Grace: A Regency Romance (The Four Sisters' Series Book 3)

by Audrey Harrison

  Grace followed Harry, a smile returning to her lips when she inhaled the heady scent of heat, soil and a delicate fragrance. Rows of tables with boxes on top filled the glass house. Flowers filled the boxes, all at varying levels of growth.

  “Is this what you wanted?” Harry asked gruffly.

  “Oh yes,” Grace said. She left his side and walked through the pathways between the tables, examining flowers, checking labels and taking note of everything she could.

  Harry watched her. He could not help the feeling of amusement rising to the surface as he watched the expressions of pleasure on her face. He had never seen the glass house explored with so much interest before. If he could instil that much enthusiasm in the under-gardeners, his job would be a lot easier. Occasionally Grace would look up and smile at him, as if she was grateful for him imparting a wonderful secret to her. He enjoyed watching her move; she seemed perfectly at home among the plants, convincing him even more she was some sort of pixie or fairy.

  Eventually, he walked towards her, drawn to the air of happiness that surrounded her. “Do you approve of the way we keep flowers in the house all year round?” he asked.

  “It’s amazing!” Grace replied, looking at him with sparkling eyes. “Are all the glass houses filled with flowers?”

  “In this area yes,” Harry responded. “At the other side of the kitchen garden there is an identical area to this, but it is filled with glass houses containing vegetables and fruit.”

  “You must need a team of people to care for all of this; it must take so much work. How do you plan it all and then execute it? It’s on a far larger scale than anything I’ve seen before. At home, we had such a small garden in comparison, I don’t know how you do it,” Grace said in awe.

  “There are a few of us,” Harry acknowledged, without mentioning the length of the days they worked in summer. Winter was slightly easier as they worked just through the daylight, although the weather was the main problem then.

  “We had only one gardener at home,” Grace said. “I helped him whenever I could although, as I’ve said, we only had a small garden; neither of my parents spent much time outdoors, and city gardens are much smaller.”

  “You helped the gardener?” Harry said with a smile of genuine amusement not really believing her words.

  Grace made the mistake of looking at Harry’s face when he spoke and the smile lit his eyes, emphasising the crinkles at the corners. He looked even more handsome than he did when his expression was serious. She felt breathless for a moment and could not reply immediately.

  Eventually, she gained enough control to respond. “It was either he put me to work, or I got under his feet,” she said with amusement at the memory. “He wasn’t too keen to start with, but I managed to convince him I was serious about wanting to help, and I think my helping him was the lesser of the two evils.”

  Harry laughed, able to imagine the young Grace digging in the soil. His laugh was a deep rumble in his chest and made Grace’s body tingle. “I suppose it would be.”

  “I’d like to do something while I’m here,” Grace offered.

  “There are enough of us to manage,” Harry said, his laugher fading, becoming serious once more. It was one thing indulging her for a short time, but something completely different for her to be helping out officially.

  “I know that; it’s for my own selfish reasons,” Grace admitted, regretting she had stopped his laughter. “I need to be growing something. I have endured four days in a carriage and now days listening to people talk of fashion and fripperies during morning visits. That is nearly a week without once getting my hands dirty or planting a single seed. I need to be working in a garden every day, or I miss it so much it is almost a physical ache. You probably think me foolish.”

  The thought of seeing her every day tore at his insides; he knew it would be the most wonderful experience, but he also knew he would not be able to keep himself in check. The reality of their differing backgrounds made him scowl, and his response to her was sharper than normal. “We are not playing at gardens here; we have a job to do, and there are consequences if we don’t come up to scratch!”

  Grace blinked at the tone, but instead of stepping back, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry; I did not mean to insult you! I know it’s a working garden, and I do appreciate the hard work that goes into all this. In fact, it overwhelms me a little; I have no idea what is involved in the planning of something like this, but I am genuinely interested and really do want to do something. Can you not put me to some use? Can I not do something that would help in a small way?”

  The image that flew into Harry’s mind almost made him groan out loud. Of course, he could think of ways she could help his current turmoil; she could kiss him until he no longer remembered she was from a completely different class. He was a fool, but after banishing images of kissing her senseless, he nodded in agreement. “I will be planting seedlings tomorrow if you wish to help in the second glass house.”

  “Thank you!” Grace said, squeezing his arm before letting go. “You will hardly know I’m here; I promise!” she said, her smile lighting up her eyes.

  Harry grunted in derision; he always knew when she was there: his body prickled every time she was near him. It was time to remove himself from her company. “I need to work now,” he said, his usual gruffness coming back to the fore.

  “Of course, I will leave you be,” Grace said quickly. “Thank you for your time.”

  Harry nodded in acceptance of her thanks but did not reply. He watched Grace as she approached the door of the glass house. Before she opened the door she turned back to him.

  A small frown creased her forehead. “What’s your name?” she asked. “I don’t know what to call you.”

  “Harry, Harry Long,” came the reply.

  “Thank you, Mr Long,” Grace said, opening the door.

  “Harry,” Harry said firmly. “Just Harry.” No one called him Mr Long except the younger staff. If anyone heard a lady using his title, they would think he had lost his mind and was getting ideas above his station.

