The Orchid Hunter

by Jill Marie Landis

  Janelle had seemed eager to closet herself in the studio high up on the servants’ floor, so Joya excused herself and returned to her room, where she changed into her nightclothes.

  With her nerves still on edge since her encounter with Trevor, she hated the thought of being alone in her room. On Matarenga, if she was not working with her father or camped out on a hunt, she often went to the village to sit with the Matarengi and listen to one of the storytellers impart a fable. Gathered around a central fire, the people would become bewitched by the storyteller and his tale, fascinated by both the message and messenger.

  The villagers would laugh, gasp, even cry at the beauty, the magic and wonder of the story. Afterward they would talk about the drama, the characters’ triumph and tragedies, and beg for another tale.

  On Matarenga people were seldom alone. Families slept together in single-room fadu and did most of their living outdoors beneath the tropical sun. They did not hide or keep to themselves in huge boxlike rooms that shut out the light the way the English did. When her father was busy, Joya never wanted for companionship.

  Now, isolated, pacing around her room in Mandeville House, Joya found she quickly lost her awe of the fine fabrics and the many gilded appointments there. She wondered how Trevor and Janelle could have spent their entire childhood growing up inside these walls.

  From what she had seen of the city, she wondered whether the children of London had much opportunity to run and play freely or to climb and swim as she had done all her life. The only children she had seen alone on the streets had been begging, their gaunt faces withered, their eyes old before their time.

  Abruptly she stood. She had to get out, to leave the confines of the room where she had done nothing for the past hour but pace and stare into the cold fireplace, thinking of Trevor, the taste and feel of his lips and the way his arms felt wrapped around her. She was confused, disturbed, and unsettled and could not shake her dark mood. The last thing she needed was to be alone.

  She decided to venture out of her room and look for the conservatory, the glass room where the Mandevilles’ orchid collection was housed. Perhaps, after a stop in the kitchen for a glass of warm milk, she would wander around until she found it.

  She slipped one of Janelle’s satin robes over her nightgown and tied the sash, then quietly left her room and trailed down the long, barely lit hallway.

  Pleased that she had actually found her way to the kitchen, she was even more delighted upon finding Sims seated at a long table in the center of the room. He jumped to his feet when she entered, pulled his coat closed, and appeared surprised to see her.

  “Good evening, miss.” The old butler remained at attention. “Is there something you need? Shall I get Mrs. Billingsley?”

  She shook her head and smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Sims. Please, sit down. I’ve come to have a glass of warm milk. My mother always said it calmed her nerves. I’ve never had nerves before. Do you think it will help?”

  “It works for me, miss. I’m just having some myself. Milk, not nerves. I will pour you a mug.”

  “I need something to do, so I’ll pour my own, if you don’t mind.”

  Joya found a pan of milk still quite warm on a huge iron stove very much like the one her father had shipped all the way to the island for her mother. She smiled at Sims until she saw him struggling to button his coat. His old hands were misshapen, his joints red and swollen.

  “Do your hands pain you greatly, Mr. Sims?”

  “It is just Sims, miss. Yes, indeed they do, but that’s what one must expect of old age.”

  She left the stove. “I’m going up to get something that might help you.”

  “There’s no need, miss…”

  Before he could protest any more, she was off again— up the stairs, past the great, great ancestors, back into her room where she rummaged through her trunk until she found what she needed.

  She lost her way back, ended up opening the door of a room full of books, backed out, and then finally reached the kitchen. Sims had her warm mug of milk already poured and awaiting her on the table.

  She thanked him again, reached into the pocket of her robe, and pulled out a shriveled, mummified monkey’s foot. Sims stared down at the object in her hand.

  “It is for you, Sims. Take it.”

  He did not move. “What for, miss?”

  “Everyone knows that there is nothing better than a monkey’s foot for curing swollen joints. Well, some say a salve of pulverized lizard eye and hummingbird beak does just as well, but it is not used as often.”

  “I don’t imagine so.” He began wheezing desperately.

  “Monkey is far easier to come by, you know.”

  “I didn’t, miss.”

  She glanced at the larder, where a huge ham hung from a hook on the ceiling. “Well, at least on Matarenga it is. Go ahead now. Don’t be shy. Take it.”

  “I don’t believe—”

  Before he could say more, she cried, “Oh, but you must believe, Sims. That’s part of the magic.”

  “What should I do with it, miss?” He gingerly lifted the wrinkled, hairy foot between his thumb and forefinger.

  She thought carefully, knowing how important belief in the magic of the cure was to the power of healing. “You must wear it at all times. Tie a string around it and hang it from your neck. Keep it close to your heart and the healing will spread throughout your body with every heartbeat.”

  “Hang the monkey’s foot around my neck?”

  “That’s right.” Hoping to reassure him, she opened the front of her robe, shoved her hand down her nightgown and pulled out her own amulet pouch.

