She gulped and said quietly, “The stem was broken.”
“You could kill the plant; you should have left it alone and asked for help!” the stranger snarled.
His words stirred Grace to stand straighter, setting her shoulders. “If I hadn’t known what to do, I would never have presumed to touch it,” she said with asperity. She might be afraid, but she was not going to be intimidated when she would never inflict harm on any plant.
His brow quirked, but his expression did not soften. “So, you’re telling me that you are an expert on orchids are you?”
Grace bristled, but her voice sounded steady. “I would not be so forward to say that I am expert in anything, but I know enough about orchids to know to cut them off at the base of the stem.”
The stranger felt a stirring of interest at her retort, but he maintained his sneer-like expression. “And why not cut it just below the break?” His tone was clearly mocking.
“I could have, and that way there would have been a chance it would have flowered again this year, but the blooms would have probably been small. Cutting it at the base of the stem won’t harm the plant, and next year, hopefully, there will be a new stem and larger blooms,” Grace responded, blushing at saying so much to a stranger and in the tone of voice she had used, but she was trying desperately not to let him see he intimidated her.
A slight nod was all the acknowledgement she received for her answer, so after a moment of silence between the pair she bent down and picked up her shears and popped them back in her pocket. Her blush deepened when once again she saw a raised eyebrow cocked at her, but she didn’t say anything. It was nothing to do with him that she always carried shears with her when in a garden, quite often in parkland as well; but again, she was not about to start explaining her ways to the stranger.
She moved towards the man and brushed passed him, trying not to notice how he seemed to tower over her or that he smelled of the outdoors. She reached the bench without turning back, quickly picking up her belongings and, with a haughty “Goodbye,” she left the orangery and walked quickly across the lawn towards Sudworth Hall.
Harry groaned when he saw her walking towards the Hall. He had no idea who she was, and he had not stopped to consider she might be a guest of the family. Her hair had been disarrayed, and she had smudges on her cheek. At first he thought she was one of the scullery girls; they were as tiny as she, but when she had turned to him, he could see she was older and her dress, although a day dress, was of far finer quality than any scullery maid would ever own. She had actually taken his breath away; she looked just like the fairies described in the few children’s stories he had been told as a child.
A niggle of something began to stir his memory; he seemed to recall some of the staff talking over one of the evening meals about the Duchess’s sister coming to visit. He had not really listened; very little in the house had an impact on him, so he just concentrated on enjoying his food. He cursed himself for not listening now; it was highly likely he had just insulted the sister of the Duchess. He had not linked the two together as she did not resemble the Duchess in any way; the Duchess was a very tall woman with dark hair and eyes, nothing like the vision that had disturbed his afternoon.
He groaned; he had been an idiot: he should have checked who she was before opening his big mouth. It was no excuse that he spent so much time nurturing the orchids, so he felt protective towards them; they were his passion. His shoulders sagged in defeat; he presumed it was not too many hours before he was cast off without a reference. Sometimes he was a damn fool!
Chapter 3
Grace obtained a small vase from a housemaid and placed the flower in her bedchamber; its perfume was so pungent it would fill the room. She gazed at the flower and knew she would not be able look at it without blushing; she had never spoken to anyone the way she had spoken to that man or been spoken to in the tones used by him. She should have been offended at the way the stranger had mocked her, but she was not. The whole situation left her slightly breathless and with a wildly beating heart. She surmised it must be because she had felt afraid, but in reality all she could remember was the size of the man and the way his grey eyes had seemed to bore into her.
She was dragged from her daydreams by the entrance of the maid assigned to her. She was changed into an evening gown of the palest blue fabric. It was plain, but the quality of the material showed off the cut of the dress. She put thoughts of the large stranger to one side and joined Rosalind and Peter in the dining room along with Annie.
“So, did our gardens meet your expectations?” Peter asked.
“Oh, yes,” Grace acknowledged, a slight blush on her cheek. “They were wonderful. I don’t think I’ve explored them all; time ran away with me, but I hope to continue tomorrow.”
“Grace cannot walk through a garden without noticing each plant,” Rosalind teased. “It’s always meant that any walk with her requires a lot of patience.”
Grace laughed, “I’m guilty, I admit; but I did try to hurry today to see as much of the immediate grounds as I could. I didn’t reach the end though; you have a wonderful array of gardens. I love how each area opens up onto a new one.”
“How long did you spend in the lawn with the wide borders?” Rosalind asked with a knowing smile.
“No more than an hour,” Grace said with a grin, “Before you say anything, I could have stayed there longer!”
Rosalind laughed, “Never believe Grace when she says that she will not dilly-dally through a garden; she cannot help herself.”
“I appreciate the work that has gone into them!” Grace smiled, perfectly happy to be teased.
