The Lost Gardens(9)

‘Not that I know of.’ She looked at him for a moment and grinned. ‘If there were, they would more likely be Riders of the Purple Sage!’

Kingston laughed. ‘Well, Jamie, I suppose if Latimer is satisfied that no Tom, Dick or Harry is going to come along in a year or so trying to prove he’s the rightful heir—then not to worry.’

‘That was one of my first questions. Latimer’s already ruled out the chance of that happening.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘enough about all that, let’s talk about why you’re here.’

During the next half hour, Jamie told Kingston what she had learned so far about Wickersham’s history and her plans for its rehabilitation.

Built in 1758 on the site of an old Benedictine priory, the house boasted twenty rooms on the ground floor alone, including a library and a billiards room. There was also a large well-stocked wine cellar (Kingston’s ears pricked up at this), and three cottages in the grounds plus ancillary outbuildings. Work on the house was already under way, the first job replacing sections of the original slate roof.

The gardens, she said, were another matter (there was that phrase again). From everything she knew, the original gardens flanking the house on the south and west covered approximately ten acres. Nowhere had she been able to find mention of the original—or any, for that matter—garden designers or landscape architects. Pulling out some sheets of paper from one of the books on the coffee table, Jamie read aloud from the notes she’d made at the library. ‘Here’s what I know about the gardens as they existed in the years before the war,’ she said, glancing up at Kingston. ‘As best as I can make out, there were at least eight separate and distinct gardens.’ She looked down at the paper again, running a finger down the list. ‘A walled vegetable garden, an Italian garden, a rose garden, a sunken water garden, an herb garden … to mention a few. Plus I found references to an orchard, a yew alley, lots of topiaries, a circular thatched summer house, a gatehouse, a grotto, a pleached lime walk, various and sundry trellises, arbours and pergolas, some built on big stone piers …’ She paused, studying the list. ‘Oh, and there was a brick potting house, several large greenhouses, a long grass walk and huge lawns that stepped down in three levels from the rear of the house.’ She looked up at Kingston.

‘Goodness gracious, they weren’t kidding when they said it could have rivalled the best—even Hidcote,’ he added. ‘I’m surprised it’s been such a well-preserved secret all these years.’

‘Probably because it was never open to the public.’

‘That could explain it.’

She looked puzzled. ‘Hidcote’s a garden, I take it?’

Kingston nodded. ‘It’s in Gloucestershire, in the Cotswolds. It’s considered one of, if not, the finest example of all English gardens and yet, curiously, it wasn’t created by an Englishman.’

‘Really?’

‘Would you be surprised if I told you it was an American?’

‘I would, yes.’

‘Well, indeed, it was—a Major Lawrence Johnston. His well-heeled mother bought him the estate just before World War I. There are more than twenty-five gardens within gardens covering the ten-acre site.’

‘I must look it up in the library.’

‘No book can do it justice. You must see it in person.’ He paused and took a sip of tepid tea, quickly putting down his cup. ‘You will, Jamie, because I’m going to take you there. The head gardener’s an acquaintance. We’ll also make a day trip to Sissinghurst. It’s another brilliant example of twentieth-century English gardening.’

‘I’d like that very much.’

Kingston raised a hand, briefly. ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have interrupted.’

Jamie went on to tell him about the other two people on her staff. One was Eric, a young chap from the village, a part-timer who did odd jobs, ran errands and helped Dot. The second was an elderly caretaker, China, who lived with his ailing wife in one of the cottages on the estate. He also did some light garden work.

‘I noticed, driving in, how nicely the yew hedges were clipped,’ Kingston commented.

‘Yes, he just did those. I was very pleased with them. China’s not getting any younger but I must say he’s a stickler for doing things right.’

‘Odd name?’

She shook her head, glancing up to the ceiling as she did so. ‘You Brits and your nicknames. His real name is Stanley—Stanley Wedgwood. Anyway, getting back to the gardens,’ she said with a little sigh and a creasing of her brow, ‘you saw for yourself, driving in, just how far gone they are. And you saw only a little corner. Before dinner, we’ll go for a walk. Not too far, but enough to give you a better understanding of what you’re getting into.’ She paused, fixing him with her brown eyes and then smiling enigmatically. ‘That is, of course, if you accept my generous offer.’