“Yes, you’re right,” Sylvia replies, watching the profligate trees. “But I think of all my pies, and the apple cakes—” Her own voice is shaded with genuine regret.

“I can’t cook,” Assia says. “I’d gladly give up a few apples for this. And it smells like paradise, doesn’t it,” she adds, safeguarding her welcome, looking around. “One would never need perfume.” Beyond the daisies and heady roses edging the vegetable bed, extending to the lane past the trio of wych elms in full leaf, the entire nine-foot wall surrounding the grounds is obscured by blooming lilac in white and shades of lavender, the heavy conical sprays aromatic, nodding on their branches. Wild and thorny and lush, more roses are bursting in trembling sprays by the tennis court and alongside the stable, and honeysuckle and jasmine vines continue their promiscuous ascent over the roof of the greenhouse, their scent drifting into the kitchen late in the day. In the flower beds, the tulips seem girlish, bending their heads together, shaking and arranging their petals. The Asiatic poppies have just broken the soil and thrust their stems upward, dangling their heavy, furred pods.

“I do feel a bit like I’m Eden’s caretaker, or its chaperone,” Sylvia replies, ducking into the role of confident hostess. She hands her own gardening gloves to Assia before kneeling at the edge of the turned beds, where already the flowering creepers of pole beans are climbing their trellis, Argus-eyed, and the green stalks of baby onions have grown crowded and weedy. “I hardly exaggerated when I told you this was all Ted has dreamed of since he was a little boy. After I thin these onion sets and water, we can pick some lettuce from that shady patch behind the strawberries and have it with the thinnings in a green salad tonight.”

“Is Ted always so helpful with the children?” Assia asks, positioning herself on one hip in the grass beside Sylvia. “I was impressed that he took your daughter along with David to Dartmoor, rather than leaving her here with us.”

“Oh, Frieda loves tromping around on the moors,” Sylvia answers. “She’s good company. Though I’m sure Ted will have to make a point of spotting ponies and not just playing Adam. If it weren’t for Frieda’s nap, he could easily disappear until dark, just poking along the banks of the Taw.” Sylvia is systematically pulling weeds and thinning the onions from left to right in the bed before her, tossing the weeds into the grass behind and the creamy-tipped shoots into the basket Assia carried from the kitchen. “We follow a shared schedule with the children each day,” she continues. “I have the mornings in my study while Ted potters about out here with the babies, and after lunch we switch.”