*
In the servant’s hall, Harry Long, the Head Gardener, was even more withdrawn than usual. He ate with the other head staff in the household; they had their food separately from the junior servants as a reflection of their positions in the house. After enjoying their food in relative peace, they would join the other staff later where everyone gathered when final duties were performed before they all retired exhausted to their beds.
Harry usually returned to his cottage rather than spending much time with the younger staff; his nature was such that inane chatter did nothing but grate on his nerves. He much preferred the peace of the garden to the noise of the servants’ hall. Harry had listened to the conversation of the evening while in the Head Servants’ Dining Room with one eye on the door. He was convinced that, at any moment, he would be summoned to the Duke’s study and given his marching orders. He had cursed his behaviour all afternoon, but he was who he was: passionate about the gardens he nurtured along with the under-gardeners who worked for him.
He admitted his folly in not finding out who she was before snapping at her, but it had been purely an instinctive reaction. After his outburst there had been a moment or two of surprise when she had responded to his mocking with obvious knowledge of the plants. He consoled himself with the fact that, although he had acted badly, she should not have been cutting flowers off; that was his job. He sighed into his food; it would be small consolation if he were cast off without a reference.
As he returned to his cottage when the staff dispersed, he felt a small flicker of hope. So far, there had been no summons; perhaps she had not said anything after all. His mind eased a little so, instead of having nightmares about being homeless and jobless, he was able to dream about the green-eyed pixie he had discovered amidst the orchids.
*
Grace woke with excitement fluttering in her stomach. She knew exactly what she was going to do after morning visits: explore the gardens further. It was what she would have wanted to do anyway; but the thought of seeing a certain gardener was the main cause of her flutterings. No man had ever stirred a reaction in her, and she was not sure if the feelings were caused by fear or anticipation. Hopefully by the end of the day, she would have found out which it was.
She would have liked to go and explore as soon as she had eaten breakfast, but Rosalind would not let her disa
ppear into the grounds completely. She consoled herself by preparing for when she would be released by dressing in a striped cotton gown. It was a practical garment more than something in the height of fashion; most of Grace’s day clothes were made with practicality in mind. She had decided early in her life that fashion was for her mother and other sisters. A lightweight muslin material was no use for hours of work in a chilly garden.
Rosalind accepted Grace’s dress with a smile; she was never surprised at the type of dresses that Grace preferred, although some of their neighbours would probably comment on the plain, serviceable attire. Rosalind led the conversation throughout the visits but tried to encourage Grace to join in as much as she could. She appreciated her quiet sister, but knew that, to be welcomed into the area and hopefully find a beau, she would have to come out of her shell more than she was used to.
When visiting was over and it was only Mrs Adams, Annie, Rosalind and Grace, Rosalind mentioned their social engagements.
“We have a small dinner to attend tonight Grace; I hope you won’t spend too much time outside today: I want you looking your best,” Rosalind said.
“I shall be fine; it isn’t like being at home,” Grace said. “Here you have an army of gardeners to keep your garden impeccable; at home there was only Fred and myself.”
“You were put to work?” Mrs Adams asked with surprise.
Grace laughed, “I put myself to work! Prior to that I interfered far too much. Eventually Fred, our Gardener, accepted my help; that way he could direct my interference. I think I caused less damage that way.”
“Mother despaired of her; a day never passed without some sort of plant-life staining a dress,” Rosalind groaned with the memory.
“She insisted that I wear fashionable clothes until she realised it was a complete waste of money. When she allowed me to take charge of my own wardrobe, we were both much happier,” Grace said, smoothing the fabric of her dress.
“I pity your father,” Mrs Adams said.
“Why?” Grace asked in surprise; in reality she had never been any trouble to either parent.
“He appears to have a houseful of strong women; no wonder he escaped to his businesses,” Mrs Adams replied.
Rosalind laughed, “Grace is the worst of the four of us; she lulls everyone into thinking she is so quiet but, when pushed, is probably more determined than the rest of us put together. She was the only one who mother allowed to choose her own wardrobe completely; the rest of us had to have her approval.”
Mrs Adams smiled at Grace, her eyes alight with interest. “In that case I shall watch your progress with interest.”
Grace flushed a little; she did not like being the centre of attention but did understand she was being teased. She soon made her excuses and returned to her chamber to retrieve her bonnet and spencer. Her shears were already in her pocket; she pulled on her gloves and was ready to explore.
*
The air was fresh, a crisp wind putting colour in her cheeks as she walked quickly along the pathways. She continued walking until the orangery was behind her; she did not wish to antagonise the man she had met yesterday. A large part of her wanted to see him again, but she was not confident enough to seek him out so brazenly. Also she was aware that, although she was a member of the family, she was not sure whether Peter would be an indulgent brother if the staff started to complain about her.
She went through another hedge; she loved how each section of the gardens were separated by tall hedges. It was a superb method of keeping each section of garden separate from the next. It meant the secret of each area was kept until the last moment and then revealed to its fullest potential.
