The huge front door groaned open, revealing a housekeeper starched into a somber uniform of high-necked black with a chain of keys hanging off her like a medieval chatelaine.
“Good morning,” she intoned, her measured voice laced with Birmingham.
I gripped the cardboard tube of papers I’d carried up from London a little tighter. “Good morning. I am Miss Venetia Smith. I have an appointment with Mr. Melcourt.”
The housekeeper assessed me from the brim of my hat to the toe of my boot. Her mouth thinned sharp as a reed when she spotted the mud I’d acquired performing one last check of my roses that morning.
“I can remove them if you like,” I said archly.
The housekeeper’s back stiffened as though I’d poked her with a hatpin. “That will not be necessary, Miss Smith.”
The woman led me to a double drawing room and gestured to me to wait just outside the door. I could see that the room was undeniably grand, with a half-open set of pocket doors that could divide the hand-tooled wood-paneled walls. At one end, a carved marble fire surround stood watch over a roaring blaze. Overhead, a large chandelier glinted with electric lights in dozens of glass cups, illuminating tapestries and paintings. Yet the grandest ornament of all sat at the center of the room: a tiny blond woman in a white wool day dress belted with a slash of black. Across from her were three children, sitting in a row, their nanny watching over the eldest girl as she read out, “Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing!’？”
“My dear,” said the woman in white, who I presumed was Mrs. Melcourt.
The child stopped at once. From the armchair rose the barrel-chested Mr. Melcourt, wearing a suit of inky black.
“Miss Smith,” the housekeeper announced.
“Thank you, Mrs. Creasley. Please show her in,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
Mrs. Creasley stepped back so I could take her place.
“Miss Smith, I trust your journey was not too difficult,” said Mr. Melcourt with a curt nod of his head.
I watched, fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple bounced against the stiff collar of his shirt. Was every member of the household a prisoner to starch?
“It was very pleasant, thank you,” I said.
“My wife, Mrs. Melcourt,” said Mr. Melcourt.
I gave a shallow curtsy, which Mrs. Melcourt returned with a slight nod. She did not rise.
“Are those the plans?” Mr. Melcourt asked eagerly.
I lifted my cardboard tube. “They are.”
“I trust that corresponding with Mr. Hillock was helpful,” he said.
“He’s a very knowledgeable man.” A good head gardener can be a great asset in executing a new design. Long after I leave Highbury, Mr. Hillock will be charged with maintaining the spirit of my creation.
“Would you like to see the latest drawings?” I asked.
Mr. Melcourt nodded. Mrs. Melcourt managed only a small smile, sent the children away, and rose to join her husband’s side.
As I unrolled my plans on a rosewood table, I studied my employers over my steel-rimmed spectacles. I don’t strictly need them for anything other than detailed sketching, but I’ve found that people vastly underestimate a bespectacled woman, most often to my advantage.
“We will start with the overall vision for the grounds. You told me that you wanted to combine formal and natural styles for a sense of elegance and surprise. The great lawn is your formality.” I pointed to the rectangular shape that represented the long stretch of grass that already existed at Highbury House. “The view from your veranda down to the lakeside is beautiful, but it is missing something to draw the eye. A sense of drama. We will cut stairs into the slope and create a small wall edged with plantings. The stairs will lead down to a wide, shallow reflecting pool and then an uninterrupted stretch of lawn all the way down to the lake.”
“Will you remove the trees at the edge of the lake?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You have mature beech, birch, and hawthorn trees that will lend the property a sense of history. You’ll find that the most formal parts of the garden are also those nearest to the house, where you are most likely to entertain.” I glanced up at Mrs. Melcourt. “Perhaps your guests will picnic or play croquet on the lawn and then wander the long border that will run along the eastern edge of the lawn or the lime walk and shade borders opposite. As they approach the lake, the garden will naturally transition to a looser, wilder style.”
Mr. Melcourt’s lip curled. “Wilder.”