Flowers for the Gardener

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  “Sorry it’s cold, but I got soap and a nail brush. If you wait, I’ll boil up. I take it you won’t want your mother seeing you mussed.”

  Ethan didn’t expect an answer and didn’t receive one so he switched on the kettle. The cabin needed a proper sink, but it didn’t take long to walk to the staff cottage if he required anything. Speaking of which, the supply of teabags was low.

  Sounds of splashing made Ethan glance over his shoulder, witness to Richard’s ineffectual efforts to clean his hands. While the kettle worked away making a noise in the corner, Ethan tore off a few sheets from a roll of blue paper, tougher than the type intended for kitchen use, and handed over the wad.

  “Wipe yourself with this first and pull back those sleeves. I’ll change this.”

  He took the bowl of now-dirty liquid and tossed it out. By the time he walked back, the pot—always so-called by his father—started the little familiar jig before clicking off. Time they got a new one but no point asking for such things. No one up at the house would pay for them while those who worked on the estate could ‘make do’. Ethan must wait until the appliance blew up or died. He made busy pouring out cold and hot water before handing over a small screwdriver.

  “You might wanna dig out some soil if the brush don’t get rid of it all.” Not to say a little dirt on Richard Gardener wouldn’t be an improvement.

  Much improved by the view of things. Those grey-green eyes were brighter than Ethan recalled. The boy now a man and broader in the shoulders, and…a quick glance to make certain and, yes, Richard filled out his trousers well. A number of people might find it strange Ethan noted Richard’s eyes before giving his body and crotch a once-over—many people believed a person’s eyes a female preference—but a bright gaze always attracted Ethan.

  He set to making tea, including one for Richard, though he didn’t bother asking if his boss wanted any. The man needed brains more than tea. Damn fool to come out without a jacket in this weather, which…fine, so had Ethan, but he worked, built up a sweat, and he didn’t react to winter’s bite like the rich boy, more used to it. The reason Ethan gave Richard warm water was owing to how red his fingers were; so, too, his cheeks. Digging into the soil with bare hands…the idiot was a walking invitation for frostbite.

  “Sugar? Or are you sweet enough?”

  Well, damn. Richard flushed. Ethan tried to hide his amusement, unable to tell whether he succeeded. “You can sweeten it as you like, or not.” He put the mug near the other man, who eyed it, gaze narrowed, lips pursed under a lowered brow. No doubt he suspected he’d find it laced with weed killer. Didn’t take it, but he was preoccupied, still cleaning his nails. Be no surprise, though, if the tea went untouched. All because Richard didn’t trust him. Might be worth his while to do something about the dislike.

  “Remember last time you stood here?”

  Richard became a statue, revealing he recalled, all right. So many emotions flittered over his face. Back then, the little Lord of the Manor washed more than his hands. The memory flashed vibrant, the clear sky on a chilly afternoon transformed into the blistering heat of high summer by his father’s fury. Regardless of age, Ethan’s dad had dragged both of them in, one to clean up and one to wait until the other left, intending to give Ethan a hiding, or so Ethan had believed. Turned out his old man didn’t have it in him to hit his son, though the margin was narrow. Understandable, with his father afraid of losing his job and livelihood.

  The promise—never to touch Richard again—Ethan kept, for the most part because of a lack of opportunity.

  Last time when Richard stood in this hut, the boy wiped blood and mud off his face before running back to the house. This time, Ethan planned not to let Richard escape.

  * * * *

  Richard continued washing, silent. When he dried his hands, he took a long time unrolling his sleeves. The man acted as if Ethan hadn’t spoken. Typical.

  “Hard to forget,” Richard at last mumbled. Took him some effort, too, judging by his expression.

  “You deserved it.” The pronouncement didn’t sit easy but the poor little rich boy riled him back then, irritated him now. Ethan settled against the countertop, backside resting on the edge, legs crossed and angled out before him. On the surface, he remained relaxed. Inner turmoil made him queasy.

