Instead, she’s had to hold in her grief for her son and to save her home, Highbury House, from being completely overrun by wounded soldiers after it’s requisitioned and made into a convalescent hospital. Her only sanctuary is the garden she’s spends hours in each day.
How we meet Diana on the page…
Diana Symonds’s nails bit into her palms as she climbed the stairs from the basement kitchen to the ground-floor servants’ passage, let herself out of the hidden door in the paneling next to the grand stairs, and walked straight into her morning room. Keeping her chin lifted as the door shut behind her, she moved methodically from window to window, closing the rose-gold embroidered curtains. Only once the room was plunged into semidarkness did she drop onto the sofa and let her head fall into her hands.
She hated arbitrating squabbles between her cook and the staff of the convalescent hospital that had taken over her home. But then, very little of the dream Murray had promised matched the reality.
They’d only just finished redecorating Highbury House when Germany attacked Poland and Prime Minister Chamberlain declared war. Less than a month later, Murray had come home on the train from London and told her he’d volunteered as a doctor in the army. She’d held their son Robin and wept for fear, but Murray had convinced her he was doubly obligated to serve—first as a doctor and second as a gentleman. Then he’d promised her that he would keep himself safe.
“What would be the use of living in a building site for three years if I can’t come back to enjoy the home I built with my beautiful wife?” he’d asked with a laugh before kissing her. And because life seemed to bend to Murray’s genial will, she’d believed him.
How naive she’d been.
Diana pushed her hair back off her face and stood. Just as diligently as before, she opened the curtains, stopping only to check her face in the mirror and straighten the fine plum cashmere cardigan that she’d learned to treasure since the government had issued clothing coupons. She’d learned all sorts of things since that awful day when two khaki-clad officers had driven into the courtyard to tell her Murray had been killed en route to a field hospital.
She let herself out of her morning room’s sanctuary and made for the entryway that joined the house’s two wings. Down the corridor, two nurses in white uniforms with red crosses emblazoned on the bosom stood with their heads close together, giggling. The moment they spotted her, however, they scurried away.
She ignored them. When the government declared it was requisitioning Highbury House mere weeks after Murray’s funeral, it had taken the Voluntary Aid Detachment mere weeks to occupy most of the main house and its outlying buildings, leaving only a small suite of rooms in the eastern wing for the family. Still deep in mourning, Diana had emerged one day to find that the home she’d lovingly restored had transformed into wards of neat rows of hospital beds, a surgical suite, and accommodation for nurses and doctors.
It had all happened without her because Murray’s sister, Cynthia, had traveled up from London to become the commandant of the new Highbury House Hospital. Still raw from the shock of her husband’s death, Diana had viewed Cynthia’s taking charge as a kindness. Soon, however, she saw what it really was: a way for Cynthia to force her way back into the childhood home that had passed to Murray upon their mother’s remarriage. Yet if her sister-in-law had hoped Diana would remain in her suite swathed in black crepe and sadness and never show her face in the hospital, she’d been sorely mistaken.
Present Day
Emma Lovett is the proud owner of Turning Back Thyme, a garden design business that specializes in breathing new life into Britain’s once-great gardens. Emma’s incredible work ethic has brought her modest success, but owning and running her own business single-handedly can still be a struggle. However, that won’t stop her from taking on her most ambitious project to date: restoring Venetia Smith’s last project in England, the gardens at Highbury House.
How we meet Emma on the page…
Even if Emma hadn’t been looking for the turnoff, Highbury House would have been hard to miss. Two brick pillars topped with a pair of stone lions rose up from a gap in the hedgerow, harkening to a time of carriages and riding to hounds, hunt balls and elaborate house parties.
She turned into the gravel drive, steeling herself to meet her clients. Normally she wouldn’t take a job sight unseen, but she’d been too wrapped up in the restoration project at Mallow Glen to travel down from Scotland for a site survey. Instead, Emma’s best friend and the head of her crew at Turning Back Thyme, Charlie, had gone ahead and done the measurements, while Sydney Wilcox, Highbury House’s owner, had arranged a series of video chats to explain the project: to return the once-spectacular gardens to their former glory.
The short drive opened up into a courtyard, around which the U-shaped house was built, but its elegance was marred by piles of construction debris.
Emma parked behind a steel-gray Range Rover and climbed out, slinging her heavy canvas workbag over her shoulder. The high-pitched whine of power tools filled the air, followed by a volley of barks. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red. A pair of Irish setters bounded through the front door, straight for her.
She threw up her hands to fend off the smaller of the two dogs, who still managed to rear up on its hind legs, planting its paws on her shoulders and licking her face. The other danced around her feet, barking encouragement.
She tried to push the dogs away as Sydney burst out of the doorway, half jogging across the courtyard. “Bonnie, get down! Clyde, let Emma through!”
“They’re fine,” said Emma, hoping she sounded at least a little convincing as Bonnie managed another lick. “You’d be surprised how many of my jobs start like this, especially in the country. Everyone keeps dogs.”
“I really am so sorry. We spent so much time and money training them, and we still ended up with two of the most ill-behaved dogs in all of Warwickshire.” Sydney grabbed Bonnie’s collar and hauled her away while Clyde went to sit obediently at his owner’s feet.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t as bad as her,” Sydney chided Clyde, her voice reminiscent of good schools, lessons at the local riding club, and Saturday cricket on the village green.
Straightening, Sydney reached up to reclip her curly red hair.
“I’m sorry about that. These two follow the builders around all day long. Someone must have left the door open. Did you have any trouble getting up here? Was there traffic on the M40? Sometimes it’s a nightmare. Did you find the turnoff okay?”
Emma blinked, wondering which question to answer first. A cheery chaos seemed to swirl around the owner of Highbury House. Emma had noticed it on their calls, but in person, surrounded by a pair of dogs, in the shadow of a house under construction, it was an entirely different experience. Finally, she said, “I didn’t have any problems finding the house.”