  “I am never without this,” she said, stepping closer to him and lowering her voice to a whisper. “This small pouch is filled with many charms. I have a red feather, some sharks’ teeth, a shiny piece of rock from Mount Kibatante. Oh, and my mother’s silver comb. They all bring me luck and help keep me healthy and safe.”

  He stepped back, held the foot out at arm’s length and sniffed. “You certainly look healthy, Miss Penn. I’m to wear this…foot all the time, you say?”

  “All the time. And believe in its healing power.”

  Footsteps echoed down the hall, coming toward the kitchen. Sims glanced in the direction of the door. “Our little party grows, it seems,” he said.

  When Trevor stepped through the doorway, his dark eyes reflecting the lamplight, the lower half of his face shadowed by a day’s growth of beard, Joya’s gaze went straight to his lips. Her breath caught in her throat and she prayed he could not know what she was thinking, that he could not hear the accelerated beat of her heart.

  He paused on the threshold, obviously surprised to see her there.

  “What have we here, Sims?”

  Joya realized she was still holding her robe open and had one hand down the front of her nightgown.

  “A monkey’s foot and warm milk, sir.”

  Joya hastily let go of her amulet pouch and closed her robe.

  “Poor Sims is all swollen,” she said.

  “Exactly where is Sims swollen?” Trevor locked his hands behind his back and looked at each of them in turn.

  Sims held up his hands.

  “I have given him a cure for his sore joints,” she said.

  “A mummified monkey’s foot, sir,” Sims added, showing the wrinkled appendage.

  Joya offered, “Would you like a mug of milk, Trevor? Perhaps it will help you relax. You have a very pinched look about your mouth.”

  “No, no warm milk, thank you.”

  “I think I will finish the milk in my room,” Sims said quickly, staring down at the monkey’s foot as if at a loss as to what to do with it. Finally he recovered, shoved it into his pocket, and picked up his mug.

  “Don’t forget to tie it around your neck,” Joya reminded him, happy she could be of help.

  “Yes, miss.” Sims excused himself and carefully stepped around Trevor,
who moved to the center of the room, where he remained watching her.

  The enormous kitchen seemed to shrink as she walked over to the table and tried to hide the way her hand trembled when she lifted the mug of milk to her lips. She sipped slowly, avoiding Trevor’s gaze for several moments. When she finally looked up at Trevor again, she found he had not moved.

  “Is Janelle asleep?” He set his tall hat carefully on the table.

  Joya shook her head. “No. She is up in her studio working. She’s very excited about someone she calls her new patron who wants to sell her work for her.”

  “A patron?” The creases between his brows deepened.

  “She seems quite happy about it.”

  “Does Grandmother know?”

  “Your grandmother retired early.” She did not want to tell him why. When he said nothing in response, she added, “You were out very late.”

  She sipped more milk, hoping it would calm her sooner than later. Trevor continued to stare. The milk hit her stomach and began to tighten into a knot. She set the mug down, worried that she might throw up.

  She remained silent, waiting for him to say something, studying him the way she might a new mountainside trail or jungle path, searching for signs of promise and discovery. A thrill raced through her. She was aware of his every move, his every breath. She was full of curiosity and anticipation.

  He straightened his shoulders inside his perfectly fitted coat. “I want to apologize for what happened at the warehouse today,” he began. “I’ve never done anything so ungentlemanly or impulsive. I’ve never done anything like that at all.”

  “Was that your first kiss, too?” She found that impossible to believe. “If so, I think you have what my father would call a natural talent for it. He says I have one for finding orchids.”

  “I’ve kissed women before, but...”

  She nearly dropped her milk. “Who?”

  He paused and blinked. “Joya, that’s not the kind of a question a lady asks a gentleman.”

  “But you have kissed before?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “If you had kissed me in a gentlemanly way, would you apologize?”

  He sighed. “Joya, you have an astounding way of confusing a man’s thoughts.”

  “I don’t mean to do that, Trevor.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, but somehow you do it just the same.”

  “I am feeling a bit confused myself.” It was her turn to sigh.

  She placed her hand over her heart, where the lapels of the satin robe overlapped. His gaze slipped to her hand and lingered; then he looked into her eyes again.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I am sorry I took such liberties with you today. It won’t happen again.”

  She had no idea how she was supposed to respond, especially when she was actually hoping with all her heart that it would happen again.

  “I really didn’t mind at all, Trevor.”

  “You should have.”

  “Why, when it was so wonderful?”

  “You should have been furious with me.”

  “But it was so delicious, like eating a ripe mango on a hot summer day. It made me feel hot and cold at the same time. Is that the way kissing always feels?”

  “Please stop, Joya.”

  “Have I broken another rule?”

  “Too many of them to name.” He shifted uncomfortably, then picked up his hat.

  She must have angered him somehow. She saw that much in the frustration on his face. He was going to walk out and leave her feeling all jittery and anxious and expectant, with no hope of any relief. She had to stop him.

  “I was going to find the conservatory myself, but now here you are and you know right where it is. Will you show it to me now?”

  “Are you crying?”

  “No,” she shook her head, blinking furiously.

