That ghost of a smile played about his lips. “I had no intention of missing it, and I’ve had a fine tour of the garden.”
She leaned back in his arms. “How long have you been here?”
“An hour or so. I watched you from afar. I saw you talking with some tall fellow wearing an Aussie bush hat.” She snorted. “I couldn’t get near you, you were in such demand.”
“The day seemed to go well,” Pru said with a little shrug. She touched Christopher’s face. “I can’t believe this. I’m so happy to see you. Although, look at me. It’s been such a hot day—I’m dripping in sweat.”
He pulled her close. “I thought I did that to you.”
She giggled. “Oh, but you do.” He tugged at her shirt in back, pulling it up to expose a band of skin that cooled immediately when the air touched it. She closed her eyes and sighed, then opened them again. “When do you have to go back?”
“Not tonight.”
She was in heaven.
“Is everyone gone?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “We’re all alone.” He pulled her shirt up farther, as her hand slipped down his leg.
“Hellooo?”
They jumped apart, and Pru whirled around to see two ladies in floral dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats peering through the gate into the garden.
“I’m sorry,” Pru said, approaching them and stifling a laugh. “The garden is closed now.”
“Is it?” One turned to the other. “You were right, Ellen. Now, isn’t that too bad?”
Pru came within five feet of them and was knocked back by the smell of gin, which was like a force field around the two women.
“We stopped for lunch at a hotel on the other side of Staplehurst,” Ellen said to Pru, “and I’m afraid the time got away from us. We’ll try another day.” She took her companion’s arm and said, “Come along, Charlotte.” She looked over Pru’s shoulder into the garden. “It looks lovely.”
“Could I call a taxi for you?” Pru asked, thinking that fueled-by-gin wasn’t the best way to drive home.
Charlotte waved her away. “No, dear, there’s no worry, Ellen’s husband drove us, and he’s had nothing stronger than orange squash.” Pru looked past them and saw a gray-haired man with hunched shoulders sitting behind the wheel of a sedan.
“Well, goodbye, then,” Pru said. “Take care.” She pushed the heavy wooden gate closed and leaned on it. Christopher had come up behind her. She heard the women chatting and car doors closing. “We’ll just give them a minute to leave,” she said. “And then I’ll get a shower.”
He leaned against her. “I could help with that.”
She caught her breath. “Yes, please. And after that”—she arched an eyebrow—“I have whipped cream.”
—
“I’ve decided to tell Lord Hamilton no, I won’t stay on as head gardener. I don’t really fancy staying on after all this—and Bryan and Davina have found another undertaking.” Pru had nabbed an overlooked strawberry off the plate on the nightstand, pulled on a T-shirt, and now stood at the open bedroom window, looking out on the row of oaks and hawthorn, beyond which lay the walled garden. She put her hand to the base of her throat and felt the outline of her fan pendant, now restored to its proper place around her neck.
“Where will they go now?” Christopher got out of bed to stand beside her, and they caught a bit of evening breeze, his hand resting on her waist.
“They’ve bought a derelict house and estate in Wales—someplace I can’t spell or pronounce. They’ve asked if I’ll go and re-create the garden. They’re being quite insistent—‘Oh, it’ll be a seven-day-a-week post at first, Pru, but we know you can do it,’ and ‘We’ll make it worth your while,’ and ‘It’s a bit more overgrown than it was here.’ ” She shook her head. “They do love big ventures.”
“Wales,” he said, as if to himself. “What did you tell them?”
She turned and studied his face without speaking for a moment, the corner of her mouth turning up. “I told them, ‘No, thank you.’ I told them I had someplace else to be.”
“Not here. Not Wales. So where is that?” He met her smile with his own.
“Well, I’m not leaving the country, if that’s what you’re asking. At least, not without you.” She looked out the window again. “I’ll go up to London. I’m sure I could get a few of my old clients back. I’ll be a jobbing gardener again,” she said, catching his hand.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to—I want to. It’ll give us time. You won’t have to be torn between work and wherever I am, and I can start looking for another full-time post. Something in London—perhaps Chiswick House will have an opening.”
