“Your sister mentioned his name. She said that you had supplied him with some roses.”
“Yes, and I was fortunate enough that he showed me his plans. I thought you might find him interesting because he, too, is designing a series of garden rooms,” he said.
“I should very much like to meet him,” I said.
“Then I’ll arrange it,” he said, holding a side door to the house open for me.
Inside, his housekeeper fussed us into a small dining room warmed by a rolling fire. Mr. Goddard and I sat down across from each other—bread, cheese, meats, and pickles between us—and soon were lost in conversation.
I can honestly say that I’ve never had a better meal.
? EMMA ?
The discovery of Venetia’s plans transformed Emma’s project. For two weeks, she had sifted through every relevant piece of paper she could find, taking photographs and notes. The question of who Celeste was nagged at her, but still she worked to adjust her own plans to match Venetia’s. Then came the difficult part—canceling and placing new orders, sourcing large numbers of plants, and figuring out a way to make it all come in on budget and on time for Sydney and Andrew.
Her days weren’t any less stressful as she directed the crew in the necessary work to clear the mess of plants from the garden and prepare the garden rooms to be planted out. She came home every day bone-tired, and more than a few nights, she fell asleep next to her laptop at Bow Cottage’s dining room table.
Finally, one afternoon when everyone seemed to be busy with their respective jobs, Emma set aside her gardening gloves and made the short walk from Highbury House to the farm next door in search of its owner. Her sturdy boots sucked mud with each step she took up the farmhouse’s drive, and deep grooves from tractor tires were half full of standing water. Even now, mist crept under the collars of her waxed jacket and her cream fisherman’s sweater to settle into her bones.
Sydney had told her that Henry Jones came from a long line of farmers who had worked Highbury House Farm. The property had once belonged to the house’s original owners, the Melcourts, before it was sold to the Joneses in the 1920s. It had weathered a world war, industrial agriculture, and countless other changes and remained in the family to this day.
The farmhouse came into view. She ran her hands over her temples to find that her wispy brown baby hairs had started to pull free from her ponytail. She tugged the band free to retie it, catching sight of the dirt under her nails, despite the gloves she wore religiously while working. Henry Jones would just have to face the reality that a woman who worked in dirt all day might be dirty.
The sky had already begun to turn inky, so she wasn’t surprised when she saw farm equipment standing idle in the yard a hundred yards or so away from the house. Not seeing anyone around, she made for a redbrick building with lights on in the ground-floor windows.
As she approached, she could hear music—something with a good beat and some brass behind it. It only got louder as she approached, and when she knocked on the pale green door, she wasn’t surprised at the lack of response.
She pounded the side of her fist against the door as the mist turned to a steady rain. After a moment, the music lowered. She stepped back. The door swung open, revealing a man sporting a James Brown with the Dramatics T-shirt over a white thermal. His dark hair was messy and all bunched up on one side, as though it had spent all day under a hat.
“Hi,” the man said.
“Hello, I’m looking for Henry Jones,” she said.
“You found him.”
“I’m Emma Lovell. Sydney Wilcox may have mentioned me.”
His expression brightened. “The gardener. She did mention you. You wanted to see if I had some of my nan’s old drawings?”
“That’s right.”
“Shit, sorry. I shouldn’t be making you stand outside in this rain. Come in,” Henry said, making way for her.
“Thanks.” Noticing he was only wearing socks, she asked, “Do you want me to take off my boots?”
He rubbed his hand over the crown of his head, mussing his hair even more. “Do you mind? Normally I wouldn’t ask, but Sue’s just been through and done the office. She’ll kill me if I tread mud over the floors less than twenty-four hours after she’d cleaned.”
“Who is Sue?” she asked, toeing off her boots.
“She keeps the accounts for the farm. Occasionally she gets tired of my mess and does a cleanup. Come through here,” he said.
Emma followed him down a short corridor and into an office with two desks. One was neat as a pin. The other was… not.