“These are the terraces,” she said, waving a hand. “They’re a Georgian invention, part of the craze for everything Italian. The young lords made their grand tours and came back enamored with Italy or the Moors or some new tree.” She pointed. “Those are tulip trees, I believe. Beautiful in the spring. And those are daffodils popping up. They’ll be blooming in a week or so, I’d say.” I imagined one of my ancestors as a dashing young lord, dazzled by the terraced gardens of Italy. “I’m not an experienced gardener,” I admitted. “I’ve always lived in the city. My mother has—had—a beautiful garden.”
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