by Jane Goodger
“You’ll marry me.” She dissolved into laughter as he held her close. “Of course I will marry you. Despite the fact you are an earl. Will your grandmamma be very angry?”
“Exceedingly so, but she’ll come ’round when she realizes I thought I was giving her a deathbed promise that turned out to be an old-woman-with-the-sniffles promise. I think she rather liked you, you know, though it would be difficult for her to admit it. She liked your gumption.”
Harriet snorted. “No one has ever accused me of having gumption. Princess Catalina has gumption. Harriet Anderson is a wallflower.”
“A lovely wallflower.”
Harriet giggled. “You are quite besotted, my lord.”
He grew serious and gazed into her eyes. “And what of you? Are you besotted?” he asked, drawing her to her feet.
“Shall I tell you the moment I fell in love with you? I remember it clearly, as you might imagine. It was that day in the mist. You said my hair was miraculous and you looked at me as if I were very nearly pretty.”
“You are and were beautiful, my Catalina.”
“Goodness, you are mad.” She kissed him soundly, and he lifted her up so that her feet dangled in mid-air. She’d missed him so, his strength, his scent, the way his beard felt against her cheek. When she was done smothering him with kisses, she said, “Are we truly to live here? It’s not very large. Not fitting for an earl.”
“An earl and his countess. I want to be here as much as possible. It shall be our retreat away from our rambunctious children.” He held her until she wriggled and he let her down.
She looked around the cottage of her imagination, at the tiny details he must have stored away in his heart, and realized he truly did love her.
“Can I tell you why I am so happy?”
“Tell me, Catalina.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Are you going to continue calling me that?”
“Until you are wrinkled and old.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her. “God, I’ve missed you.” He pulled back. “And your lovely curls. Why are you so happy?”
“Because I will always remember this moment, every detail. The way you looked at me, the lines near your eyes—you’ve been in the sun too much.” She got on her tip-toes and kissed near his eye, where the fine lines spread like a fan. “The smell of beeswax.” He sighed. “The way you sighed because you were growing impatient to find out why this moment made me so happy.” He gave her a look of exasperation. “This moment, I will remember everything, every detail. Everything. Because it’s the happiest moment of my life.”
Years and years later, when they both were old and gray and still in love, she would close her eyes and remember. And smile.
About the Author
Jane Goodger lives in Rhode Island with her husband and three children. Jane, a former journalist, has written numerous historical romances. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading, walking, playing with her kids, or anything else completely unrelated to cleaning a house. You can visit her website at www.janegoodger.com.
Read on for an excerpt from Clara’s story, the next novel in Jane Goodger’s The Brides of St. Ives series.
As they approached their new gardener, he stopped what he was doing and straightened.
“Good morning, sir,” Clara called, and gave the gentleman her friendliest smile. The man stared at them, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap, before jerking his head in greeting. He thrust a hoe into the earth, then stamped on its rim, shoving it deeper into the ground, dismissing them. Clara frowned. In her experience, few people didn’t smile back when she smiled at them. Gamely, she said, “We’re very pleased to have you caring for our garden. What sorts of plants do you intend to use?” Another of her trademark smiles followed. One of the lessons she’d learned was that people loved to talk about whatever interested them. Ask an equestrian about horse breeds, and the conversation would be off and running, so she reasoned a gardener would surely like to discuss his garden.
Instead, their taciturn gardener, after another unsettling stare, nodded toward a large group of plants, roots balled up in burlap bags. Bored by this point, Harriet gave Clara a look, then said, “Perhaps we should ask cook to pack a lunch for our picnic.” She gave a subtle jerk of her head. “Why don’t you do that while I look over the plants,” Clara said. Few people knew that Clara had a competitive nature, and having their gardener resist her friendly overtures was tantamount to throwing down the flag of challenge. She would get the man to smile or at least utter a syllable, before leaving for a picnic on the beach with her sister. Unless he was suffering from some malady that prevented him from smiling or speaking. Harriet made a face, but headed back into the house, calling back, “If you do not like what I choose, I cannot be blamed.”
“No beet salad,” Clara called.
“I adore beet salad,” Harriet responded, then giggled and rushed into the house as if Clara would give chase. The moment she was alone with the gardener, Clara regretted her decision. He was gripping the shovel in his meaty fists, his eyes still in the shadow of his brimmed hat, and Clara felt the smallest niggling of fear. He seemed such a fearsome creature.
“Would you mind telling me what you’re hoping to plant?” she asked cheerfully, looking about the garden at the neat lines of holes. “Knowing my mother, it’s likely all roses.”
