The Italian Garden

by Charlotte Betts

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Lake Como, 1919.
The garden of Villa Marchese was once a sight to behold. Now, overgrown and unloved, the flowers that once bloomed are nothing but a reminder of the tragic events of Flora Marchese's death.

When horticulturist Violet Honeywell is commissioned to restore the once exquisite garden, she immediately accepts and sets off on a life-changing adventure.

Violet instantly becomes enchanted by the Italian way of life, and under the beguiling warmth of the Bellagio sun, she falls in love with a man who can never truly be hers - Flora's grandson.

But when a discovery at the Lake uncovers buried truths that have haunted the family for decades, Violet starts to delve deeper into the dark secrets of their past, and she quickly begins to realise that not everything in the Marchese family is what it seems . . .
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Why readers love Charlotte Betts:

'Lush, romantic and full of intrigue' Tracy Rees, Richard & Judy bestselling author

'A deeply romantic novel whose vivid characters will linger in your mind' Margaret Kaine

'Romantic, poignant and gripping . . . a fabulous holiday read' Deborah Swift

'A stunning and captivating read . . . full of drama, love, loss and life' Book Literati

'Lingers in the heart long after the final page is turned . . . a must read for anyone who wants to be absorbed as well as utterly enchanted' Carol McGrath

'A compelling story, beautifully written and brought alive with rich historical detail' Liz Harris

Release date: May 2, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

There was the merest sliver of grey light between the shutters when Flora slipped out of her bed. She tiptoed across the rug and glanced through the half-open door into Umberto’s dressing room. He lay facing her, his clenched fist resting on the pillow. Even in sleep, her husband still looked angry. Shivering in her nightgown, she turned away.

The floorboards creaked and she froze, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.

But he didn’t stir and, after what felt like an eternity, she edged towards the other door. The handle turned noiselessly and then she was creeping barefoot along the landing.

The oil lamp on the high shelf in the nursery was turned down low to avert Isabella’s night terrors and Flora leaned over to kiss her daughter’s cheek. ‘I love you more than life itself,’ she murmured, breathing in the sweet scent of her child’s skin, ‘but I cannot endure any longer. If there was any other way . . . ’

Isabella slept on, her copper curls fanned out over the pillow.

Flora’s face crumpled with the effort of holding back the tears but then a sound came from the corner of the nursery. Her breath lodged in her throat but it was only the baby whimpering in his cradle.

She went to him and stroked his forehead, hoping to soothe him back to sleep. ‘I am so very sorry,’ she whispered, ‘but everything will be all right. Your Papà adores you and you will be happy.’

Orlando arched his back and let out a wail.

There was no more time. She must go before the wet-nurse came to tend to him.

Hastily, she pressed her lips to Isabella’s forehead, her heart breaking. ‘I promise you, we’ll meet again in a better place,’ she whispered. Tearing herself away, she edged out of the nursery and hurried down the stairs. In the hall, almost blinded by tears, she slid back the bolts and ran out into the misty dawn.

Sobbing, she raced through the garden and down towards the boathouse by the lake, heedless of the wet grass and sharp stones under her bare feet. Once, she had loved this place but now she was desperate to leave it.

She scrambled into the boat, shoved it away from the landing stage and rowed out onto the lake. The water was as flat as molten pewter with the night sky beginning to lighten in the east. All around her the mountains were veiled by low clouds. She rowed until she could no longer see the house through the mist that curled up off the lake. She shipped the oars and listened to the silence. Now, there was only herself in this vaporous grey world.

She dipped her hand in the water and held it there until it was numb with cold. Oh, if only she could numb her heartbreak as easily as her fingers!

But it was too late and she must act. She pulled her nightgown over her head and draped it over the side of the boat. Filled with dread, she stared into the depths of the lake.

It was time.

