Grant indicated his own plain clothes. “Will I do?” Since he was here, he wanted to work.
The younger Crombie gasped. “Your grace…”
“Is quite capable of honest hard work,” Grant told him. The younger Crombie bowed, or rather, folded at the waist, his arm over it as if protecting himself from an invisible attacker. Grant watched with fascination, forcing the smile off his face. No need to upset the boy. He was doing his best.
“What do you know about gardening?” Dorcas asked.
“Very little. But I can learn.”
Dorcas looked around and sighed. “They left such a mess. I’ll have to start all over again. And the seeds were just beginning to sprout. I have more.” Bending, she plucked out a scrap of paper. “I labeled them with this. I don’t know what it says but I thought it would help to distinguish them from each other.”
He took the paper from her. It had a drawing on it, or a symbol, but turn it as he might, he couldn’t make sense of it. “Do you know what it is?”
She shook her head. “The seeds were wrapped in papers with these symbols on them. Each packet had a different set of them.”
Taking a step, she picked out another piece. “Here.”
The second one looked like a two-legged table, drawn in three quick strokes.
Ah.
Now he knew what it was. “This is Chinese,” he said. “They don’t use the same alphabet we do.”
“Or the same language,” she pointed out.
“No.” An idea occurred to him. “Can you collect these scraps? My valet is part Chinese. He was born and brought up here, but perhaps he knows his mother’s language, or knows of someone who does.”
“Oh, that would be marvelous!” she cried. “If these are writings, then they could be the names of the seeds and even how to cultivate them.”
“Don’t expect too much,” he warned her. “I don’t even know if Johnson’s mother was literate.”
She shot him a roguish smile, her eyes twinkling. “Well, a gentleman does not discuss his business with his valet.”
That sounded like something Elizabeth would say. He smiled back, enjoying the unspoken joke with her. Their connection was growing every day.
Hands on hips, she gazed around the orangery. Everything was smashed, pottery trays and pots, the plain wooden benches they’d stood on tipped over. And nobody heard the noise they made? The orangery was a little way from the house, but still…
“Should I sweep up the mess?” he asked. “I ordered someone to clean it up last night, but there seems to have been no effort.”
“I told them not to,” she said. “I don’t want it disturbed yet. I want to rescue as many of the seedlings as I can. There.” She indicated a righted bench with a layer of cloth spread over it. “We’re putting them over there. Then we’ll sweep up the rest.”
Grant turned as the footman came back in.
He had the impression that the footman liked Dorcas, although he was too experienced in the ways of service to articulate that aloud. All to the good, as far as Grant was concerned.
Trace bowed, a better attempt than the younger Crombie, but he didn’t make Grant smile the same way. “Your grace, may I be of service?”
“It’s ‘sir’ while we’re here,” Grant informed him tersely. “I dislike servants using the full title when we are not in a formal situation.” In common with many of his peers, he preferred not to be reminded of his title every minute of the day. He knew who he was. But he’d let the Crombies call him whatever they liked. They would anyway.
Trace gave him a slight bow this time, acknowledging his orders.
The crew set to work. Grant enjoyed honest physical activity. Much to the despair of his mother, he always had. Clearing up this mess had its own reward. He could watch Dorcas, moving easily amongst the men, gently easing the delicate seedlings away from the debris and placing them on the dampened cloth she’d set aside for them.
Her touch enchanted him, even though, this time, it was not for him. Her concentration was absolute, and only once did she glance his way, when he found a broom to sweep away the rubbish after she had dealt with the plants.
After an hour, he dragged off his coat and worked in his shirtsleeves after gaining permission from Dorcas to do so. The gardeners did the same. A row of pegs fastened to the back wall attested to the regularity of the occurrence. “What was this place?” he asked. The building was fine, well-designed, and glass didn’t come cheap. Surely it was meant for something other than rearing plants.
“The earl before last had it built, sir,” the older Crombie informed him. “He bought a set of paintings from Italy and built this house specially for them. But the subjects were scandalous, or so the last countess said, and she sold them. Ordered us to make whatever use of the building we could.”
“Ah.” That made sense. The orangery would make a delightful place to spend a leisurely hour or two. If anyone had asked Grant, he’d have had it furbished up, perhaps with a collection of exotic plants, rather than seedlings and tomatoes. Several red patches at the far end of the building attested to their presence. “Are you having the floor rinsed down?”
“It’s built on a slope, sir,” the younger Crombie said. “Once we’ve cleared it out, we can tip buckets of water at the back, and they’ll drain through the front.”
Grant was impressed by the designer’s forethought. But the floor would need scrubbing before it was fit for use again. Now she’d moved her precious plants, he would see that was done.
A sharp cry from Dorcas made him spin around. But the broad smile on her face showed her mood. She wasn’t distressed. He hurried over to join her. “Look!” she cried. She was holding a familiar-looking stick. A stick that had a small offshoot of new growth. The green sprout was bright against the dull brown. “I put them in the corner,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a breath. “I thought they were dead, so I’d cope with them when I could bear to look at them again.”
Reverently, she lifted the stick. Another shoot, a bit lower down, showed what looked suspiciously like fine roots, a fuzz of feathery white. “Oh, my God.”