  More seconds ticked by, leaving Ethan convinced, once finished, the man intended to walk out without another word. So when Richard’s sharp eyes flicked up, his direct gaze struck Ethan like lightning. Hell, but he didn’t want to react. He flinched from no man and no fight. The notion Richard didn’t care died under the man’s penetrating stare. More things had changed than Ethan imagined possible.

  “You’re right. I did deserve it. Or at least some punishment. I insulted you. You threw the insult back. I retorted with worse and you…Well, I’m not a man who believes in violence, but I deserved a slap. Not sure if my behaviour warranted you trying to make me eat dirt, but we’ll forget about that.”

  Well, blow him; Richard Gardener had grown up. Invisible strings curled Ethan’s lips. “You recollect the insults?”

  “Hard not to.” Richard’s colour deepened, and he fidgeted, uncomfortable, maybe embarrassed. His flickering gaze fell on the tea.

  “I’ve not spat in it or dosed it with strychnine.”

  Despite the assurance, seconds trickled by before Richard picked up the mug. The man held the vessel as though he wanted to warm his hands more than to drink, but after a moment, he took a sip. “You were in my way and I told you to get off the path. I said you didn’t have the right to be there.”

  “And I argued. Said I had as much right as you. More so.”

  “To which I replied, no, you didn’t. My family allowed you because your father was only a gardener here.” Rich hesitated. “I’m sorry I used the words allowed and only.”

  “And I said he made a better gardener than you could ever hope to or some such crap, playing on your name, and…” Ethan trailed away.

  “You jumped on me.”

  “Sure did.”

  “And your father…” At last, Richard’s lips twitched, stretching. “Did he whip your arse?”

  Hard to tell which was funnier—discussing a childish battle and remembering it so well, or to hear Richard say arse.

  “No. He…” Once more, he came to a halt, not wanting to discuss his father.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Did you hope so?”

  Richard gave him a long, slow blink. “At the time, yes. Now, no. If you try to make me eat dirt again, I may change my mind.”

  Dirt wasn’t what he wanted Richard to eat, but none of his fantasies were about to come true. “So you’re back to run the family fortune.”

  “Well that didn’t take long.”

  Richard setting the mug aside brought Ethan to his feet, though he froze when Richard didn’t at once storm out. With no need to block him, Ethan stood like an imbecile in the middle of the room. Didn’t move. Didn’t lean back. He wasn’t through with his boss, having always found Richard handsome, and though he’d outgrown throwing punches, he wouldn’t let the man flee. The two eyed each other, neither apparently aware of what to do or say.

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult.” Ethan wanted to make that clear.

  “Yet you always make it sound like one.”

  “Same way you make honest work sound like I’m Oliver Twist. I’m no beggar or a thief.”

  “And I’m not my father. Nor did I ask to be. You at least enjoy your job so where does that leave me?” A moment of silence spun out, leaving Ethan with the sensation they were as shocked as each other. “I didn’t intend a confession.”

  “Obviously.” Ethan still wasn’t ready to let Richard off the pitchfork. “What makes you think I wanna be here anymore than you do?”

  “I thought…” An ineffectual hand gesture and a creased brow accompanied the broken statement. “Don’t you?”

  “I appreciate gardening if that’s what you mean.�
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  “Oh. So it’s working for my family you hate.”

  Well, shoot. The boss should have more trouble understanding him. Immobile with puzzlement and indecision, Ethan did nothing as Richard strode over to the door.

  Stupid. The whole disagreement. The last quarter of an hour. Richard Gardener might walk out and arrange for Ethan’s dismissal. Worse, they might never speak again. Hard to admit, but Ethan didn’t want either outcome.

  The man reached for the latch as Ethan snapped out, “Wait.”

  Richard spun around. “It’s Rich.”

  “What?”

  “My name. I go by Rich these days.”

  Took a few seconds to make sense. “You go by…But…” No. Too priceless. Ethan laughed.

  “What do you find so funny?”

