The question hit her right in the heart. “I’m sorry, Robert. Your Aunt Stella couldn’t live at Highbury anymore, and she couldn’t take you where she was going.” There, that stuck closely enough to the truth that a child could understand.
“Is she dead?” he asked.
Another pang. “Why do you ask that?”
He dragged his trowel through the soft dirt. “When Dad died, I couldn’t go visit him. Or Mummy, either.”
“No, she didn’t die, Robert. She’s happy and healthy, just busy working, and you live here at Highbury with me now. We should get this treasure buried before it begins to rain.”
She placed the box in the earth, and she and Bobby pushed dirt over it until a shallow mound of disturbed earth was all that was left.
Silently they left the winter garden, stopping only to lock the gate behind them for the final time. Then Diana took Bobby by the hand and led him down to the lake’s edge.
There was a small outcropping of rocks that jutted out into the water. The key felt heavy in her hand as she turned it over and over again.
“Are you ready to say goodbye?” she asked.
Bobby nodded.
Taking a deep breath, she threw the key as far as she could. When it hit the water, it sent ripples spilling out after it.
“Mrs. Symonds?” he asked.
She glanced down at him. “Yes?”
He hesitated before looking up at her. “Can I call you Mummy?”
“Why would you want to do that?” she asked.
“Because you do all of the things that mummys do.”
The sob broke from her before she could stop it, and she clapped her free hand over her mouth.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course you can.”
“Mummy,” he said as though testing the name out, “could we have cocoa?”
She gave a watery laugh and swung him up into a hug. “Let’s go see what’s in the larder.”
? EPILOGUE ?
MARCH 1908
She steps off the boat, glad to be on solid ground. The Atlantic crossing hasn’t been as arduous as she’s been warned, but five days on the water was enough.
A gentle hand on her elbow makes her look up. He is smiling down at her. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
Her heart still aches to think of all she’s left behind in England—her brother, her home, her memories—but she finds that the ache dulls a little bit each day.
They’d stolen back there one frozen January Sunday when they knew that the Melcourts would not be at home. They crossed Highbury House Farm’s fields and let themselves in through the gate by her old cottage.
They crossed the lavender walk to the yew path that went straight to Celeste’s garden. He hung back a little, but she went to the gate. The head gardener—dear, dear man—had written to tell her where she might find the key. It was under the rock just as he’d described. She let herself in, slipping it into her pocket as she went.
Much of the garden was still freshly planted, but she could see how it would grow and fill the space. Already the grasses looked tall and noble against the red brick. The hellebores bloomed an impossible white, and the green stalks of snowdrops and crocuses stood strong with tight buds that would open in the coming weeks and days.
A part of her heart will always remain in Celeste’s garden.
But now she turns her sights to her new home. I will do great things here, she thinks as she touches the letter of introduction a Mr. Schoot has sent her with a note enclosed: The Royal Botanical Heritage Society had voted to begin admitting women to its ranks this May. And so she will write for Mr. Schoot and his journal as she establishes herself and starts a new life with the man she loves. Matthew.
Only she mustn’t call him that any longer. He’d told her as they lay in their cabin on their first night at sea that he thought it best to go by his middle name, Spencer. They cannot cultivate speculation about what happened between the gardener and the brother of her employer.
“I thought about changing my surname, too. I have little attachment to it,” he said, cupping her face.
“Who will you become?” she asked as the boat rocked back and forth under them.
“I thought perhaps I will be a Smith. There are so many Smiths, what is one more?” He paused. “And it’s your name. What more could I wish for?”
She kissed him, grateful to have such an unconventional husband.
Over the painful autumn months, she has learned to collect perfect moments of hope and joy to hold close. That night in the cabin was one of those moments, and she will think of it when grief and pain became too much.