“A remarkable few days,” he murmured.
“It’s the heat. The wet heat,” she said. “They must like it. That was why they didn’t prosper before. Tea must be kept dry, so they did the same for the rose plants.”
She let out a cry of laughter, sheer joy resounding in her voice.
He had to make her do that in bed. The thought came without thought. Only the sound echoed deep inside him, rousing him and reminding him of the night that had passed and the many more to come.
Chapter Twenty-Four
They were late getting back to change for dinner.
Uncaring of appearances, Dorcas returned to the house hand-in-hand with her husband, jubilation coursing through her. It was the wrong time of year, but using the orangery and keeping it hot and damp should push the development on beautifully. The rose was thriving.
Once she was sure it would survive, she could risk taking cuttings. She’d found signs of life on another twig. While Grant, the younger Crombie and the footman cleared up the mess, Dorcas and the older Crombie carefully replanted the seedlings and treated the new shoots on the rose plants as delicately as a son and heir.
Which she would be bearing before too long, if last night was any guide.
Hastily, she shifted her thoughts away from that.
They had obsessed her when she’d arrived at the orangery, making her work more difficult, but ameliorating her grief in witnessing such wanton destruction.
She was still no nearer to learning who had done it, but in the quiet hour before Grant had arrived, she’d had some ideas. A few of her fellow horticulturalists, for example.
Some were feverishly trying to cultivate the yellow rose, turning it into a race. It should not be a race, but it had taken some quiet reflection to get there. It was developing the loveliest, most resilient rose.
Already she w
as selecting white ones, several varieties to try once she had coaxed her Chinese plants into life. She could perhaps edge the rose towards cream, and if she paired it with pink roses, she could make a rich peach. Perhaps. But only if they married well, and showed a certain resilience to the English weather. She’d have to put her mind to it.
Belatedly, she became aware that her husband was speaking. “I assure you it wasn’t my wish or doing, but she’ll try to tell you that it was. I don’t doubt servants saw us. She would have made sure of that.”
“She?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Oh.”
“She waylaid me this morning,” he repeated patiently. “She wants me to father her child.”
“What?” What had she missed? Had she heard him wrong?
“Roses,” he prompted helpfully. “You’re thinking of roses, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t deny it. “Yes.”
They were walking on the drive now, approaching the front of the house. Dorcas couldn’t remember getting there. He tugged her hand. “Elizabeth pinned me against a bush and asked me to help her. She’ll ensure people tell you about that. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” she said instantly. She didn’t need to think about that.
“Then believe me when I say there has never been anything between us but friendship. After this morning, even that is over.”
She blinked at him. “Because of me?”
They reached the double staircase, and he stood back, so she could go first. “Yes,” he said from behind her. “Because of you. You showed me honesty and integrity. You have never tried to manipulate me in any way, or persuade me to do anything I didn’t want to do. Even when it would benefit you. The comparison with Elizabeth is blatant, and threw the way she’s been behaving into high relief.”
At the top of the stairs, he turned to her, ignoring the footman holding the door open for them. Instead, he held both her hands and turned her to face him. Dorcas had no option but to meet his gaze. What he’d said astonished her, and made her feel uncomfortable. “I don’t want to be compared to anyone else.”
“I know. And I didn’t want to do it, but the difference in behavior was extreme. I understand what drove Elizabeth to marry a man three times her age, and why she feels hard done to. She entered society as a woman with the world at her feet, everything to win. But she drove people away by her desperate ambition. When a man knows that a woman wants him for his possessions and not for himself, it tends to annoy him. Especially when she forgets who that man is.”
“So you chose me?” Did he consider her meek, obedient?
“Yes.”
She shook his hands off and went inside. “Then perhaps you should know that I intend to make great advantage of you. I will use your ships, your contacts and your property to chase the yellow rose. I’ll use my new status to get what I need, if I have to.”
“Good.” He laughed, the sound ringing around the great space. “I’m looking forward to it.”
A commotion outside the front door announced the arrival of a carriage. They were not quick enough to see the crest on the door, but it was evidently a fine vehicle and was followed by two others.
Grant closed his eyes. “It’s my mother. She made good time.”
“Oh! We should go and change.”
He looked at her, smiling. “You look lovely.”
With heat rising to mantle her cheeks, Dorcas put one hand to her cheek. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly greet her like this! I can’t imagine she’d welcome a new daughter-in-law in all her dirt.” Picking up her skirts, she hurtled up the stairs, heading for her room and calling for her maid.
Greeting the duchess in her old gardening clothes, soiled by a day’s hard work, didn’t bear thinking about.
Fortunately, Gerald and Annie were on hand to greet the guests, but when Dorcas entered the drawing room before dinner, she didn’t miss Annie’s eye roll. Nevertheless, she braced herself and went forward to make her curtsy to the duchess.
The lady sat in the grandest chair in the room, the high-backed wing chair covered in rich green silk velvet.
She leaned her arms on the chair, one crooked at the elbow, one finger supporting her chin. Although this was an informal country gathering, she was garbed suitable for entertainment in town. Her red brocade gown was embroidered with roses intertwined with gold, and the petticoat was of gold satin, with even more embroidery.