“What I mean is that you don’t have to do that for me.” He turned her around to face him. “Beginning the first of September, I have six months off.”
Her eyes widened, and she squeezed his arms. “They’re giving you time off—it’s official?”
“It’s taken a couple of months to get everything approved, and I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.” He rested his head against hers. “I had planned on moving down here—but now that won’t be necessary.”
“This means”—she stopped to consider the reality of their situation—“we’ll be free.”
“We’ll be together,” Christopher said. “Remember what I said—I’ll take you away. Where shall we go?”
They were quiet for a moment, lost in happy thoughts as they studied each other. Pru ran her finger down his chest. “Hmm. Six months of freedom and no income.” She grinned as giddiness overcame her. “But I’ll be waking up every day with you.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. We’ll sell our cars and buy a used camper. We’ll go down to the coast and set up camp in a rest stop. What do you think?”
He laughed and said, “We could move in with my sister Claire in Plymouth.”
“Oh God,” Pru said, “wouldn’t she just love that?” She kissed him. “At this moment, even a camper sounds perfect—an escape. See.” She walked out to the kitchen and picked up the “Read later” envelope from Davina on the counter. “It’s another plea to go with them to Wales, I’m sure of it. She keeps trying—it doesn’t seem to matter how many times I say no.”
She pulled the letter out of the envelope, and a second piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Christopher glanced at the contents over her shoulder, then retrieved the paper from under the table, holding it up for her to see.
Pru burst out laughing. “We may be able to upgrade that camper.”
Primrose House
30 July
Dear Pru,
Words cannot express our gratitude for your vision and hard work during the restoration of the gardens at Primrose House, your firm conviction and unswerving bravery during such trying times—and how sad we are that we must now pass it along to someone else.
If we cannot persuade you to take up the head gardener post in Wales, we hope that you and Christopher will be able to take some well-deserved time off, and toward that end we want to provide you with what might possibly be a few months’ salary at an established garden.
A cheque is enclosed. Take it with our kindest regards—and our hope that you both enjoy a quiet respite.
We took another look at the Red Book before returning it to Lord Hamilton, and we see that you accomplished the very essence of what Humphry Repton hoped to when he wrote:
The garden would be rather a circumstance of cheerfulness than of complaint; and the Place assume all the importance which the style and character of the mansion requires. Primrose House would be changed from a large red house by the side of a high road, to a Gentleman-like residence in the midst of a Park.
Best,
Davina
For Leighton with love and a pint of best bitter
Acknowledgments
More than one hundred of Humphry Repton’s Red Books exist today, and they are a delight to behold. Many remain in private h
ands, but some are available for public viewing. The Morgan Library & Museum will give you a virtual look at his attention to detail when presenting his landscape design to potential clients (http://www.themorgan.org/collection/Humphry-Reptons-Red-Books). At the Royal Horticultural Society Lindley Library, I held the real thing—Repton’s 1792 plan for Waresley Park in Huntingdonshire (part of Cambridgeshire). I could only marvel at Repton’s watercolor renderings and fine handwriting, to say nothing of his ability to sell his ideas—I would certainly have hired him to make a garden. The Red Book of Primrose House is an amalgamation of text and thoughts from those sources.
Continued thanks in the Potting Shed mystery series go to my superb Alibi editor, Dana Edwin Isaacson, and agent, Colleen Mohyde. Thanks to my sister, Carolyn Lutz, who likes each book even better than the last, and to my British resource, good friend, and fellow writer Victoria Summerley. Every writer should be in a critique group; I owe many thanks to mine: Kara Pomeroy, Louise Creighton, Deb Slivinsky, and Joan Shott.
About the Author
Marty Wingate writes about gardens and travel, and she has now combined those two loves with her passion for mysteries. Marty’s how-to-garden information is available in books, online, and on the radio. She lives in Seattle with her husband, who shares her love of travel and is always ready for on-the-ground research into pubs and English beer. Learn more about her at martywingate.com.
Facebook.com/martywingateauthor
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The Red Book of Primrose House: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series 2) Page 27
