‘I know what will be expected of me, sir,’ the boy pressed.
‘Do you now.’
‘I’ve asked around. One year as a pot boy doing all the jobs no one wants, then three years learning how to grow things.’
‘It’s four years and you’ll learn a lot more than just that.’
‘And then two as a journeyman working at different places.’
‘Could be as long as three before you are in charge of your own place or take commissions.’
The boy lifted his chin defiantly. ‘I’ll train twice as long and twice as hard if it means I can become a great landscape gardener one day.’
Timmins frowned as he studied him. He is wavering, thought Evelyn. He is beginning to consider the boy’s request.
‘Can you name one?’ asked Timmins.
‘A great landscape gardener?’
Timmins nodded.
‘Capability Brown, sir . . .’
‘Everyone knows him.’
‘London and Wise.’
‘They were nurserymen.’
‘Mr Steven Switzer and . . . and I have an old copy of John Loudon’sEncyclopaedia of Gardening.’
‘That’s a big book. You would do better by reading Keane’sThe Young Gardener’s Educator.’
The boy grew brave and took a step towards him.
‘I have wanted to be a gardener since I could walk, sir. Mother says I have soil in my veins.’
Timmins did not answer immediately. Instead he moved to a rose bush to look at the flowers. The movement finally allowed Evelyn a clear view of the boy again. His eyes flickered briefly and she wondered if he had seen her, but instead he turned his head to watch Timmins. He appeared calm, but Evelyn could see that his fingers were blanched white as he held his cloth cap tightly by his side.
Eventually, Timmins sighed. ‘What’s your name, boy?’ he asked quietly, without turning around.
‘Drake Vennor, sir.’
Evelyn smiled. The name suits him, she thought. It was straightforward, strong and close to nature, just like him. He was the exact opposite of her brother in looks and frame, and his tousled hair and rough clothes indicated he was far below her own class. Yet all of the things that should have repelled her interest made him more of a curiosity and a pleasure to study.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Perran Village, sir. On the corner of Piggy Lane.’
‘Leads onto Miller Road?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Timmins cut three wilting roses from their stalks. ‘I know it,’ he said, dropping them onto the ground. ‘Vennor, you say. Are you the preacher’s son?’
‘You knew my father?’
‘Knew?’