The gardener glanced at the plants, then shook his head, but Clara swore she saw his lips upturn just the slightest bit before his expression turned to stone once again. Normally, Clara would have not counted that slight movement of his mouth as a smile, but in this case, she decided to settle. Truthfully, their gardener was a bit frightening. He was a strapping man, broad and tall, with a jaw that could have been carved from good Cornish granite.
“I’ll leave you to your holes, then, shall I?”
Without a nod or even the slightest indication he’d heard her, he shoved the blade into the dirt. And winced. That’s when Clara noticed the blood on the handle.
“You’ve injured yourself. Let me see,” Clara said, reaching for his great paws. He moved away quickly for a man so large. “Don’t be such a baby. I won’t hurt you. Let me see what’s to be done so I may tell cook. She’s our resident healer.” When he continued to stare at her stonily, Clara put her hands on her hips. “I demand you show me your hands,” she said kindly. “If you are injured, how will I get my garden?” He let out a small huff of air, then held out his hands, torn and blistered from his labors. “Oh.” She darted a look at his face, but it was still in the shadows of his cap. “I’ll send cook out with a balm. And gloves.”
As she was turning away, she heard a low, “Thank you.”
It seemed he could speak after all.
Nathaniel prayed the chit was dimwitted enough not to wonder why a gardener would have blistered hands from digging a few holes. When he’d taken the position, that was a detail he hadn’t given a thought to. He looked down at his hands, amazed at the damage that had been done in such a short time. Hard labor was something he was entirely unfamiliar with, but it appeared it was something he was going to have to get used to.
The bloody garden was massive, stretching more than three acres before ending at a small pond. His grandfather had had quite a theatrical end to his life. He’d managed to tell Nathaniel the name of the property where he’d buried the blue diamond, but gasped his last breath before telling him where in the garden he’d buried the blasted thing. “I buried it in the garden behind the house. It’s …” Then the gasp, then nothing. At the time, Nathaniel had been far more concerned about the fact that his beloved granddad had died. He didn’t give a fig about a diamond nor truly believe it could be worth the extraordinary sum of a half million pounds. Since leaving Oxford, he’d quietly been making a respectable living as a solicitor. Not the thing for a man who would one day inherit a barony, but it allowed him to live in a respectable neighborhood. As
his father had been such an infamous wastrel, he’d decided he was far better off being a simple solicitor, rather than a man who was the son of the disgraced future Baron Alford. The chaps at Oxford were horrified by his behavior, but then again, most of them had substantial income from thriving properties. Nathaniel, despite growing up in a sprawling ancestral home, had been poor nearly his entire life. His grandfather couldn’t even afford to buy him a commission and, besides, no one he knew was aware he was in line for the barony. He was just plain Nathaniel Emory to them. All that changed when he’d met with his grandfather’s solicitor two days after the old baron’s funeral. He’d known things were bad, but he had not been prepared for the utter hopelessness of the situation. His grandfather had authorized his father to sell every bit of unentailed property in a desperate effort to avoid the very financial ruin that was now facing Nathaniel. Why his grandfather had been so indulgent with his son, Nathaniel had no idea and now would never be able to ask. He had two choices—allow the estate and the title to fall into total ruin or find the diamond.
As he stood in the Andersons’ garden, watching the owner’s annoyingly cheerful daughter head to the kitchen for some balm for his hands, he realized how precarious his position was. No one who heard him speak would for an instant believe he was a gardener. Some might have the talent for accents, but Nathaniel did not. He’d tried and failed dismally, even to his own forgiving ears. Thankfully, the lady of the house hadn’t noticed his clipped, aristocratic manner of speaking. Because he was speaking so low, the poor woman likely hadn’t heard a word he uttered. As a matter of fact, no one who saw him garden would believe him to be a gardener either. He knew next to nothing about the profession, though he’d been poring over books on the subject for the past week. The main reason he hadn’t shown Miss Anderson the plants was because, other than the roses—he knew those were the ones with the thorns—he had no idea what any of them were. Taking out his Pocket Guide to Flora and Fauna of England, he walked to the collection of plants, grimacing when he noticed that more than one seemed to be withering. No doubt the things needed watering—at least he knew that much. He flipped through, trying to identify a few of the plants, to no avail. He’d been in enough gardens to know that they were not planted in neat little holes like the ones he’d dug looking for the diamond. When he’d begun his systematic search by spearing the soil with a hoe, he hadn’t realized just how rocky the soil was. His plan had been to spear the dirt, and if the hoe hit something, voila, he would know he’d found the diamond. Unfortunately, nearly every time he speared the blasted dirt, he struck something and was forced to dig a hole to determine just what it was he was hitting. During his search, he’d cursed his grandfather nearly as much as he’d cursed the rocks he’d hit—both rather a waste of his breath. If someone should come upon him looking as if he were trying to murder the garden with his hoe, he would simply tell them he was “cultivating” the earth to prepare it for the plants. He’d hoped he would find the diamond within a few days, but it had already been a full week and all he had to show for his labors was a grid of holes. It was beginning to look as if he would actually have to start some gardening or be fired, and then where would he be? He’d have to sneak into the Andersons’ garden at night, not a pleasant prospect. As he looked over the ruined landscape, he felt slightly ill. Though he’d never been a man who shirked his duty or avoided work, hard manual labor was not something he had a great deal of experience with; his damaged hands were proof of that. A rustling sounded behind him and when he turned he was surprised to see the older Miss Anderson rather than one of the kitchen maids. Since he’d begun work, one maid in particular had been making eyes at him and had come up with one excuse or another to visit him while he worked. Martha was a pretty thing, but such extracurricular activities were definitely not on his agenda. He might be acting the gardener, but he was a baron, and as such, it was important that he carry on with a certain amount of honor and dignity—if digging holes and disguising oneself as a laborer could be considered honorable or dignified. Still, he refused to entertain the idea of a dalliance. “I’ve brought you some balm and some gloves.” She thrust out one hand, and in her palm was a small red pot filled with a pungent substance that he could smell from several feet away. He took a step back and she let out a delighted laugh. “Cook says if the smell doesn’t nearly kill you, then a balm won’t do the job.”
