The Mistake

by Lily Maxton

  “Sweet William,” he answered.

  “They’re lovely,” she said. “Why are they called that?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. When she looked at him curiously, he continued. “No one really knows. Some people think they were named after the Duke of Culloden because of his victory over the Scottish, but the name appears earlier than that. It could be named after any William.”

  “They smell like clove,” she said, sniffing at the bundles.

  “Taste like it, too.”

  She blinked. “You’ve eaten them?”

  “Just one,” he said, a mite defensively. “Another gardener told me they were edible.”

  “Is it true?” she asked, curious in spite of herself.

  He carefully plucked one of the red petals, careful to leave the white at the center. “That part is bitter,” he explained as he handed it to her.

  Her nose wrinkled. “Are you certain about this?” Eating a flower seemed unnatural to her. They were people, for heaven’s sake, not deer.

  Adam stared at her, fighting a smile.

  “What?”

  “Has luxury made you finicky? The Julia I knew would have been the first to take a bite.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What a wonderful endorsement,” she said sarcastically. “The first to eat strange things.”

  He laughed.

  She grinned in response. She couldn’t help it. Something about that laugh, so deep and rich and warm, pulled at a sheltered place inside her.

  “Very well,” she said. She popped the velvety petal in her mouth and chewed slowly, closing her eyes. He was right. It had a subtle spicy, clove flavor.

  “Well?” he asked like a cook waiting for an opinion on a special cake.

  “Not too dreadful,” she answered, though she probably wouldn’t go around eating them. She laughed as an image surfaced of Adam popping blossoms into his mouth as he worked. “Does Lord Riverton know you’re out here nibbling on his prized flowers when you’re supposed to be tending them?”

  “Once,” Adam reiterated testily. “I ate one petal, once.”

  “Of course,” she said soothingly, as though she didn’t believe him.

  He grinned. “Quiet now. I’m working.”

  But he answered good-naturedly when she pointed out more flowers and asked more questions. She was surprised by how much he knew about each plant—he could tell her when they bloomed and for how long, what kind of light and moisture they thrived in, if certain animals liked to eat them, if they were poisonous or edible, if they had medicinal qualities—things she’d never even thought about. He was like a walking primer on the subject.

  She had to remind herself he’d been a gardener for years now. Obviously, he would have picked up all this information. He was good at his job. One of the best.

  And that was not pride swelling, thick and warm, in her chest. It was not. There was nothing to be prideful about. The man worked with his hands. A common laborer. He worked in the dirt.

  But thinking those disparaging things about Adam felt like a betrayal. They made her feel as though she was the unworthy one.

  Because a half-Irish boy who’d lived in the East End wasn’t expected to succeed at anything. And yet, he’d accomplished so much in the time they’d been apart.

  “How did you get here?” she asked. He glanced at her, with his eyebrows slightly raised, and she very nearly blushed. How did you get here, spoken with a trace of awe, as if the man was some kind of angel fallen to earth. There was nothing ethereal about Adam Radcliff. He was far more connected to the land than to heaven—elemental, primitive…virile.

  No, she thought firmly, forget about that last one.

  “I mean,” she said, “how did you become head gardener here at Blakewood Hall?”

  “It was mostly luck,” he said. He turned back to his work. “My mother’s cousin was a maid in London. The family she worked for had come into an unexpected inheritance so they were hiring a lot of servants at once for an estate in the country. My name was put forth as a stable hand. I think I only got the position because my cousin was such a hard worker. I certainly didn’t know a thing about horses or stables.” He laughed. “I suppose I didn’t need to, all I really did was muck out dirty straw.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I was more interested in what the gardeners were doing. I started asking them questions about their work. A lot of questions. Probably made a nuisance of myself, and the head gardener took notice.”

  Julia’s eyes widened. “Did he reprimand you?”

  Adam shook his head. “He gave me some seeds and told me to plant them by the stables because the place was such an eyesore. He would come over and give me advice as the flowers grew. He became…” Adam shrugged. “A mentor. A friend. He liked me, I think. He was Scottish—it’s a bit of a trend to have a Scottish head gardener—and I think he liked having someone to talk to who wasn’t so…”

  She arched a brow. “English?”

  “English,” Adam agreed with a smile.

  “You’re half-English,” she pointed out.

  “But only half,” he replied, as though being only half English was a great satisfaction to him.

  “Hmmph.” she uttered. “What happened after that?”

  “The next time there was an opening for a lower gardener, he took a chance and hired me.”

  She cocked her head. “I suspect you’re being modest.”

  “Why?”

  “He must have seen how dedicated you were.”

  “I did my best,” Adam acknowledged. “I worked my way up. When he died, I became head gardener of that estate, and a few years later, I was chosen for the position here.”

  She looked at him carefully. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “It sounds like he was important to you.” She hadn’t missed the wistful note in his voice when he’d spoken of the man.

  Adam lowered his head as he worked, and his face was hidden from view. “He was. He was more of a father to me than my own father ever was.” He lifted a shoulder. “I wouldn’t have gotten here without him.”

  Adam had never spoken much of his father to Julia. When she’d asked once, he’d told her his father had been a drifter, an Englishman, who’d settled down in Ireland just long enough to marry Adam’s mother and produce four children before his restlessness had caught up to him again. Adam’s mother had given up everything for the man, her religion, her parents, and in return, he’d left her with almost nothing.

