“Very helpful.”
“There are some sketches of people’s faces and hands. I would guess some of them are the patients who were sent here to recover from their injuries. It looks like Nan took a shot at drawing some landscapes—this plane might be from the airfield not too far away. But mostly, it’s drawings of the garden,” he said, flipping to a full-page sketch of what had to be the great lawn, planted with neat rows of vegetables.
“Part of the garden had been requisitioned for agricultural land. I’ve seen pictures of it,” she said, running her finger just under the first row of graphite-sketched plantings.
“My grandfather was to blame for that, I’m afraid, although Dad always said Granddad helped reseed the lawn in the fifties.”
“We’re rebuilding the reflecting pool that used to be right here,” she said, tapping a blunt fingernail on the drawing.
“If you continue, there are a lot of details of plants,” he said.
She saw drawings of velvet-soft sage, reaching hazel trees, elegant lavender, bowing meconopsis, and cloudlike hydrangeas.
“She was very talented,” she said.
They were nearly through the book when he turned a page, and she gasped. A beautiful garden with curving brick walls, tall dogwoods stretching up to the sky, and lush foliage beneath. In the center was a shallow pond made from a gently sloping clay dish of water. And above the drawing, Henry’s nan had written “The Winter Garden.”
“That’s what it was supposed to look like,” she breathed.
“What is it?” he asked, leaning in.
“We haven’t been able to get into this garden yet. We don’t have access through the gate, so we need to spend some time cutting a path in, but there are no detailed plans. I didn’t want to damage something irreplaceable, so it keeps falling to the bottom of the list.”
“And this helps?” he asked.
She nodded. “Now I know what it was supposed to look like when it was mature. It’s not the exact same garden Venetia planted—nothing is ever quite as intended because some plants fail and some thrive. But this at least guides the way.”
He sat back. “Good. I’m glad it helps.”
She studied the page. She wanted to stand in the middle of it, the shallow dish of water in front of her, and put it to rights once again.
She shook her head, bringing herself back to the moment. “Is there much else in this one?”
“Just this.” He reached over and flipped to the last page of the sketchbook. One sketch dominated it. It showed two boys sitting against a background of shrubs. Their heads were bent, the hair falling across one of their brows while he watched the other play with a toy lorry.
“The detail is wonderful,” she said, admiring how the dashed pencil lines came together to form such a sure image.
“I wondered who they were.”
“Sydney’s grandfather and one of his playmates, I would think. I could ask Sydney when I’m next up at the house. She probably has some photographs,” she said.
“You should take these for as long as you need. It’ll save you time,” he offered.
“I appreciate you trusting me with them.”
The song switched, and Otis Redding’s voice filled the back patio.
“I’m happy to, but I’ll warn you, my interest’s piqued,” he said.
She hesitated, and then said, “You know, if you have the urge to see them, you could drop by.”
“Be careful, I might not be able to resist an offer like that from a woman with such good taste in music.” He nodded to the portable speaker sitting on the patio table. “？‘These Arms of Mine.’ Great song.”
“There’s this guy who keeps coming around in these band shirts. He’s got me listening to all of this music I wouldn’t normally. It must be the power of suggestion.”
“I hope he isn’t bothering you,” he said.
She smiled. “No. He’s not bothering me.”
“Good,” he said before standing. “I should get out of your way.”
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“How tired are you right now?”
“On a scale of one to ten?” she asked. “Probably an eleven.”
He laughed. “Then I should go.”
She rose and took his bottle from him as he looked around again.
“Pots,” he declared.
“I’m sorry?”
“You could get some pots and do a container garden. Then you could take them to your next cottage in your next village for your next job,” he said.