In her other hand was a pair of slightly soiled white gloves. He took the items warily, then looked up, straight into the face of an angel. Nathaniel was not a whimsical nor a poetic man, and so he was unable to put into words the effect she had on him. It was a bit like jumping into an icy cold lake and having the very breath taken from you. Surprise. Astonishment.
Lust. Yes, that was the word he was looking for. It coalesced inside of him as if it were some fast-moving, fatal illness. Hale and hearty one moment, then on death’s door the next. That was how quickly his body began to burn. He hadn’t even realized he was staring until it was obvious his stillness was making her uncomfortable, and she cleared her throat. “The balm is for the blisters,” she said, looking from the pot to his hands, as if he were touched in the head. Before, he hadn’t truly looked at her, had wanted her to simply go away so he could continue his search. Now, though, here she was, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life—and he had seen many beautiful girls in his day. Her eyes were the blue of a summer sky, her skin flawless, her lashes uncommonly long and curling, her hair burnished gold. He forced himself to look away.
“Thank you,” he said low, then turned away, feeling like some sort of ignorant buffoon. Here was a man who had won debates against the greatest minds at Oxford, had attended balls in London and charmed beautiful ladies; yet he was acting like a man who had never seen a pretty girl before. It occurred to him that perhaps it had been far too long since he’d kept company with a woman if he could be nearly paralyzed by one pretty, country miss.
“You’ll have to replace those gloves with something more utilitarian, I’m afraid,” she said to his back. “Those belonged to one of our footmen.”
Nathaniel blinked and looked stupidly down at the thin, white cotton gloves. “Yes,” he said. “There is an emporium in the village.” Go away.
“Thank you.” He dipped a finger into the balm and put it on the worst of his torn blisters, letting out a loud curse when the stuff seared his skin. Instead of being insulted by his language, Nathaniel heard her laugh.
“I promise you, once the stinging goes away, your hand will feel better.” It seemed that every time she spoke, there was laughter in her voice. It ought to be annoying, but he found it was not. He tugged on the gloves, wincing, then took up his hoe and plunged it into the earth. “I do apologize, if my mother told me your name, I have forgotten it. I shouldn’t like to call you ‘hey, you there’ or ‘gardener.’”
He couldn’t stop a smile from forming and was grateful only that he was facing away from her. “Emory. Nathaniel Emory.” He had little cause to believe she would recognize the name, not in this tiny village so far from London.
“I’m pleased to have you as our gardener, Mr. Emory,” she said, without even a pause at hearing his name.
“Thank you,” he said, then thrust his tool into the ground. It made a satisfying clink and once again Nathaniel’s hope were raised that he might find his grandfather’s treasure and remove himself permanently from St. Ives.
“I’ll let you get on with your work, shall I?”
Nathaniel nodded and doffed his cap, nearly smiling when the girl frowned and wrinkled her brow adorably, then went to retrieve his spade, hope blooming in his chest that he would finally find the diamond.
“Well, Mr. Emory. Good day,” she called behind him. “I should like to see your garden design. Perhaps tomorrow you can show it to me.”
Still with his back to her, rudely, to be perfectly honest, he said, “Yes, miss.” Garden design? He hadn’t given that
a single thought, but he knew one thing—whatever his design, it would require endless holes.
“Clara, come on,” called the younger sister.
He listened as the sound of her rustling skirts grew dimmer until he was left with only the sound of birdsong and his raging lust.