Muttering under my breath, I hacked off spent flower spikes and dying foliage until all that was left of the delphinium was sorry-looking stubble. I attacked the browning leaves of the next plant while I brooded over my latest encounter with Harold Naseby. Full of glee, he’d told me he’d just seen Sergeant Waring, in uniform, heading towards the office.

Most of Kew’s gardeners had enlisted in 1914, but Naseby’s flat feet had exempted him from military service. He’d been one of the few remaining men at Kew when I was recruited a year later, along with several other young women, from Swanley Horticultural College. Naseby made no secret of either his dislike of women in what he considered should be an all-male preserve or of his particular antagonism towards me. He’d borne a grudge ever since Mr Coutts, supervisor of the Herbaceous Grounds, the Rock Gardens and the Flower Gardens, had praised me for my diligence and expertise.

Raking up the clippings of dead foliage, I thrust them into the barrow.

‘You can stop that now, Violet.’

Warily, I turned to see what Naseby wanted this time.

‘Get yourself down to Coutts’s office right away.’

As soon as I saw the smirk on his face, I knew what was going to happen. After all, I had been expecting it. I wiped my palms on my breeches and walked away without acknowledging him. I was damned if I’d let him see my despair.

I tapped on Mr Coutts’s office door a few minutes later, and he looked up from an array of seed catalogues spread out over his desk.

‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Honeywell.’ He didn’t invite me to sit, which I took to be a bad sign.

I clasped my hands together and tried to ignore my skipping heartbeat.

‘Sergeant Waring has been released from military service at last,’ said Mr Coutts, his gaze roaming all around the office but avoiding me. ‘He returned from France last week and is ready to take up his former position in the Herbaceous Grounds. You’ll remember that your employment here at Kew has only ever been a temporary situation. The arrangement must now come to an end with immediate effect.’

‘Immediate?’ I said. His words were like a kick to my stomach. ‘Without notice?’

He pushed a brown envelope across the desk. ‘Your pay up to the end of the week. Waring has been kicking his heels for months in France, waiting to be demobbed. It’s important that the men who fought so bravely on our behalf should return to a normal life as soon as possible. Besides, Waring has a wife and child to support.’

‘But I need employment. There isn’t anyone to support me.’

‘You have your widows’ pension.’

The pension wasn’t enough; everyone knew that. ‘It’s not only the salary. My work means everything to me, Mr Coutts. Couldn’t you find me another position? In the glasshouses, perhaps?’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ He peered over his spectacles at me. ‘Working at Kew has been a splendid opportunity for you but you always knew it wouldn’t be permanent. The war forced exceptional circumstances upon us. Life must now return to its natural order, and for a lady, that is not the workplace.’

A flash of anger made me glare at him. ‘Women proved their worth in many different capacities during the war. Now it’s over, are all those of us who found satisfaction in being useful to be discarded onto the compost heap?’

‘Not at all; merely returned to your rightful place in the home. Perhaps you might find some charitable cause to keep you occupied?’

‘Since my husband was sacrificed to the war machine,’ I snapped, ‘I don’t have a proper home anymore. But I want, I need, to work.’

‘Perhaps, but not at Kew.’ Mr Coutts shuffled through the seed catalogues. ‘A prestigious position such as this will be impossible to match,’ he said, ‘but from time to time, I receive enquiries about finding suitable applicants for gardening situations. One or two of the other young ladies surplus to current requirements have found employment in that way. Would you like me to put your name forward next time?’

Arguing with him would only destroy this fragile lifeline and I swallowed my pride. ‘Yes please, Mr Coutts.’

‘Very well. Don’t forget to clean and oil your tools before you leave. You’ll want Sergeant Waring to know you carried out your work in a professional manner, won’t you?’

‘Yes, Mr Coutts.’ As I turned to leave, he spoke again.

‘Your work has been exemplary, Mrs Honeywell. I shall write you a good reference.’

