When the Royal Horticultural Society had announced plans to create their winter garden, he’d immediately submitted his application for the position of landscape architect. He’d had success designing gardens for various estates to the east, but this commission, if he managed to keep it, would seal his success, and put to rest his father’s doubt that he’d ever amount to anything. Neither of his parents nor his siblings had ever understood his obsession with flowers, his need to learn all about them, and his mission to arrange them into beautiful, peaceful settings.
Hanson spoke again. “Cook assures me dinner will be served in one hour, sir. Will you require anything before then?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be in my rooms.”
“Very good, sir.”
Wearily, James set down his half-finished drink, rose, and plodded up the stairs. He’d need time to dress appropriately for dinner. Thank goodness Jennings wouldn’t be there to select his outfit for him.
As he changed his clothes, he wondered about the lovely milliner who’d helped him find his way to Rosebriar. What had she thought of his appearance?
Why did he care?
Chapter Six
For two weeks, Selina spent every spare moment with a needle or a pair of scissors in her hand. When she wasn’t creating flowers, she worked on her dress alterations. The restyled gown was nearly finished, thanks to the schedule she’d set for herself. Each day, she’d written a list of things to do to prepare for the new orders she hoped for. Once she’d completed items on the day’s list, she could spend the rest of the day working on her dress.
She didn’t mind having to support herself. Her widow’s dowry had been just enough to purchase the shop and inventory to get her business started. Domestic help was a luxury she couldn’t afford since she needed to worry about expenses like food, clothing, and firewood. So she’d invested in herself, as her father used to advise. Her mother had been a seamstress and had taught her to sew. But the village already had several established seamstresses, and she knew she needed something to set her apart. Since she’d always received compliments on the hats she’d fashioned herself, she’d decided to set up shop as a milliner.
The antique clock in the parlor chimed the hour, startling her out of her concentration. She’d completed the tasks for the day, so she cleared off the workroom table, careful to store the flower pieces neatly in baskets on the shelving she’d made from discarded barrels and boards. The other furnishings in the workroom were plain but serviceable. The table had once resided in her estate’s breakfast room. Baskets hung on the walls contained other supplies: sewing needles and thread, starch for stiffening the bits of fabric that would become the petals of her flowers, and forms on which the petals dried. She also kept a supply of wire for binding the petals together and other decorative items for her hats. An old buffet taken from her former home held a washbasin and stored her food supplies.
Selina went into her sitting room, settled in a comfortable chair next to the fire, and spent another hour putting the finishing touches on the dress she would wear to the Garden Club meeting. At last, she put the final knot on the hem then cut the thread and set the needle carefully in her pincushion. She stood and tried the dress on, hoping the alterations weren’t too noticeable. The lace table runners matched perfectly with the dress fabric, so she’d cut them into wedge-shaped pieces, fitting them into the skirt so that it fell out into more of a stylish bell shape. With one of the other table linens, she’d fashioned a collar to match.
Satisfied with her creation, she changed back into her plain work dress. It’s as if I’m putting on another costume, she thought as she fastened the buttons on the durable cotton garment. Folding the gown, she placed it carefully in her trunk. She’d forgotten what it was like to wear soft fabrics chosen for their appearance and comfort rather than the coarse cotton sturdy enough for everyday wear. Her work dress was actually one of the uniforms once worn by the servants at Milton House. She’d found it, and several others, in a pile ready to be discarded. Since they were black, they’d been suitable for her station as a widow in mourning, but even more important, they were serviceable garments appropriate for the hard work she’d put in, getting her shop ready.
Then, as now, there was no time for self-pity. She had one more thing to do before retiring. Reading Richard’s diary had become part of her nighttime ritual. The volume wasn’t thick, so she’d decided to limit herself to one entry per night. Just reading a few lines of his flowing script was enough to release memories of her time with her husband, and the contentment remained with her while drifting off to sleep.
She’d placed a linen handkerchief by the entry she’d read the previous night, one in which he’d described a ride they’d taken together. She read the entry again, smiling as she relived the day, this time seeing it through his eyes, and then went on to the next. The date was nearly a month after their first meeting. By that time, she remembered, they’d been inseparable.
I spent another magical afternoon with my beloved. I am certain Miss Selina is the woman for me, and I long to make her mine. But will she have me? She seems to return my affection, but once she knows the truth about me, she may change her mind and seek the attention of another.
The thoughts in her mind whirled, and she nearly dropped the volume. The truth? What could he have been worrying about? Had he ever shared a dark secret about himself that she’d dismissed? She read on.
My heart aches at the thought of living life without her. Do I dare continue to court her and simply hope for the best?
The entry ended there, and unable to stop reading, she turned to the next one, dated the night before their wedding:
I am the luckiest man alive. Tomorrow, my sweet Selina will be mine.
I still haven’t told her the whole truth. I can’t bear to see her loving gaze turn into hateful scorn when she learns what I am. How can I possibly tell her? I can only hope she doesn’t learn about it from someone else.