Triple Brussels lace ruffles fell back from her elbows, and a ruby and diamond parure decorated her neck, wrists, stomacher and hair, the ornaments winking at Dorcas as if accusing her of something.
Dorcas wore her cherry-red and cream stripe, and, anticipating the duchess’ expectations, she’d had her maid powder her hair.
Grant, simply but richly attired, came forward to take her hand. Gerald, Annie and the man sitting in by the duchess’ side remained silent and still.
“Mama, may I present my duchess, Dorcas?”
A formal introduction of Dorcas as the Duchess of Blackridge, rather than Lady Dorcas Dersingham.
No more a Dersingham. Her family name was now McLennen, and she would sign herself Blackridge. However, her garnets were as nothing compared to those rubies.
She approached the throne and curtsied. Fortunately, she knew how to keep her face composed because the duchess, more a queen, let a second of antipathy show as she raised her head out of the obeisance.
“So I am to call myself a dowager now,” the duchess said softly. “I admit that sometimes it suits me to do so, but I doubt I will allow it most of the time.”
Her mouth tweaked in what might have been a smile but it never got there. “We may progress from there. I wish to speak to you alone tomorrow, young lady. I’m sure you understand there is much for us to discuss, about your role and what is expected of you as duchess.”
Without waiting for Dorcas to answer, she turned to her son. “I take it amiss that you did not wait for my presence before you wed the bride of your choice.”
The slight stress on “your” showed clearly that the dowager duchess would have chosen someone else. Dorcas suspected she knew who that was. She was shaking, or she would if she hadn’t tightened every muscle against it.
“There were extenuating circumstances, Mama.”
So Grant knew how to return a barely concealed comment. The “Mama” put the dowager duchess in her rightful place. She was the mother of the duke, no more, Grant was telling her. His voice was pure aristocrat, no trace of the Scots burr he sometimes used in the dulcet tones.
“I’d be interested to know what they were,” she said, softer now.
“I’m sure you would, ma’am.” He took Dorcas’ hand, and led her to one side. “And this is my brother, Dorcas. He’s been longing to meet you. Dorcas, Duchess of Blackridge, this is Lord David McLennen, my younger brother.”
Dorcas performed the correct depth of curtsy, but when she lifted her head, she met a pair of laughing blue eyes and a smiling mouth. “Indeed I beg your pardon, Duchess, but I cannot rise and bow to you, as you deserve. I confess, my legs don’t work properly. They have not for a long time.”
“Oh!” Her attention went to his legs. Clad in dark blue satin evening breeches and elegant clocked stockings they looked much like any other legs. But perhaps the way they were set neatly together, side by side, told a story. Even more was the chair he sat in. Now she knew why it was higher than the other chairs in the room. Small wheels were attached to the bottom of each leg.
A footman in Grant’s blue and gold livery stood next to the light blue and silver liveried footmen of Gerald’s house.
What should she say? The conventional. “I’m so sorry.”
“So am I.” His bright smile invited her to join in with the merriment. Lord David was astonishingly handsome. Where Grant was ruggedly powerful, Lord David was smooth, taking after his mother rather than his father. “But don’t concern yourself, please. I don’t. I merely require a little help to get up and down st
airs. I must say I truly appreciate Lady Carbrooke arranging rooms on this floor for me. Much more convenient than being a floor above.”
Grant had stiffened. She felt it, and when she turned her head, she saw it. Grant bore an expression of fixed tranquility, one Dorcas was sure hid something disturbing. What, she did not know, but it was enough to put her on edge.
She stepped back, careful not to turn her back on Grant’s mother. The dowager duchess was superior in rank to Dorcas, being the relict of a senior holder of the title, but very few dowagers stood on that kind of ceremony. Dorcas was sure the dowager would. And whether she wanted to use the prefix or not, she was the dowager duchess now that her son was married.
“We meant no offense, ma’am,” she said. “Indeed, Grant said he wanted to wait until you got here, but he had informed you of his intentions. So I agreed. We have been married but a day.” She tried not to blush, not to look at him. While memories of last night had warmed her during the day, tonight, she found only embarrassment awaited her.
She walked into dinner in the right order, after her mother-in-law, but only because Grant held her back and then guided her forward. She found herself sitting next to Gerald, who was at the head of the table, opposite the dowager duchess.
Gerald was not good with strangers, but he handled them in small numbers very well. It was ballrooms and large gatherings that distressed him.
God knew how he’d manage at the coronation. There would be one in the next few years, with the king getting frailer and his grandson and heir old enough to take the throne without a regent. Only hatred of the young prince’s mentor and tutor, Lord Bute, rumored to be the lover of the prince’s mother, had kept old George going. Or so rumor had it.
That was part of being a duchess Dorcas hadn’t yet considered; the formal aspect. Although she knew most of the protocol, that wasn’t the same as having it in one’s blood, so that precedence and address was part of a person’s nature, rather than having to be thought about every time. That kind of behavior would have her labeled gauche, an upstart, and she had no intention of letting Grant down. She’d have to practice.
A Trace of Roses Page 20