The Restoration Garden: A Novel - 6

Julia

The history Margaret had shared with me was an honor that weighed heavily on my conscience all afternoon. When I’d applied for the job, I’d been thinking only of Sam and myself. How much I needed the work and how a job like this would look on my portfolio and give us a fresh start.

Margaret’s revelations were a reminder this job wasn’t just about me. These gardens were part of her family’s history. They meant something to her. I couldn’t fail. I don’t know who she made that promise to, but it was painfully clear that it was more than just a childhood fancy. It was her dying wish.

Sam and I spent the afternoon in the front garden, where I focused on mapping out the grounds and examining the soil for any signs of life. It was strange not to have a half dozen assistants to help with measurements and soil samples. I’d grown accustomed to the luxuries and perks of working for a big, prestigious firm. But that wasn’t the reason I had gotten into this profession. It was passion. The skills I developed throughout my schooling and apprenticeships weren’t lost just because my career was. I needed to go back to basics for a little while.

The back gardens had once been separated into defined sections. I decided to start with the smallest of the spaces—a moon garden near the back west corner behind the parterre. A round moon gate built into the stone wall gave the space the feeling of stepping into an entirely different world. The garden itself was tiny, barely eight feet long in any direction, but I could picture clearly enough how magical it must have been in its glory. Moon gardens were often believed to be deeply spiritual places where the barrier between the dead and the living thinned. They were a place for meditation and reflection. For memorializing those who have passed on.

I gave Sam a plastic spade I’d found in the old gardener’s shed to occupy himself with, then sat down on the sturdy stone bench and opened my laptop, letting my imagination run wild. This was the part I loved best. Envisioning all the beauty and life that would burst out of the soil in the next few months. Figuring out the exact right combination of colors and textures. I still preferred my sketchbook for brainstorming, but the design software I’d spent the better part of my savings on was a necessary investment to succeed in this profession.

A rainbow of dirt flew across the screen.

“Sam! Be careful!” I shook the mess from the keyboard, praying it didn’t ruin my computer. When I finally assured myself no permanent damage had been done, I turned to Sam. He looked angry. “Why did you do that?”

He didn’t answer.

I let out a sigh. “I guess I’ve been ignoring you a bit, huh? Are you hungry? Do you want to go exploring?”

Still no reaction. I wished I knew how to translate his unblinking stares and subtle head tilts into words.

I rose to my feet with the most enthusiastic smile I could muster. “You know what? Maybe it would be better if we did this the old-fashioned way. Let’s count how many steps are between each section of the parterre.”

Sam led the way, counting his steps with careful determination. I let my mind wander to all the possibilities I could create here. I was eager to capture the ideas floating around in my mind into a 3D image I could share with Margaret. Maybe she just needed a gentle nudge to commit to a plan. Sam was happy enough turning over rocks and exploring every hidden corner for treasure for the rest of the afternoon, freeing me to make some headway on the inspiration boards for the garden. I created three different options—a classic English cottage garden filled with pink roses and purple alliums, another option relying more heavily on ornamental grasses for texture, and the third a more refined formal garden with neatly trimmed hedges and topiaries. Each style was beautiful but provided a completely different atmosphere. I hoped at least one of them would resonate with Margaret and give me a sense of direction.

“What do you think?” I asked Sam when I finished.

He scrunched his face, taking on the task of providing his opinion with the utmost gravity before pointing to the cottage garden.

“Great choice. I like that one, too. Why don’t we go see if Margaret agrees?”

We packed up our stuff and brought it inside to go look for Margaret. Havenworth was large, but I suspected it would be easy enough to find her. Andrew had said the orangery was her favorite place in the house. She was still perched on her chair when we came inside, so deep in concentration while reading on her tablet that I wasn’t sure she even noticed us enter.

“Good afternoon, Margaret,” I said cheerily. “Do you mind if we come in?”

She harrumphed as she set down her tablet and lowered her reading glasses, making me hesitate at the door.

Sam had already raced over to the set of jacks on the coffee table, oblivious to any sense of formality or manners.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, no. It’s just this article I’m reading. ‘Signal Processing in Airborne Radar Devices.’”

The words flew right above my head, and the confusion must have registered on my face, because she let out a bellowing laugh.

“Science, dear. I might be too old to putter around in the laboratory anymore, but I can still spot a bias in a methodology. What can I do for you now?”

“I wanted to show you some ideas I have for the gardens. Would you be up for that?”

Her energy dimmed, as though the question had blown a gust of air across her wick. She didn’t outright refuse, but she didn’t say yes either. Her gaze drifted to the window once more.