Someone else? So there were others who knew about Richard’s secret? Who? His parents were deceased, and he’d had no siblings. She’d never heard of the nephew who’d inherited the title. Perhaps some of the servants would know. She longed to read on, but the sun had set and she didn’t want to use all her firewood. She would have to wait to discover her husband’s secret.
In a few days, she would join her friend Betsey and attend the Garden Club meeting. It wasn’t as prestigious as the Horticultural Society, but would still be attended by women with whom she hadn’t socialized in some time. How would they receive her? She now worked as a merchant. Would anyone even acknowledge her presence? Betsey assured her she would be cheerfully accepted, but having experienced the scorn of one society maven, she wasn’t sure she wanted to subject herself to it again.
Then again, her purpose in going wasn’t to rekindle friendships or approval, but to gain customers. And the customers didn’t have to be polite to their merchants. She needed to remember that.
Chapter Seven
An early morning rain had soaked the streets of Highgate, so in addition to worrying about which way to go, James needed to concentrate on avoiding the puddles. He wore new clothing selected and pressed by the ever-helpful Jennings, and he didn’t want to soil the garments before arriving at the meeting of the Highgate Garden Club. He’d forgotten what it was like to have a valet, having been on his own since his university days. Since he’d spent the last few years working outdoors, with nothing but plants to talk to, he hadn’t needed one. But if he wanted to present himself as knowledgeable in his profession, he’d need to pay attention to details like his wardrobe.
Lord Godolphin had been the scheduled speaker for the Garden Club meeting, but he’d fallen ill and begged James to stand in for him. Public speaking was one of James’ least favorite things to do, but until he’d received the final payment for his garden design, he could hardly refuse the earl’s request.
“It won’t be difficult,” the older man had insisted between coughin
g fits. “It’s a group of society ladies who dabble in growing flowers — well actually, they dabble in looking at and talking about flowers — and they’ve heard about the winter garden and want information about it. I’ve compiled all the specifics about where, when, and why, and you know the rest. Frankly, I doubt they’ll even understand most of it. But they’ll no doubt pretend they do.”
And now he was on his way to Lady Wentworth’s home. Fortunately, the baroness’ townhouse was exactly three doors away from his own, and Henson had not only pointed him in the right direction, he’d walked with him several yards.
“It’s the third one, sir,” the butler told him. “Look for the doorway with the hydrangea plants on either side.”
Looking for a specific type of plant gave him the exact information James needed to arrive at the correct destination. If all buildings could be identified by plants rather than numbers and street names, he would never become lost.
He’d reached the Hydrangea House, as he’d called it in his mind, but paused to wait for a pair of ladies descending from a carriage. One of the ladies mounted the steps to Lady Wentworth’s home, while the other paused, looking up at the doorway. Was she admiring the hydrangea-framed entry, or was she hesitant to go in?
The lady turned, and he realized he’d been staring at the woman from the hat shop. He hurried toward her, but his new shoes slid on a patch of the wet pavement and he crashed into the poor woman, knocking her over. He quickly pushed himself up so he could help her, but before he could do so, tiny fists pummeled his back.
“You brute! Look what you’ve done to my friend. Whatever do you mean, knocking her down like that? Why can’t you be a gentleman and help her up?”
James had all he could do to fend off the blows. They weren’t strong enough to do him any harm, but it was rather like deflecting a swarm of insects. “Madam, I understand your anger, but if you would kindly stop beating me, I would be able to help your friend and get whatever assistance she needs.”
The pummeling finally slowed, and he took that opportunity to get up. The milliner had landed on her bottom in a large urn of hydrangeas and appeared to be unhurt. He held out a hand to her. “Madam, I sincerely apologize. I slipped on the wet pavement—”
He cringed as her friend’s blows began anew. “You idiot! Don’t pull her up until you know if she is able to stand. If she has broken bones, you could do even more damage.”
“Betsey, I’m certain I have no broken bones,” the woman in the pot said. “I fear for Lady Wentworth’s plants, though. I’m just— er, stuck in this pot. If the two of you could pull on my arms a bit…”
In no time, she was on her feet, but the momentum from her rise pulled her directly in against his chest. He breathed in her scent — not from artificial perfumes, but of tea and lavender, the smells he remembered from his boyhood adventures with the gardener and his wife. She looked up into his eyes, and her face lit with recognition.
“Oh, hello. How nice to see you again. Thank you for rescuing me from the flower pot.”
“What do you mean, rescue you?” her friend cried. “He’s the one who put you there.”
“Should I send for a physician, madam?” A passerby had stopped, probably drawn by the woman’s hysterics.
“No, thank you. I’m unhurt,” the hat lady assured the gentleman.
“Are you certain?” The tiny warrior asked the question as she brushed dirt off her friend’s pelisse.
“Please calm yourself, Betsey. It was fortuitous that I landed in the soft dirt, so I’m not at all injured. I’m sure this gentleman simply lost his footing on the ice. If I hadn’t been dawdling—”
“Please allow me to escort the two of you into the building before there are any more mishaps,” James insisted before the friend could interrupt with another concern. “I assume you were on your way to the Garden Club meeting?”