  The question made him chuckle more; his eyes watered. “Sorry. It’s…” Oh God, he snorted. “It’s…” No, he still couldn’t find enough air. “To think…It’s too hysterical. Rich Gardener. Poor gardener.” Ethan flapped a hand, wishing the action might wave away his giggles. “You and me. What a pair. Rich man, poor man. Oh so…So silly.”

  Thank goodness Richard smiled…and leaned against the door, staying awhile longer.

  * * * *

  How unfair for Ethan to look so fit in jeans. Would be nice to own a pair. A euphemism existed in Rich’s thinking somewhere. Something to do with the wealth to which Ethan eluded and the expectations often imposed by kin. Stupid of him to assume Ethan worked at a job he liked. No reason not to think Ethan might be following his father’s footsteps, the decision nothing more than parental expectation. Same as George Gardener always expected his son to run the firm. The right to presume he or Ethan were happy was another matter.

  “What have you been doing all this time?” Ethan asked.

  “Studying. Taking a degree. Travelling less than I wanted but more than my parents liked. You?”

  “Been away to do training at an RHS garden. Spent two years at Wisley taking their Practical Horticulture Diploma. Though last I heard, they replaced it with a level 4 certificate. I got to drive a tractor. Didn’t offer me the straw hat or sprig of hay to chew on, though. Didn’t even so much as make me wear braces.”

  Ethan’s use of sarcasm might annoy him if not for the fact Rich acknowledged surprise—astonishment laced with a heavy twinge of guilt. He was more of a snob than he realised. The moment called for praise, but what to say? A simple well done might sound patronising. Better to offer congratulations, though the gesture would be little improvement. He replied the only way he knew.

  “Did you choose to do it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Enjoy it?”

  “Yeah.”

  There, Rich ran out of things to discuss. He wanted to say Ethan won again, but best to leave things be than to antagonise. To his sad-sounding, “I’m glad,” Ethan narrowed his eyes and gave a strange birdlike tilt of his head.

  “I wanna ask if you’re taking the piss but I don’t think you are.”

  “I’m not. Please, don’t…” Rich shook his head. “Let’s not do this to each other anymore.” Now he sounded tired, and he was. The nervous energy of marching out of the house, ill-prepared for the sharp morning, leaked away.

  “I take it you didn’t choose your course or love it.”

  Hard to tell whether Ethan was pleased, but Rich answered. “A big fat you got it right in both cases. Business and finance. Exclusive things of which my parents approved.”

  “Your father always wanted you to take over one day.”

  “Guess none of us believed it would be so soon.” Impossible to discuss his long-lived hope: by the time the day came along, he would discover a decent justification to back out. “Can we drop this?”

  “If you want. What else can we hash out? My work? I need to dig up the remaining potatoes, pick the raspberries, net the pond before the leaves fall.” Ethan hesitated. “Bit late for that.”

  True. The leaves fell already. Seemed much had slipped since his father’s death.

  “I got to clean out the greenhouse, plant spring bulbs. I don’t think it’s quite your thing.”

  No, but Rich welcomed the talk of plants if it kept him here. He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to stop talking. Better to chat over anything to stay here…away from the house, out from under his mother’s watchful glare. With Ethan.

  The gentle thrumming beneath his skin became apparent, having existed possibly from the first moment he saw the other man. Or from the second he noticed the handsome specimen Ethan had become.

  Thoughts winged away, flying back in time to the fight when they were…what? Fourteen? Ethan pushing him into the dirt, writhing above him. He could still recall seeing what looked to be tiny white stars until he realised they were small stones in the soil. Back then, it meant little, was torment. Later, when Rich left home and lived outside of what his parents dictated…the recollection brought to mind other fledgling feelings. A lot had happened since, numerous experiences where Rich learned much about himself. On that long ago day, he might have goaded Ethan on purpose.

  Ethan awaited an answer on what to talk over, but no safe subject presented itself.

  “I care for plants well enough. I love trees.” They were an important part of one of his greatest interests though not his focus. Rich had a great love for ecology and preserving the environment, something he could not discuss on any emotional or intellectual level with his mother.

  “Well, there’s something I didn’t know about you this morning. One more thing, anyhow.”