“We could come back another time,” I said gently.

She shook her head. “It’s fine. Best we get this over with so you can get on with your work.”

This was painful for her. That much I could tell, but I didn’t understand why. Why not leave the entire process to Andrew to sort out if she didn’t want to be involved?

I opened my laptop and showed her the inspiration boards. She gave no comments, but her frown deepened with each image. “These aren’t final designs or anything, just ideas to get a sense of what you like.”

“It’s not about what I like,” she muttered angrily. “The gardens need to look exactly like they did before.”

I grimaced in frustration. I’d missed the mark completely. She’d been kind to me and Sam so far, but how long would her patience stretch? Swallowing my worry, I said, “That’s what I’m trying to do. But without any photos or plans, I’m not sure how to re-create the original gardens. Is there anything you remember about them?”

She sighed long and slow, then motioned for me to bring my laptop closer. “Show me that first one again.”

I opened the image board of the cottage garden. She squinted through her glasses at the images. “The colors are all wrong.”

I rubbed my temple. “Okay. But ignore that for a moment. What about the feeling you get?”

This was a tactic I’d used before with indecisive clients. People get overwhelmed by the details or fixated on a certain type of style. Taking them a step back to what they wanted from their space let me show them different options that they might not have ever considered by themselves. But Margaret wasn’t a typical client. She was a scientist. A woman who had put up with more than her fair share of bullshit in her life. Feelings seemed to be the last thing she wanted to talk about.

“I remember I liked the patterns in the back gardens. It was like walking in a swirl of soft ice cream.”

“The parterre,” I said, and the tension in my shoulders eased a fraction as I visualized the space. “It was common to have winding paths through them. What else do you remember?”

She closed her eyes. “Past the first wall was a tunnel that felt like an explosion of color all around me. In the late spring, there were yellow flowers that hovered like raindrops above us.” She shook her head as though not quite trusting her own memory.

“Laburnum,” I said instantly.

The name didn’t spark any hint of recognition, so I quickly typed the name into the search engine and pulled up a photo.

“That’s it,” Margaret said with delight. “The flowers were so vibrant but so fleeting. I remember our gardener scolding Charlie and me for playing with fallen petals. We would gather them up in huge heaps and throw them over each other until we were absolutely covered in yellow. The gardener would chase us off, but we always snuck back.”

“That’s probably because they’re poisonous if you ingest them. But they make an incredible display in the late spring.”

The memory was clearly a happy one for her, so I took my chances scrolling to a website that listed other types of flowers. She remained silent while I scrolled along through the images of irises and rudbeckia and sunflowers, giving me no further clues.

“Wait,” she said, pointing to the screen where a dainty magenta flower in the shape of a starburst was displayed. “That one.”

“Astrantia,” I said. It was one of my favorite flowers for its simplicity and easy care, but often underappreciated in the gardening world.

“Courage,” she whispered shakily.

I knelt down next to her. “Do you remember it in the gardens? It’s also called masterwort.”

She shook her head. “Courage,” she repeated.

I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“It means courage,” she said with obvious frustration. “That’s what—”

“Hello, Margaret. What are you chatting about?”

I turned to see a woman standing in the doorframe. She was young—early twenties at most—with a bag of groceries on her hip. She had thick dark hair and a round, pretty face with a bright flush across her cheeks.

“Just some nonsense,” Margaret said dismissively. “What have you brought me today?”

“A book, more of your favorite tea, and some more of the medication the doctor ordered,” the woman said cheerily, setting the bag onto the coffee table. “Hello, I’m Helen. You must be the new expert gardener.”

I rose to my feet. “Nice to meet you. I’m Julia, and this is Sam.”

Helen glanced down at the boy. “Very nice to meet you, too, Sam.”

Sam ignored her, but her bright smile remained.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Did you bring my biscuits?”

“Not until after you’ve had your dinner. And even then, it’s our secret. No telling Andrew, okay? This stays between you and me and—” Her eyes widened as she seemed to remember me. “You won’t tell Andrew, will you? He would positively murder me if he knew I’d brought Margaret sweets.”

She spoke so quickly it was almost dizzying.

“Your secrets are safe with me,” I replied. Mostly because Andrew didn’t seem to have any interest in speaking with me at all, unless it was strictly necessary.

“That’s a good girl,” Margaret said, closing her eyes. Our little visit down memory lane had clearly exhausted her more than I anticipated. We had only just scratched the surface, but at least it was a start.