‘Thank you.’ I closed his office door behind me and walked with heavy steps back towards the Herbaceous Grounds. I’d been waiting for the axe to fall ever since the Armistice, but now that it had actually happened, I was crushed. Working at Kew was my oasis of calm in a world that war had changed beyond recognition.

Although the country was now apparently at peace, I saw ruined lives all around me. We’d braved the privations and separations in the desperate hope of a reunion, but for some of us that never came. For others, there was the shock of discovering we didn’t know each other anymore. My grieving heart still ached and sleep frequently eluded me. I pictured William’s face and my steps faltered. After the misery of the recent years, gardening and the regular rhythm of the seasons had been the only way for me to find any tranquillity and sense of purpose.

Naseby was lurking in the Rock Garden by the Herbaceous Grounds. He stepped forward, blocking my path. ‘Everything all right, Ginger?’ he enquired, his innocent expression belied by the gleam of malice in his eyes.

I ignored his inaccurate reference to my auburn hair. ‘You’ve got what you wished for,’ I said. ‘I’m leaving Kew. Sergeant Waring is returning from military service to take up his former position.’ I gave a scornful laugh. ‘I daresay you won’t find him easy to trample over with those great flat feet of yours.’

‘No doubt he’ll command more respect than a mere woman.’

I snatched up my garden tools and dropped them into the wheelbarrow with a clatter. ‘Well, good luck, Naseby,’ I said, smiling sweetly. ‘You’ll probably need it, if you’re going to be the only man working here who isn’t a war hero.’ Holding my head high, I set off down the path.



Ruminating over the situation as I cycled away from Kew, I failed to see a shattered beer bottle in the gutter and punctured a tyre. I eased a shard of glass from the rubber with a groan and pushed the bicycle the rest of the way to my father’s house in Richmond.

Dusk was falling as I walked up the path of Rosedene, the Victorian villa that had been my childhood home until my marriage. Even though I now lived in a bedsitting room in Twickenham, I visited Rosedene once a week to have dinner with my father and stepmother.

I shoved the bicycle into the garden shed. Since I wouldn’t be going to work in the morning, I’d have time to repair the beastly puncture in daylight tomorrow.

Letting myself in by the kitchen door, I greeted Mrs Alleyn, the cook, who was paring potatoes at the kitchen table. Before the war, we’d also had a housekeeper, a parlour maid, a scullery maid and a gardener. Now, Mrs Alleyn managed the house with the aid of a twice-weekly charwoman and her husband who cut the lawn and planted potatoes in Mother’s rose beds.

A pudding was steaming away on the gas, the condensation running down the window.

‘Your favourite treacle sponge today,’ said Mrs Alleyn.

‘Lovely! I had a puncture so I’ll stay tonight after dinner.’

‘Your bed’s still made up from last time.’

My stepmother’s complaining tones emanated from the sitting room, followed by the rumble of my father’s voice attempting to pacify her.

‘Father’s back early, too,’ I said.

‘About half an hour ago. Mrs Hall doesn’t sound too happy, does she?’ Mrs Alleyn, who’d known me since I was a little girl, gave me a conspiratorial glance. ‘Probably best to go and tidy yourself before dinner until it’s blown over.’

I came downstairs when I heard the dinner gong. My father and stepmother were already seated in the dining room and the atmosphere was choked with simmering resentment. Father’s face was drawn and anxious and Mildred’s mouth was pinched together, as if she’d swallowed a wasp. It wouldn’t be a good time to tell them I’d lost my position at Kew.

‘Good evening,’ I said, taking into my place at the table.

‘I have some news, Violet,’ said Father, without preamble. ‘I’ve received a letter confirming that Edmund is well enough to return from Cornwall.’

‘But that’s marvellous!’ My younger brother had been recovering from shell shock in a nursing home for the past six months.

Mildred sat rigidly on her chair, her fingers tapping the table.

‘Doctor Gillespie at Spindrift House writes that he’s much improved,’ said Father, ‘though he isn’t yet fit to work.’