  Grace looked at him, cocking her head on one side slightly, as she did when she was thinking. “Harry then,” she said, a smile breaking out on her face. “It suits you; I like it,” she said with a laugh at his surprised expression and then left him alone in the glass house.

  Chapter 6

  Grace was to finally meet the woman who was potentially forcing her sister’s removal from Sudworth Hall. The family were still waiting for confirmation about the legitimacy of her claim, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Roberto was the son of the Duke’s dead brother. He was the image of his deceased father. Rosalind and Peter were keen to try and introduce Isabella into their lives as, even if the claim were not correct, she would always have a connection to the family through her son.

  Annie was not at the evening meal while Isabella was there. Peter was very protective of his sister and, although Annie was accepting and excited about the fact they might have to move, Isabella could be quite forceful in her opinions. Annie’s nature was such that she was easily upset so, although the pair had met, the contact was kept at a minimum. Isabella had moved into the Dowager House on the estate. It meant she was part of the family but also had some independence.

  Grace was a little apprehensive at the thought of her sister and brother-in-law being ousted from their home, but Rosalind had reassured her they had accepted the situation. The only reason they were carrying out such thorough checks was to prevent the unnecessary removal of Annie. Grace wondered if she would be as magnanimous in a similar situation; to have such beautiful gardens and then lose them would break her heart.

  The four chatted through the meal. Peter was a charming host and had put Grace at her ease very early on. He was also interested in the land and so could discuss plants for almost as long as Grace could. As Rosalind and Isabella talked about Isabella’s son Roberto, Grace told Peter of her discovery.


  “There is so much going on behind the scenes; it’s almost unbelievable the amount of work going on to make the gardens and house so beautiful. I didn’t realise the kitchen gardens would be so extensive,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, it takes a lot to feed the army we employ. We do have an excellent workforce in the gardens,” Peter agreed. “I only truly appreciated what they did when I took over my own farm and had a substantial garden surrounding the farmhouse. Planning everything and getting it right wasn’t as easy as I’d arrogantly presumed.”

  “I love looking at the grandeur of the formal gardens; they are truly beautiful but, if I’m honest, I do prefer exploring the areas where the actual work goes on. It just seems more alive, I suppose,” Grace said enthusiastically.

  “I’m not sure what the staff will think about you exploring, but as long as Harry is fine with it, I see no problems,” Peter said, wondering what his gruff gardener would think about Grace wandering about his fiercely guarded gardens.

  “Harry?” Grace asked, feigning ignorance. “Is he the Head Gardener?”

  “Yes, he’s been here all his life,” Peter explained. “I grew up with him really; we are of similar ages, and his father was Head Gardener in his own right before he died. Harry has worked his way through the ranks, but I think gardening is in his blood. When we were young boys, I would try and entice him to play, but he was far happier doing something in the garden. I eventually gave up trying to tempt him away, but he learned everything there was to know and has benefited from his labours. He’s the youngest Head Gardener we’ve ever had and probably the youngest in the area.”

  “How old is he?” Grace asked, trying to appear innocent, but her face flushed with embarrassment at her forwardness.

  “He’s slightly younger than me, which should have given me more weight when trying to persuade him to leave his work, but it didn’t. He must be seven and twenty and has held the post since he was four and twenty, hence my saying he was very young to get the position. I suppose he had been working in the gardens for nearly twenty years at that point though; he followed his father round from almost the moment he could walk, if what the other staff says is correct,” Peter said amiably, not suspecting any other motive than general curiosity on his sister’s part.

  “That is young,” Grace mused. She was prevented from further conversation as her attention was caught by Isabella.

  “There are a lot of things in this house that are old. Why have you not changed everything since you married the Duke?” she asked Rosalind in her strong Italian accent. Her features were very pronounced, sharp and emphasised by the olive colouring of her skin. Her black hair glistened in the candlelight; she was one of only a few women who had darker hair than Rosalind. She reminded Grace of a hawk-like creature, ready to pounce on anything weaker than herself.

  Rosalind blinked, but showed no other sign the question was inappropriate as she answered pleasantly enough. “I have changed what I considered needed changing. I didn’t see the point in changing something just for the sake of it,” she replied.

  “But the plates, they are so old-fashioned! Why have you not changed them?” Isabella demanded.

  Rosalind looked at the plate set before her. The plate was from a setting named Queen’s Ware, from Josiah Wedgewood. The plate was white, decorated with a strawberry leaves separated by a drop pattern. She had always thought the pattern delicate and tasteful. There had been far more tasteless items she had needed to deal with when she arrived at the house.

  “I quite like them,” she admitted to Isabella.

  “When Roberto takes his rightful place as Duke, we shall change them!” Isabella said with a huff.

  “You can do as you please,” Rosalind said. “Queen Charlotte liked them, but if they’re not to your taste, I suggest you change them to something you do like.”

  “She did? A queen?” Isabella said, suddenly appearing more interested in the dinnerware.

  “Yes, the design was made for her by Wedgewood. It was very popular, but obviously not to everyone’s taste,” Rosalind explained with a slight raise of her eyebrow.