  “One…more?” To what did Ethan refer?

  “Aside from the fact you’re gay, I mean.”

  Speaking of the impossible…H-How could the other man know?

  As though he read minds, Ethan’s gaze dropped. “You’re thrilled to see me.”

  Rich’s face blazed. The moment he believed Ethan could never humiliate him any worse than by trying to make him eat soil, the man spotted his hard-on. Rich fought to swallow; the action hurt. “You still talk bollocks.”

  He expected anger. To his shock, Ethan showed him his teeth, but the display lacked aggression, far from feral.

  “There’s only one load of bollocks I want to talk about. Tell me, Rich…” He exaggerated the name. “Have you told your mother you’re gay?”

  Chapter 3

  A subtle shift, but sure enough, Richard straightened; his shoulders went back, his jaw clenched. Hands fisted. Ethan hit more than a nerve.

  “You’re full of manure.”

  So, Richard tried to be witty with his retaliation, but his gaze burned. Best thing to do was not to react. To tidy away the tea things. To let so much happening here go unnoticed, though Ethan’s skin tingled under the other man’s stare. He took his time before replying.

  “You’re the one filled with shit. A dislike of the business ain’t the reason you stayed away. I know what your father was like. Your mother’s opinions don’t much differ.”

  “Don’t talk of my mother. Don’t mention my relatives.”

  “Defensive. Protective of your folks even when you disagree with ‘em. I like it. I’m the same.” He would think less of Richard if the man reacted any other way. “But what you gonna do now you’re back? Take over the company? Potter around in a mausoleum? Marry the first girl your mother approves of? Bring children into the world to condemn them to a carbon copy of your life?”

  Every time he spoke, he struck a blow, though he didn’t expect to create such an impact. His boss flinched at the end of every sentence. His body bent. He ended up falling into one of the rickety chairs they kept in the shed. With his elbows on his knees, Richard stared at his palms. The reaction shocked Ethan into silence. By the time he found his voice, his tongue lay heavy in his mouth and his jaw ached.

  “Shit. I didn’t mean to knock the stuffing outta you.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He hadn’t, though. Cause some upset, perhaps, but not…this. The last thin
g he wanted to do was to cause Richard distress. “Not what I want. Not at all.” From where did the words come? Why confess?

  A thin smile made a gash of Richard’s lips. “Of course it is. Nothing better than the rich man’s son brought low by the…” The sentence ran out, unfinished, drawing lines across Richard’s brow. The man focused on his hands, which he rotated over and examined. At what did he look?

  “Finish what you were saying.”

  Richard shook his head. “You won’t be pleased.”

  “I know I won’t, but I wanna hear you say it.”

  Richard’s bright gaze flicked up. “The rich man’s son brought low by the domestic help. The servants.”

  For a second, Ethan’s blood simmered. He pushed the emotions threatening to bring him to the boil aside. “That’s your mother talking.” Hoped so, anyhow.

  “No. No it’s not. It’s me. My view.”

  This time, his heart plummeted.

  “Not the way it sounds. Not as a barb.” Richard examined his hands again. “Can’t believe I got my hands dirty.” A lost type of wonderment made his tone wistful. When next he spoke, his voice grated, shredding the air. “I hate it. I loathe everything. Can’t stand the house. Don’t want to live in it. Can’t…Won’t marry someone I will never love and there’s a conversation in my future I’m not looking forward to. No doubt going to happen sooner than later now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you will…I mean, aren’t you…?”

  What was Richard saying? Realisation widened Ethan’s eyes to straining point. “You think I’m blackmailing you?”

  “I don’t…”

  The other man sounded lost again, young, but Ethan didn’t need any more fertiliser. “Is that what you think’s going on here?” Feet now striding out, back and forth, over a creaky floorboard because he needed to pace, gave the atmosphere in the shed a gothic quality. The noise made him stop moving as much as Richard watching his every step. “Well, if it don’t beat all. Fuck you, Richard Gardener. Of all the things you ever done, such a paltry expectation makes me hate you.”