Father and I had been distressed to see Edmund’s pitiable condition when we visited him in the military hospital after he’d been brought back from France. ‘When is he arriving?’

‘Friday evening. I’m to meet his train at Paddington.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.

‘And then what?’ snapped my stepmother. ‘Can he care for himself? As I’ve made perfectly plain to you, Gerald, I’m not prepared to nurse him.’

‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mildred.’

Mrs Alleyn carried in the macaroni cheese.

Dinner was eaten in uneasy silence while I considered how to break the news that I was no longer required at Kew.



On Friday, I met Father at Paddington station. We waited on the crowded platform for Edmund’s train, jostled by businessmen in suits and soldiers with kitbags. The shriek of guards’ whistles echoed under the great glass roof and the air was thick with steam and cigarette smoke.

‘I’m nervous,’ I confessed.

‘So am I,’ said Father. ‘When I saw him at Spindrift House two months ago, he’d almost stopped that terrible trembling, but he still wasn’t his normal self.’

‘Perhaps the sea air will have benefited him?’ I said.

Father ran a hand over his thinning hair. ‘The truth is, Violet, my income isn’t sufficient to keep him in a nursing home any longer.’

‘And Mildred doesn’t want him at Rosedene.’ It was hard to keep the resentment out of my voice.

‘I know you and your stepmother haven’t often seen eye to eye but she isn’t always so contrary. She can’t bear to be reminded of the war by your brother’s continuing illness.’

Ten years ago, a mere six months after my mother died, I’d been distraught when Father married Mildred. She was a widow and a regular churchgoer at our Parish church. When she started weaselling her way into his affections even before the funeral, I couldn’t help but see her as an interloper.

‘I wish your dear mother . . . ’ Father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

‘I understand now how lonely you must have been after she passed on,’ I said. ‘I felt the same after William was killed.’ I no longer begrudged my father his choice of marrying again, only that it had been Mildred he’d chosen. As for myself, at twenty-seven, I had no expectation of another husband. Any unmarried men who returned from the war more-or-less undamaged would undoubtedly take their pick of the vast number of younger women available. No, my mission in life now was to safeguard Edmund from a cruel world and help him to be whole again.

A plume of smoke further up the line heralded the train’s arrival, and those intending to travel gathered up their cases and kissed their friends goodbye.

The train chugged into the platform amidst a swirl of steam. Brakes squealed and hissed. Carriage doors burst open, and a flood of passengers alighted.

Full of hope and trepidation, I scanned the milling throng for Edmund. After a few moments, I glanced at Father. ‘Do you think he missed it?’

He squinted towards the end of the train. ‘Isn’t that him?’

A gangly young man was descending painfully slowly from a carriage further up the platform. A young woman with flaxen hair assisted him.

‘There he is!’ I ran helter-skelter along the platform and came to a halt before him. He didn’t look at me.

‘Edmund?’ I said.

Still he didn’t respond but stood stock still, his gaze firmly on the ground, his fingers clenching and unclenching. Cold dread settled in my chest. Edmund had returned to us but there was no flicker of recognition in his eyes.

‘I’m Lily Gillespie,’ said the young woman. ‘Dr Gillespie’s wife. I offered to accompany Edmund since the hustle and bustle of the world outside Spindrift House is still a bit much for him.’

‘I’m grateful to you. I’m Violet Honeywell, Edmund’s sister.’

Mrs Gillespie smiled. ‘He’s spoken of you.’ She tapped Edmund on the arm, pointed at her ear and then at me.

His face lit up when he saw me and he pulled balls of cotton wool from his ears. I hugged him, my head barely reaching his shoulder. He gripped me as if he’d never let me go. ‘It’s going to be all right now,’ I crooned.

Father, out of breath, hurried to join us. He clapped Edmund on the arm and grasped his hands. ‘Welcome home, my boy.’ The spark of joy in his eyes died when he saw how his son’s gaze flitted nervously about.

