“I didn’t know that was possible,” I said before I could think to stop myself.
He only laughed. “You’ve seen Helen’s drawing room. Gilded and expensive. If she had her way, we’d be living with French knot gardens à la Louis XIV, with enormous Carrara marble fountains at the end of every sight line. And Arthur… I don’t know that Arthur has a creative bone in his body.”
“Despite his poetry?” I asked.
“You are too kind to his poetry,” he said. “Arthur’s garden would likely be a stretch of lawn with statuary and topiary and nothing else.”
“You forget that I’ve given them a sculpture garden.”
He studied me for a moment. “You have, and I suspect, much like the poet’s garden, you’ve done that because you know indulging their pretentions means that you’ve been able to create exactly what you want otherwise. Did they ask for an all-white garden?”
I smiled into my tea and said softly, “No.”
“Do you know, I’ve been wondering about why you’ve chosen the rooms that you did, and I think I’ve finally figured it out.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Each room represents the life of a woman. The tea garden is where polite company comes to meet, all with the purpose of marrying a girl off. The lovers’ garden speaks for itself, I should think, and the bridal garden is her movement from girl to wife. The children’s garden comes next. I would guess that the lavender walk represents her femininity, and the poet’s garden stands for a different sort of romance than the lovers’ garden.” He sifted through the plans on the table and pulled free the detail of the statue garden. “Aphrodite, Athena, Hera. All of the pieces in the statue garden will be depictions of the female form. Am I right?”
I stared at him, my mouth slightly open. It was a little trick I used sometimes, weaving in a theme to the plantings, but never before had I done anything so blatant. No one had ever noticed before, yet this man had seen right to the heart of it.
“The one thing I don’t understand is how the water and winter gardens fit,” he said.
“I’ve always found water to inspire contemplation and introspection. I meant it to represent a woman’s interior life.”
“And the winter garden?” he asked, leaning in.
“Her death, of course.”
He sat back in his chair, his cup nearly empty now. “I haven’t shown you what I brought you.”
He retrieved a bag stained dark brown with age and rain, and I held my breath when he opened the flap. He pulled out a bundle of muslin and began to unwrap it in his lap. When finally he was done, I could see three plants with their root structures bundled up.
“You brought me hydrangeas,” I breathed.
“Hydrangea aspera Villosa. I overheard you mentioning that you enjoyed them when we visited Hidcote,” he said, handing me one of the plants and taking his seat. “Mr. Johnston was happy to oblige in exchange for the delivery of several ‘Shailer’s White Moss’ he is thinking of planting.”
“You brought me hydrangeas,” I repeated, touching one of the leaves. “Thank you.”
I looked up and found him staring at me with such tenderness, my breath hitched. I’d seen that expression before, between my parents in a quiet moment when they thought no one else was watching. Never before had I thought that anyone would look at me that way, and I knew that I couldn’t turn away from it without answering his unspoken question.
Deliberately, I set down the plant and rounded the table until I stood before him. His eyes never left mine as I reached for his hands. His thumb came to rest on the top of my hand, playing tiny circles over my skin. For a moment, we simply stayed like that and then, slowly, he pulled me down until the back of my thigh brushed the top of his.
“Miss Smith… Venetia…”
His right hand traced up my arm, to my waist. His other hand rose, and he let the pad of his thumb rest against my lower lip.
“I didn’t come here to…” he said, his voice a whisper. “That is…”
I turned my lips into the palm of his hand to kiss his warm skin and whispered, “I know.”
He tilted my chin to kiss me in kind.
It had been years since I had been kissed. I could remember the thrill and fission of passion that accompanied one, but I’d forgotten the comfort. The feeling of someone else’s skin against mine. The surety of a pair of hands holding me in place.