fact she began her career after her children had grown. She first took to gardening in her forties and published her first book when she was sixty-two, an age when most people expect to slow down and plan to retire.
My connection to Rosemary began on a cold day in March in New York City. I can still vividly recall walking across Central Park to be interviewed by her. I was very nervous, intent on persuading her to allow me to come work for her in her garden. I hoped my fingernails didn’t look too manicured and tried to settle the butterflies in my stomach. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect or how to behave. For the past twenty-five years, I had been practicing law in New York City at Debevoise & Plimpton, first as a young associate fresh out of Yale Law School and then as the firm’s first female partner. I had earned a once-in-a-lifetime sabbatical, a precious chance to break away from my pressured professional life.
My own evolving gardening passion had led to this moment. More than twenty years before Charlie, and I bought an old wreck of an eighteenth-century farmhouse in northwestern Connecticut as a weekend retreat for ourselves and our two young sons. In the process of restoring the house and clearing the land, I had slowly succumbed to a passion for plants. Like Rosemary, I was self taught but hungry to learn more. When I failed to find the perfect course to fit into the short time frame of my sabbatical, a friend suggested I try to work in a great garden instead. I grabbed the idea and wrote somewhat audaciously to two of the most famous English women gardener-writers, Rosemary Verey and Penelope Hobhouse, asking if I might come work as one of their gardeners without pay. To be certain that they would take my request seriously, I asked gardening friends who knew them to write and vouch for me, to verify that I wouldn’t be a danger in their gardens and more important, to say that I wouldn’t be a pain in the neck.
In response to my letter, Rosemary Verey called me, her voice rather crisp and impersonal. She said she couldn’t agree to my proposal without meeting me first, but added, “I am coming to New York in early March for the New York Flower Show. Why don’t I come to your office on my way into town from the airport for a brief interview?” I hadn’t been interviewed in over twenty-five years; I normally do the interviewing, mostly young law students seeking to work in my firm. Afraid that my imposing corner office in midtown Manhattan would send the wrong message and suggest that I’d expect to be pampered, treated like a guest, unwilling to work hard and learn, I replied, “Why don’t I come to see you wherever you’re staying after you’ve had a chance to freshen up?” Then the day arrived and I was heading off to someone’s Fifth Avenue apartment with sweaty palms, wondering what the famous Mrs. Verey would decide. I desperately wanted her to like me enough to say yes.
When she opened the door, she looked smaller than I expected. Her white hair was carefully coifed, her light blue eyes behind her glasses sharply sized me up, her smile was pleasant but formal. She was wearing her signature multi-stranded pearls, a long, loose skirt, a crisp blouse, and a colorfully embroidered wool jacket with sensible flat shoes. Her host had already left for work so we had the place to ourselves. As we went into the kitchen for a cup of tea, she helped me relax by talking about what was happening at Barnsley this time of year. But I could tell she was also testing my plant knowledge without being too obvious about it.
After awhile, we moved into the antique-cluttered living room after passing through a surprising dining room adorned with large cages full of live birds. We both wondered what it would be like to dine there amidst the cacophony and flying feathers. I was pleased to see she had a sense of humor. Then she began to ask me pointed questions. “Will you need to use the garden truck? The last American girl who worked for me abused that privilege and we need the truck for the garden.” I promised I would rent a car. Then, after offering me the free use of the gardener’s cottage, she asked, “Are you prepared to pay for the utilities?” “But of course,” I replied. She warned me that the cottage was small, and I would have to look after myself. Finally, with a penetrating look, she described her two gardeners as “working-class boys” who hadn’t finished high school, then asked the key question, “Are you prepared to be treated like staff?” With her English accent, the last word came out elongated, sounding like “s-t-a-a-a-a-a-h-f.”
I knew exactly what she meant and was relieved I hadn’t allowed her to come to my office. It was clear that she would be my boss. Instead of answering directly, I asked whether her gardeners were knowledgeable. She replied, “Of course. They have worked for me for years, and I have taught them everything they know.” Finally, I asked whether they would mind working with me. She pondered for a moment and then said with a smile, “I shouldn’t think so. They will probably just be quite amused.” Then it was done; I was “hired.” She indicated the date of my arrival in late April in her diary, writing in her signature green ink. I was elated.
One of the delightful discoveries I made while pursuing the research for this book was the diary entry I found in her papers for the day of my interview. My name was entered next to the time scheduled as “Barbara Robinson (Robertson?).” Then, always astute about people, she later added “Barbara Robinson came to see me re coming to work at BH for one month this summer. Do hope it’s not mad of me to take her on!”
One month later, I drove my small rental car from London on the two-hour trip west to Barnsley on the wrong side of the road. I kept repeating to myself, “Think left, think left!” Driving through the soft, rolling green hills of the Cotswolds, the velvet fields dotted with cows and sheep, outlined by golden limestone walls, I noticed the landscape seemed greener, gentler, and more continuously cultivated than my Litchfield County hills. In early April, the fresh chartreuse of emerging foliage dusted everything, spring flowers appeared in the verges, and masses of white blossoms adorned the hedgerows along the small roads. The very trees seemed to stand grander and more majestic than anything in Connecticut.
I arrived on a Saturday and drove up the driveway, through handsome iron gates set in tall stone walls into the adjacent parking field already full of cars and buses delivering visitors to the garden. A sign read, “Please Park Tidily.” Rosemary was there, deeply engaged, signing her books and selling plants, leading groups through the garden while answering questions and recounting the history of Barnsley House. After a cursory greeting from my “boss,” I was sent off to find my cottage in the company of Margie, another new gardener who would become my daily pal.
My small, spartan stone cottage faced the main road running through the village of Barnsley, at the end of a row of three attached cottages that housed Rosemary’s gardeners. After settling in, I drove the four miles to the nearest large town of Cirencester to stock up on food and supplies, then returned to find Rosemary (then Mrs. Verey to me) alone in the garden, counting the money after the visitors had left and the garden was closed. The rest of the staff had fled shortly before for their day off. I was thrilled to have Mrs. V. and the garden all to myself. We sat opposite each other over a table in the potting shed, where I would spend many hours in the weeks to come, potting up, pricking out, striking cuttings, selling books and plants, collecting the money. Open to the air on one side, the shed was part of an enclosed sales yard lined by small greenhouses around outdoor tables full of plant offerings. Against the back wall of the shed hung a pegboard, cleverly painted with the outlines of each hand tool, showing exactly where they belonged. I noticed that the staff had not completely complied when they put their tools back, but it seemed a brilliant idea nonetheless.
I was about to receive my first lesson. Rosemary showed me the proper way to fold the paper money and to roll the coins, explaining that her system made it easier at the bank. A simple matter but a clear indication that there was going to be a proper way to do things and it would be the Rosemary Verey way. I could tell she would be a strict taskmaster, a tough and demanding boss, but one who enjoyed the teaching role.
On Monday, I started work promptly at 8:00 A.M. trying to ignore the cold drizzle. Mrs. V. was not yet out, but I met the “boys,” Andy and Les Bailey, the brothers who had worked there for more than fourteen years. These two immediately began their daily routines, but first set me to work. Andy explained that the first chore of each day was the “dead’eading.” Handing me a bucket and “secateurs” (“clippers” to me), Andy sent me out to dead-head the spent flowers in the garden to make it presentable for the public. Clumsy in my rain gear, I was too terrified to step right into the deep, lush flower borders to snip off the