Lily Gillespie handed me Edmund’s case. ‘The cotton wool in his ears is to dull any sudden noises,’ she said. ‘He’ll need a very quiet environment and no excitement or it will set him back. Really, he’d have been better with a few more weeks in the nursing home so don’t expect too much, too soon.’ She rummaged in her bag and pulled out an envelope. ‘Case notes for his doctor and a list of suggested medications. Peace, calm surroundings and plenty of time will be his best aids to recovery.’

Father shook her hand. ‘We’re so grateful for everything you’ve done.’

‘It’s a pleasure to see his improvement, but today has been long and challenging for him,’ she said. ‘A taxi home would be a good idea and some Horlicks at bedtime.’

Mrs Gillespie saw Edmund settled in a taxi before she said goodbye.

I sat beside my younger brother, holding his hand. His eyes were closed and small tufts of cotton wool poked out of his ears. When I’d seen him in the hospital, he’d had a military haircut, but now his dark hair curled onto his forehead, just as it had when he was small. It was painful to see him so diminished and unlike the happy, mischievous boy he’d once been. Ten years ago, when he was thirteen, I’d faithfully promised our dying mother that I would cherish and guide him after she’d gone.

Edmund had enlisted in 1914 as little more than a youth and returned to us as a broken man. I no longer had a husband to care for, but I would do everything in my power to restore my brother to health.

I was writing a letter at the folding card table that served as desk, dressing and dining table in my bed-sitting room. It was originally the front basement room of the narrow terraced house in Twickenham, and the window faced north. Since I’d always worked outside, the lack of light hadn’t previously bothered me, but now, the prospect of spending the winter cooped up in such a dark and cramped space was depressing.

I put down the pen, blotted the ink and reread my wording for the advertisement I’d toiled over, reducing it to as few words as possible to save money, while still conveying the essential information.

Experienced, trained horticulturalist, formerly of Kew Gardens, seeks employment. Herbaceous borders, rock gardens, rose gardens a speciality. References available. Apply to V Honeywell.

It would do. The newspaper would add the box number for any applicants to contact me. I’d received three responses from my two previous advertisements. One had been looking for assistance in the garden for two hours a week, and another required me to relocate to Essex, which was too far away for me to visit Edmund. The third had sounded promising. A gentleman offered a full time situation working in his Chelsea garden and asked me to attend an interview. When I’d presented myself, the elderly man of the house took one look at me and shook his head. ‘Not suitable for a woman,’ he’d said and told the maid to show me out before I could argue my case.

I tucked the letter, together with a postal order to cover the cost of the advertisement, into an envelope. Spring was a better time to apply for a gardening vacancy, but perhaps someone might offer me temporary employment to put their garden to bed for the winter. There was also the chance Mr Coutts might hear about an opportunity for me.

I washed up my breakfast plate and tidied up before putting on my hat and coat. Looking on the bright side, the previous month’s unemployment had allowed me the freedom to spend my days with Edmund. My bicycle leaned against the wall, and I wheeled it along the passage and through the front door.

A cold wind tugged at the brim of my felt hat as I cycled through the streets towards Richmond. I stopped only to post the letter and then hurried on, head down into the wind until I arrived at Rosedene.

Mrs Alleyn was ironing in the kitchen and the slightly scorched smell of clean laundry took me straight back to my childhood. ‘How is he?’ I asked.

‘Same as yesterday. I’ve just taken him a custard cream and a cup of tea. Shall I pour one for you?’

‘I’ll do it.’ I hung my hat and coat in the lobby. The old brown teapot in its knitted cosy sat on the table and I fetched myself a cup. ‘I’ll go straight up.’

‘Righty-ho, dear.’

I was halfway up the stairs when I saw my stepmother standing at the top. ‘Morning, Mildred.’

‘Is it? That brother of yours kept me awake with his shouting last night.’

‘Bad dreams again?’

‘It’s about time he showed some backbone and braced up.’ She sniffed dismissively.