After a short hesitation, she nodded, and she took one arm and her friend took the other.
Together they mounted the steps, and a sour-faced butler let them enter. They took the stairs to a large drawing room, where Lady Wentworth met them with delight.
“Mister Benton, how good of you to come. Lord Godolphin sent word that you would be coming in his stead.”
The baroness turned to the milliner and her friend. “Ladies, thank you so much for bringing our guest of honor with you, but I’m afraid I must take him away from you now.”
James caught the twin expressions of confusion on the two ladies’ faces before Lady Wentworth swept him away. He supposed their surprise was understandable. He hadn’t expected to be anyone’s guest of honor either.
Chapter Eight
Selina’s discomfort over her first reappearance in the Highgate social scene disappeared in her amazement. The man who’d wandered into her hat shop three weeks ago was the main speaker for this meeting? How was he connected to the winter garden at Nettlebloom?
His appearance was certainly improved from the last time she’d seen him. Expertly tailored jacket and trousers enhanced his large, powerful physique, and his shoes looked quite new. He was every inch a gentleman, and from the reactions of the other ladies in attendance, he’d attracted their notice. Lady Wentworth herself held tight to his arm as she led him around the room, introducing him to the Garden Club members as Mister James Benton.
Betsey answered the question in her mind. “That’s Mr. Benton? I’d heard he was the landscape architect chosen to design the winter gardens. I assumed he’d look quite different.”
Selina silently agreed. Most men of letters were smaller, and mouse-like. This man was big and… healthy.
Her reaction to the gentleman left her unsettled. Surely she couldn’t be attracted to him. She prayed it wasn’t so. She was a widow, had already experienced one great love in her life, and couldn’t expect more. She straightened her skirt, uncomfortable with the direction her thoughts had taken. Thankfully, her pelisse had protected her dress from the dirt when she’d tumbled into the urn. A stain would have been cause to leave the meeting, as potential clients wouldn’t want to deal with a dirty milliner.
As the afternoon progressed, she realized her appearance at the Garden Club meeting hadn’t caused as much of a stir as she’d feared. A few ladies had raised eyebrows, but Betsey had taken her arm and marched her right up to them. “You remember the Dowager Countess Milton, don’t you? She was obliged to change her address unexpectedly, and is finally able to rejoin us.”
Immediately, the frowns had converted to welcoming smiles, putting some of Selina’s concerns to rest. How sweet of Betsey to introduce her that way, considering she no longer held the title.
Lady Ashton presided over the business portion of the meeting. Lady Fuller, as usual, nodded off in her seat, her occasional snores drowning out the discussion. Selina’s attention was on the lone gentleman seated toward the front, thumbing nervously through his notes. She sympathized with him — if she’d been asked to stand and speak to the group, she would be extremely uncomfortable.
Finally the meeting ended, and Lady Wentworth rose to introduce the guest. “I know we were all anticipating the charming Lord Godolphin, who was to share with us the development and implementation of the winter garden at his estate. Unfortunately, his lordship has fallen ill and is unable to join us today.” She waited for the sympathetic murmurs to subside before continuing. “Fortunately, the project’s landscape architect, Mister James Benton, has agreed to speak in his stead.” The other ladies followed her example by applauding the gentleman as he stood.
Selina took in the way his eyes focused on his notes, the papers in his hand trembling, and the higher pitch of his voice as he began. It was obvious he read directly from those notes, which apparently had been prepared by Lord Godolphin. The earl, she knew, had a quirky sense of humor, and the facts and dates being read would have been delivered in a way the ladies would have enjoyed. But poor Mister Benton, due to his discomfort, faced a room full of impatient women.
After a few minutes, Lady Ashton interrupted. “Mister Benton, what sort of shoes should I wear when visiting the garden?”
The man blinked and peered at her curiously. “I’m not qualified to common on fashion, my lady.”
His reply met with a disapproving grunt and a withering glare. Selina knew she had to help him, and translated the woman’s question into one that made sense to him.
“I believe Lady Ashton might be curious as to whether there are paved paths for strolling through the gardens, or whether muddy walkways might make it advisable for ladies to wear walking shoes or half boots as opposed to dress slippers,” she called out. Lady Ashton’s nod confirmed the focus of her question.
He cleared his throat, and she recognized it as an attempt to delay, hoping the answer would come to him. His gaze met hers, and she could almost hear his cry for help. Looking down at her sensibly shod foot, she nodded toward it.
He seemed to understand. “Er, as the weather will be unpredictable that time of year, it might be prudent to wear sturdy footwear.” She nodded slightly when he looked to her for confirmation.
If he’d known his purpose here was primarily as a fashion consultant, he would have begged Lady Stormont to come along. She would have known how to answer the fashion questions, and she was familiar with the layout and plan for the garden.
A woman with a hat so wide it resembled an umbrella raised her hand. He recognized her as one of his mother’s gaggle of friends, though her name escaped him. “Mr. Benton, exactly what shade of green will be the most prevalent in the garden?”
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