Her eyes went wide. “That is Venetia Smith’s handwriting.”
“You’re sure?” Sydney asked hopefully.
“She’s sure,” said Charlie. “She’s been obsessed with this woman for as long as I’ve known her.”
“Longer,” she murmured. “I should be wearing cotton gloves.” Not that that was going to stop her from examining the plans.
“When I first saw them, I was confused because the way the garden is laid out didn’t look anything like it does today,” said Sydney.
“This is what Venetia would have replaced. It’s a formal garden.” She pointed to the symmetrical beds laid out in a knot pattern. “There might have been a low border of bedding plants here, or it might have been hedged in.”
“Ah, that makes sense. But take a look at the next sheet,” said Sydney.
Lifting the garden plans, Emma found a thin piece of nearly transparent tracing paper. Carefully she lifted it and laid it over the original plans. She lined up the two sketches of the house, the kitchen garden, and the orchard and then stepped back. “There.”
“That’s it,” said Charlie. “That’s the garden.”
“And it’s labeled!” said Sydney.
“The tea garden, the lovers’ garden, the children’s garden, the bridal garden,” Emma read.
“Oh, that’s why it’s all white,” said Sydney.
“Look. The one next to the water garden is a poet’s garden,” said Charlie.
“There’s a book of poems in the library by my great-great-great-grandfather Arthur Melcourt. He was the one who commissioned the garden,” said Sydney.
“Maybe Venetia was trying to flatter him into agreeing to the rest of her designs,” she said.
“Why would she need to do that?” Sydney asked.
“She was ahead of her time. There were a very small number of designers in England who created the English border garden look that we are all familiar with now. Venetia would have been considered a bit of an artist, a bit of a revolutionary,” she explained.
“How is Arthur Melcourt’s poetry?” Charlie asked.
“Pretty terrible from what I remember,” said Sydney.
Emma carefully lifted the page to reveal another drawing. “This looks like it might have been made a bit further along in the project. You can see she added a series of paths to the children’s garden.”
“They look like the Union Flag,” said Charlie.
“A playful nod to the Melcourt kids maybe. And it looks like there’s something here in the winter garden,” she said, pointing to a circle. “Maybe a pond or a small paved area.”
“This must have been a working drawing. You can see where she rubbed out some of the pencil,” said Charlie.
“Hold on.” Emma lifted the sheet up to the light. “Something’s written here above the winter garden. It’s so faint…”
Charlie and Sydney leaned over her shoulder, peering at the spot. After a moment, Sydney said, “I think that says Cecil’s garden.”
“No, it’s got too many letters,” said Charlie, pushing his ball cap up to scratch his forehead.
“Celeste,” said Emma. “Celeste’s garden.”
“Who was Celeste? And why is it written in someone else’s handwriting?” Sydney asked.
Emma’s gaze flicked back to the faint writing. “I don’t know about a Celeste. And you’re right. Someone else wrote that in.”
“Is it anywhere else?” Sydney asked.
Methodically Emma sifted through the sheets, revealing details of all the major parts of the garden. Some of the details even had planting lists and diagrams of the borders. The children’s garden—overgrown with self-seeding wildflowers now—had once held impatiens, foxgloves, poppies, and gerbera daisies. Down the side of the poet’s garden’s detail was a list of flowers with their corresponding poets. A detail of the winter garden was drawn on a smaller sheet of paper that looked as though it had been ripped from a notebook.
“No ‘Celeste’ on this one,” said Sydney. “Did she have a sister?”
“Just her brother, Adam,” Emma said.
“What about her mother?” Charlie asked.
Emma screwed up her lips trying to remember. “I think her name was Julie or Juliet or something like that.”
Charlie pulled out his phone for a quick search. “Her mother’s name was Juliet. Middle name Caroline.”