‘How fortunate we are,’ I said, through gritted teeth, ‘that we didn’t have to experience all the battlefield horrors that Edmund endured for our sakes.’ I pushed past her and opened my brother’s door.

‘Violet!’ Mildred called after me. ‘Kindly ask Edmund to stay in his room when my friends are here this afternoon. I don’t wish to be embarrassed by one of his scenes.’

I would have slammed the door behind me, but I knew that would distress Edmund. Instead, I closed it with exaggerated care. He was still in bed, and I put my cup of tea on the bedside table and bent to kiss his forehead. ‘How are you today?’ I murmured.

‘I made a complete ass of myself last night,’ he said. He looked up at me with shame in his hazel eyes. ‘Father had to sit with me until one of the doctor’s sleeping powders took effect.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said, ‘and you will get better.’

‘Will I?’

I nodded decisively. ‘Of course you will, though it might take a little time.’

‘I want to be back to my old self. It’s just that . . . ’ He lifted his hands helplessly. ‘It’s as if there’s something inside my head that’s determined to frighten me and make me behave like a fool. I keep praying, but I think God has abandoned me. How could He let such terrible things happen?’ Perspiration beaded his forehead. ‘Pictures of what I saw keep coming into my mind. There was a day when I was sheltering in a water-logged crater with a comrade. A shell exploded, and once the dust had settled I saw his face . . . ’

‘Don’t talk about it if it’s too much,’ I urged, worried it would make him feel worse.

He pressed his knuckles into his eye sockets. ‘Perhaps if I can talk about it at last, maybe then I’ll get the pictures of it out of my head?’

I stroked my brother’s hair off his forehead, just as I had when he’d been a small boy waking from a nightmare. ‘Tell me, then,’ I murmured.

Edmund took a shuddering breath. ‘Half his face had been blown away and his legs were just a mess of disintegrated bone and blood. I put my coat over them so he couldn’t see the damage. Eventually his agonised screams turned to moans, but the shellfire went on and on until I was nearly mad. The soldier bled to death, but even after that he kept staring at me with his one eye and I couldn’t stand it.’ He looked up at me, his expression so bleak I shivered.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘don’t feel you have to go on.’

‘I must,’ he said. ‘In a frenzy, I dug with my bare hands into the mud at the bottom of the shell hole to bury him. But then . . . ’

‘Yes?’

‘My fingers plunged into the body of a soldier previously buried there. That was when I lost all reason.’ He fell silent.

Sickened, I pressed my hand to my mouth.

Edmund’s breathing was fast and shallow. ‘Sometimes it feels as if I’m back there and it’s all happening again and again and again.’

‘But you aren’t,’ I said. ‘You are here with me now, quite safe and the war is over.’ But would he ever be able to forget? I clutched his hand. ‘The Harpy isn’t helping, is she? We must drown out those horrible memories and find something good to look forward to.’

‘But what?’

‘We’ll start with small things. Perhaps we’ll visit the library and choose a book to read together. Or we might write some poetry.’ I hoped he might find that cathartic.

The ghost of a smile crept across Edmund’s face. ‘I like reading poetry, but you know I can’t rhyme two words together to save my life.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I might try sketching or painting. I was good at that during my schooldays.’

‘I’ll buy you a sketchbook and you can give it a go.’

Edmund stroked the back of my hand with his finger. ‘You’re the best sister I could ever have wished for.’

‘I promised Mother I’d always look after you, didn’t I?’ I said, my voice breaking.

‘And you do. I still miss her. Don’t you?’

I nodded. ‘I’d never have thought of taking up horticulture if it hadn’t been for her love of the garden. Do you remember how she made our old gardener mutter under his breath whenever she sent away for a new variety of rosebush or tulips that weren’t in a colour he approved of?’

Edmund smiled at the memory. ‘And then there were the little flowerbeds she gave us. I grew sunflowers that were ta. . .