  “Oh, maybe we keep,” Isabella said with a theatrical shrug.

  Rosalind raised her eyebrows to her husband with a slight smile on her face. “Whatever you choose to do, but if you do decide to change them, we would be happy to take these when we move out.”

  “I think the pattern is pretty,” Grace said quietly, wanting to support her sister but not relishing Isabella’s attention turning to her. The conversation was inappropriate and showed Isabella in a poor light. Grace wondered if the local families would suddenly realise what a gem they had in Rosalind if Isabella spoke in her unbecoming way to them.

  “The time is taking too long,” Isabella said, ignoring Grace’s words and warming to her favourite subject. “Roberto should have his title.”

  “We are awaiting information from the Continent,” Peter said calmly.

  “You have my marriage certificate; what more could you need?” Isabella asked defensively.

  “I’m afraid I need more than that,” Peter said firmly. He had been over this with her almost every day since her surprise arrival in the area. It did not help that she had made friends with the biggest gossip in the area, Baroness Leyland. While that lady had the ear of Isabella, she would try and cause trouble for the family in any way she could for no reason other than to be interfering.

  “You doubt my word?” Isabella snapped.

  “I want irrefutable proof,” Peter said, his tone not changing. He was a pleasant man but was not about to be bullied by Isabella.

  “Why do you not wear your wedding band?” Rosalind asked. The question had been bothering her since she had met the young woman.

  “I had to sell it!” Isabella snapped. “We all have not the money of a Duke!”

  Peter looked at his wife with a sad shake of his head. “This Duke and the two that held the title before me had no money at all; the money came from my wife and will be going with my wife.”

  Isabella looked at Peter in horror. “You are leaving the estate without money? How can you do that? What about Roberto?” Her hands banged on the table to emphasise each point.

  Grace physically jumped at each bang. She was horrified that such topics were being discussed and looked at Rosalind with a mixture of sympathy and compassion. Her sister should not have to be polite to someone who was a guest and acting in such an indecorous manner.

  “You will have to do what my father and brother could not: live within your means,” Peter said calmly, but there was a hint that he was beginning to lose patience. “We nearly lost the estate because of Robert and my father’s lifestyles. Your husband did not care what happened to the estate. It is only the fact that Rosalind brought money to the marriage that saved the Hall and all the land attached to it. It is no longer in danger of being lost but, if your claim is valid, there won’t be money available to fritter away.”

  “How are we to live?” Isabella asked, her eyes blazing with indignation.

  “There are only the two of you; you will be able to manage with the one household,” Peter responded in a tone that was quite unsympathetic. He normally was protective of those who were connected to him, but his brother and father had caused him so much heartache he had little patience with Isabella’s selfish outburst.

  “One household? There are three; Robert was quite clear,” Isabella said.

  “I think we should leave further discussions until we receive news from Italy,” Rosalind soothed.

  Peter was frowning at Isabella, deep in thought. Isabella seemed unaware of the scrutiny as she turned to Rosalind. “No! I want to know now what has happened to my property!” she snapped.

  “Your property?” Peter said quietly. “Don’t you mean Roberto’s property?”

  “Roberto is my son; what is his is mine,” Isabella said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

  “I think you will find it is only Roberto’s property. You have no
claim on anything as Robert’s widow,” Peter said, looking annoyed. He had suffered with his relatives’ inconsiderate behaviour for long enough, well before Robert had left for Italy. He was not about to start allowing Isabella to dictate what was right or wrong. At the moment it was still his house, and he was not going to let her false words go unchallenged.

  “Peter,” Rosalind said gently, trying to soothe her husband. She knew exactly what he was feeling. He had been forced into a marriage to try and solve the family finances; thankfully for both of them, they had discovered love after a very unpromising start. But it still rankled him that his brother and father had been so selfish and, as a result, had put all their futures at risk. Peter was not a selfish man; he had been willing to work, but Annie’s future had been unsure and he could never forgive his relatives for that alone.

  Peter looked at his wife but shook his head. He was going to ignore her gentle warning. “I think Isabella needs to know exactly what the consequences are of Robert’s failure to save his son’s heritage.”

  “Explain,” Isabella demanded rudely, causing Peter’s lips to set in a firm line.

  “If your claim is proved valid, we shall need to sell the other two properties to pay back Rosalind’s father the money he gave as part of Rosalind’s dowry,” Peter said sternly.

  “Is that the reason? Then there is no need to pay the money back,” Isabella said. “I know dowries; he lost his money once the marriage took place; it is a risk, but we win.”

  “Unfortunately, or fortunately for Mr Johnson, we signed an agreement before the marriage took place,” Peter said, taking some satisfaction from the look on Isabella’s face. “He paid for his daughter to become a Duchess; a Lady comes with a substantially smaller dowry. If your claim is correct, Rosalind will revert to the title of Lady.”

  Rosalind stood, hating the way the conversation always went when Isabella had anything to do with it. “Shall we ladies retire to the drawing room? I find I can take no more of the talk of dowries and houses; it makes me feel of no more value than the cows in the field!” she said with some asperity.