“Mr. Cunningham and Mr. McCray both hesitated when I suggested such a move, but I can assure you that they are pleased with the result,” I said, mentioning two wealthy industrialists who were members of the same London club as Mr. Melcourt.
I held my breath, because this was the telling moment. Would the Melcourts be the sort of clients who thought they wanted new, beautiful, and innovative but really sought the comforting familiarity of the strictly manicured, formal spaces of the previous century’s gardens? Or would they allow me to give them something so much more—a lived-in, lush piece of art more vibrant than any painting?
“McCray did mention that you have some radical ideas,” said Mr. Melcourt. “However, he told me that the effect has won him nothing but praise.”
When his wife raised no objections, I smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Quickly, I pulled free a detail of the long border next, showing him how tall columns of clematis would tower over roses, Echinops, campanulas, allium, and delphiniums in soft pinks, whites, silvers, and purples. I showed them how walls of hedge and brick would create garden rooms of varying themes just to the west of the shade border. I warned them that some elements of the garden would take time: the lime trees would need to be carefully pleached each year by tying in flexible young shoots to give the impression of walking between two living walls. We talked about which pieces from the Melcourts’ growing collection would look best in the sculpture garden, and where the children might play.
A distant bell rang in the house, but the Melcourts hardly looked up.
“I’ve maintained the kitchen and herb gardens to the side of the house. There’s no need to move them, and the orchard is already mature and producing fruit for you,” I said.
“But so close to the house,” murmured Mrs. Melcourt.
I understood the lady’s objections immediately. “At the moment, you have only a yew hedge separating the kitchen garden from the rest of the property. I would recommend building a wall between the kitchen garden and the garden rooms to create a greater sense of separation between the gardens for work and for pleasure. I can show you if you like.”
A man’s heavy footsteps raised all of our heads as a newcomer joined us. Unlike Mr. Melcourt’s, this man’s tie was slightly askew, and even from where I was standing I could see the splatters of mud on the cuffs of his trousers.
“Matthew!” Mrs. Melcourt exclaimed, her coolness transforming into real affection.
“Hello, Helen. You look lovely today,” said the gentleman, kissing her on the cheek before shaking Mr. Melcourt’s hand.
“Miss Smith, may I present my brother, Mr. Matthew Goddard,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
“How do you do, Miss Smith,” said Mr. Goddard, taking my hand. It was warm in spite of the frozen temperatures and unexpectedly rough for a gentleman.
“I must confess, Miss Smith,” Mr. Goddard continued, “I came to Highbury House on the hope of meeting you today. I’m a great admirer of your work.”
I jerked back a fraction, breaking our connection. “You are?”
“I visited Longmarsh House last year. The gardens are exquisite,” Mr. Goddard said.
I relaxed a little, remembering Longmarsh and Lady Mallory with affection. A widow with a passion for nature and a difficult property situated high on a hill, Lady Mallory had been my first major patron after my father’s death. The project had been wildly ambitious, requiring building terraces into the hills and creating seven levels of planting. I had made mistakes along the way, as any new designer might, but when I finished, Lady Mallory had declared it her own Hanging Garden of Babylon.
“It is kind of you to say so, sir,” I said.
Mrs. Melcourt glanced between us, as though looking for something. Finally, she said, “That is great praise indeed, Miss Smith. Matthew is a talented botanist and has an eye for these things.”
My stomach dropped. Nothing gives me less pleasure than finding an amateur lurking around one of my commissions. Often he is the gentleman of the house who, having been born into wealth, decides that he should cultivate a hobby. He reads extensively about plants and even tries digging a hole from time to time, but the bulk of the work is given over to his oft-harried gardener. Winter pruning when the wind snaps the skin on your face raw. Digging drainage ditches in the hot sun. Dibbling and planting hundreds of bulbs on hands and knees to create bluebell meadows for April. The gentleman gardener wants no part of it, and so he has no practical knowledge of gardening, no matter how much he insists that his opinions should be taken into consideration.