  “Yes you are. Why? If I have upset you—”

  “It isn’t you. Tonight I found myself wishing I were at home,” she said softly. “Things were so much simpler there.”

  He seemed to soften, to relax a bit. He almost smiled as he shook his head. “If you promise not to look so sad, I’ll show you the conservatory.”

  She was relieved to have gained a little more time alone with him. “Thank you.”

  “This way.”

  He led her back through the maze of hallways to a room added onto the very back of the house—a room made of glass. Drizzle streaked the panes. Smeared halos of gaslight reflected from the courtyard behind the house.

  He paused to light a lamp before they moved farther into the room. She could feel the change in the air as they moved into the close humidity stoked by the plants growing on beds of bark and the heat of the sun still trapped in the room beneath the domed glass.

  The conservatory was lovely, a most magical place, especially with the mist falling outside. Crystal droplets gathered and ran down the panes of glass, shimmering with light.

  Many of the orchids presented showy stalks of colorful blooms that bobbed in their wake as they passed by. When they reached the far end of the room, he turned to her again.

  “You still look upset.”

  “It’s the orchids. They look so very sorrowful here. Like prisoners all lined up in rows, forced to bloom, forced to live forever under glass. They will never feel the Kusi winds again or know the scent of the sea.”

  Suddenly, she felt as out of place, as trapped as the flowers, existing in a world that she might never fully understand. Adding that to what she had seen of the crate of orchids in the warehouse, she mused aloud, “I wish I had never learned what becomes of them. I wish I never had to see them like this.”

  He stepped closer and lingered before her. She looked up into his eyes.

  “Think of the joy they spread.” He had locked his arms behind him.

  The only flowers she had seen thus far had been growing in regimented rows in parks and gardens. The English did have their own flowers. They did not need orchids from the tropics.

  “Why go to all of this work to grow flowers where they don’t belong?”

  “They’re thriving in here and they’ll continue to grow and bloom as long as they are well treated,” he said softly.

  “But this is not their world. They should be in the jungle, where they grow wild and free.”

  “Are you feeling sorry for the orchids, or yourself, Joya?”

  “A little of both, perhaps.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong. I know it’s more than the orchids.”

  She twisted her fingers together. Finding his nearness disconcerting, she walked to the far end of the glass room and sighed.

  “Everything is wrong. Today at the dressmaker’s, when Janelle told me that you had meant for me to have a dress made of velvet material and not of your draperies, I was embarrassed. Then, later this afternoon, I took most of the cutlery off the table, thinking to save the maids having to wash all those extra spoons and forks. Your grandmother came down to dinner and was very, very upset. I was only trying to help.”

  “Where was Janelle?”

  “In her studio. She has her work to do and cannot spend every moment with me, like a nursemaid. I don’t want to upset all of your lives, but I have somehow offended Adelaide, and Janelle has much to do without having to show me all of London.”

  “You have only been here two days. Things will get easier.”

  “Will they, Trevor?”

  “You’re just feeling unsettled.”

  “I’m not certain that I will ever fit in.” She turned around, rubbed her hands together and stared out into the night. “Everything is so different. I never imagined how much.”

  He seemed so calm, which was hardly fair, since her heart was jumping around inside her breast. Her hands were clammy, her nerves on edge.

  “How do you feel, Trevor?”

  * * *

  There was no way in hell he could tell her how he really felt right now. His mouth was dry, his palms clammy. He
was aroused by her very nearness, her walk, her tremulous smile. The sound of her voice. Even by the glisten of unshed tears in her eyes.

  Trevor stared down at the lovely nape of her neck, at the wisps of fallen locks of hair that trailed over her shoulder. Thankfully she did not know of the fierce need rising up in him, a need he was fighting hard to deny.

  She turned around again, tipping her lovely face up, and he was once more treated to a full view of those eyes and her lush lips.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

  “I just wondered if you feel the strange way I do right now,” she said softly.

  He was only twenty-eight, but until now he had always thought of himself as much, much older than his age. Before he had kissed her this afternoon, he had been a level-headed and responsible man. He had goals—a well-planned, well-ordered life—and there was no room for a woman in it yet. But at this moment there was not one logical thought in his head.

  He took a deep breath and waited for his confusion to pass. He had made a great error in judgment by bringing Joya out here tonight, and he found himself wondering when his good sense had taken a holiday. He certainly wished that his desire had gone along with it.

  “I’m feeling quite odd,” she whispered.

  “Odd?” He took a step closer, stared at the open front of her robe, and discovered that he could see the gentle slope of her breast. Her skin, where it had not been exposed to the sun, was the purest ivory.

  “I feel hot and cold. Empty and full at the same time. My heart is beating so very hard.” She put her hand over the open seam of her robe. His eyes followed her hand. “Do you think there could have been something wrong with the milk?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  What made her even more alluring was the very fact that she was innocent of the way she could so easily seduce him without knowing what she was doing. She was not some calculating, husband-hunting young miss. Nor an experienced seductress.

  Unlike her, he was perfectly aware of what was happening.