She found herself in an area with a sunken garden. Grace stopped at the opening; it was beautiful. The stone of the terracing blended into the shades of the plants that overhung the walls almost as if they were pulling it into the soil. The centre had a fountain regally spouting into the air while neat flowerbeds were placed geometrically, separated by stone walkways.
Grace slowly walked around to the steps leading into the sunken garden. It had to be the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She sat on one of the stone benches and took out her notebook and pencil. She started to draw the garden as well as making copious notes; she also collected images of places or plants that inspired her. She was not quite sure what she would do with them. Subconsciously she could be planning her own garden; she had not openly decided, but she felt it was important to collect a record of anything that moved her so much.
When she had drawn sketches to her heart’s content, she continued to the next area. She smiled as she walked; Rosalind did not appreciate her own land half as much as Grace already did. She could hardly wait to write Eleanor to express how beautiful she found each area. The next garden section was a little surprise: it was an orchard and was wilder than the previous gardens she had walked through. She wandered among the trees, enjoying the protection from the wind they offered, examining the buds.
It was all too soon time to turn back. Grace smiled to herself; if she spent this long on each section of garden, it would be many weeks before she explored it all. She did not hurry back, though; she could never walk quickly through any garden, especially when the only motivation was an evening of entertainment with strangers.
She reached the rose garden before she was side-tracked. Some of the fragrances caught her attention, and she paused to examine some flowering plants. She reached for a particularly interesting coloured flower and pulled it towards her to smell it.
“Do I need to check for missing blooms when you leave?” came the deep rumble of the voice that had startled her yesterday.
This time Grace was not startled; if she was honest with herself, she had been looking out for the tall figure that had haunted her dreams last night. She turned with a smile, “Not today; I promise I am just enjoying their beautiful scent.”
Her words were met with an inscrutable expression, but it reassured her that it was not the scowl she had faced the previous day. “Do you like roses?” he asked.
“I love all flowers, but roses aren’t my favourite,” Grace admitted, blushing a little, not used to giving her opinions freely. “I don’t like the thorns. They draw you close with their beautiful blooms and fragrant scent, but when you reach out they are ready to scratch.”
A corner of his mouth twitched, but his tone remained the same. “Some would say that those who truly look at them would see beauty in the contrast,” he said.
Grace tilted her head on one side, looking at the flowers. It was clear she was considering his words. “You have a point; they are a flower of contrast,” she conceded, “but I would prefer a friendlier plant.”
Grace was encouraged that his eyes lit up in amusement, the first real expression of friendliness, but his face remained passive. “A friendlier plant? So, plants have different levels of friendliness do they?”
Grace laughed and blushed, “Of course! Doesn’t everyone know that?”
“I should probably know, but I’m lacking in knowledge I’m afraid; which is the friendliest plant?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Grace knew she was being teased and responded with mock seriousness. “Why it’s the Dianthus of course!”
“Of course,” came the low rumble. “Why didn’t I know that?”
“Exactly!” Grace said with a smile. “Who would not think the happy flowers of the Dianthus were not the friendliest? They greet you with a smile no matter how you scowl at them.” An eyebrow raised, but no response was made at her comment. Grace blushed; she did not usually speak so boldly to anyone. She moved away from the roses, making sure the flower was not damaged by her touch. “Please excuse me; I must return to the hall.”
A slight nod was all she received, but she was sure his eyes never left her until she walked through the opposite hedge. She was at the house before her heartbeat settled down. She had never experienced anything like it before; no one, until she met the dark haired stranger ever
stirred the slightest interest from her. It was not that she was sheltered; very often her father brought business associates around to their home for meals and an evening’s entertainments. They were all polite; some were attractive; a few tried to flirt, but Grace could honestly say she had never been curious to find out more or to spend time in the company of anyone of them.
She sighed as she walked up the stairs to her bedchamber; the gardener might have stirred her curiosity and made her heart beat a little faster, but she was under no illusion who he was. He was a member of staff and, therefore, out of bounds. She was obligated to find a man who was worthy in her father’s eyes of the Johnson connection. A gardener would not be acceptable under any terms.
*
Harry certainly had watched Grace until she left the Rose Garden. He tried to absorb every detail of her to further fill his dreams. He had awakened that morning determined that, if she walked in the garden, he was going to find her. He convinced himself he would apologise for his behaviour and beg her forgiveness. That was the only reason a man like him should be seeking out a genteel lady.
He had seen her in the sunken garden, but she had been absorbed in her notebook. He had watched her from the edge of the garden like a man half-starved. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her skin seemed to shimmer in the soft glow of the sunlight, the rosy colour in her cheeks adding to the look of innocence. The more he looked the more he could convince himself she was a figment of his imagination.
Grace: A Regency Romance (The Four Sisters' Series Book 3) Page 3