  Julia wished she’d had the opportunity to meet this gardener who’d taken the place of Adam’s absent father. It felt wrong that she and Adam had been so close once, and there was a man he’d respected, maybe even loved, whom she would never know.

  But that was your choice, she reminded herself roughly, mercilessly. When she’d left, she’d snipped the thread that had once connected them.

  Their lives were separate now. They had been for fifteen years. After this strange interlude, they would be again.

  And it was the best thing for both of them.

  Truly.

  They moved down the flowerbeds, falling back into silence, until Julia spoke. “Are Harry and David well?” Surely asking questions about Adam’s family was safer than asking questions about him.

  He nodded. “They’re still in London, working as porters. It’s a steady enough income.”

  “And Molly?”

  “She married a shopkeeper and they have five children now.”

  Five children! The little girl who’d followed Julia around and asked if she could braid her hair? It made her feel entirely too old. “Well…” she said after a moment. “That must mean they like each other, at least.”

  “They love each other,” he said. “Molly is happy, even though her household is in chaos most of the day.”

  “I’m glad,” Julia said. “She was a sweet girl.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  He grinne
d suddenly, and the brilliant warmth of it caught Julia so off guard that her heart faltered. She coughed, hoping it would start again soon and she wouldn’t die by the flowerbeds with mud all over her hands.

  “I wouldn’t call her sweet anymore. She’s a bossy thing. It probably comes from giving orders to all those children.”

  Julia smiled. “What are their names?”

  “Thomas, Christopher, Sarah, Jane, and Hannah.”

  “Two boys and three girls? That does sound chaotic.”

  “And they’re all under the age of seven.”

  “Goodness,” she exclaimed. “It must be a madhouse!”

  He sent her a swift glare, but she saw his lips twitch. “This is my family we’re speaking of.”

  She ignored him, smiling a little to herself as she attacked more weeds. “Do you see them very often?”

  “Every few months I go for a visit.”

  “I’ll bet you’re good with children,” she mused.

  His brow shot up. “Why?”

  “You were always good with your sister. When your brothers were knocking her down and stealing her doll, which I assume isn’t unusual of brothers, you were always there to help her.”

  “I was the oldest,” he said. “Someone had to protect her. And you were good with her, too.”

  Julia paused in her work, surprised. “Was I?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Not many older girls would have been as patient with her as you were.”

  “All I did was sit still while she braided my hair.”

  “You mean while she hopelessly mangled your hair,” he said, grinning. “I think that takes a certain level of kindness.”

  “Perhaps,” Julia said noncommittally. Though his words warmed her, they also worried her. Molly had been ten years old when they’d lived in the same tenement housing. It was easy to be kind to a ten-year-old—she hadn’t needed to hold Molly and worry about her weak neck!

  And what about nursing?

  What if she didn’t produce milk? What if the baby didn’t want to drink it? Would she have to hire a wet nurse? She knew most upper-class women hired one, but she didn’t like the idea. Would the baby become attached to the other woman instead of her own mother?

  “Julia?” Adam asked carefully.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “What is it? You looked—”

  “How did I look?” she asked, her voice too shrill.

  “You looked frightened,” he said gently.

  Damn his gentleness! She didn’t need it. She didn’t want it. She pushed to her feet and stared down at him angrily. “Do you know what your problem is, Adam Radcliff?”

  His dark brown eyes had turned to melted chocolate in the sunlight, but she tried not to dwell on that too closely. “I didn’t realize I had a problem,” he said, sounding baffled.

  “Oh, you do,” she assured him.

  “Fine. What is it?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t know what you want.”

  “I don’t?” he asked. His forehead furrowed so much it was split in half horizontally by one deep wrinkle.

  “You can’t have it both ways,” she declared. “You cannot watch me like I’m the hated whore of Babylon one minute and then become protective of me the next. I am not two different women. I can’t be a whore and an innocent fourteen year old.”

  He stared down at his dirty hands for a moment, but he didn’t speak, so she charged forward into the quiet.

  “I’m only Julia,” she said. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m ashamed of the things I’ve done, or that I was forced into them. I wasn’t, and I’m not ashamed. I’ve had a decent life—a good life, even. I may not be innocent, but nor do I think I’m entirely contemptible. I’ve had quite enough of your barbed remarks.” She threw up her hands. “And now you’re looking at me like I’m some small, vulnerable thing? Well, I’m not. And you”—she jabbed her finger violently in his general direction—“are making me dizzy!”

  “Aye,” he finally said, quietly.

  “Aye,” she mimicked sarcastically. Had he picked that word up from his Scottish mentor? She couldn’t recall him saying it before. “What does that mean? Is that an answer?”

  “It means you’re right,” he said, sounding so calm in contrast to her that she felt silly for getting upset. “A truce?”

  “What sort of truce?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll try to stop forcing on you who I think you should be. Or who men like Mr. Smith think you are. I’ll just try to see…” He paused. “I will just try to see you.”

  But that didn’t calm her nerves at all. See her? She pressed her palm against her fluttering heart, without even realizing she’d done it. When his gaze traced the movement, she let her hand fall. What would he see if he truly looked at her? Someone he liked, or someone he hated? Or worse—someone he couldn’t care less about, one way or another?

  No man knew who she truly was. No man knew her hopes and her dreams and her fears. She’d spent her life trying to win their affection, or, at the very least, their lust. It didn’t leave much room for honesty when one was always trying to be one’s most charming, most seductive self.

  “This conversation is pointless,” she said. “Riverton will return soon, and I don’t think he’ll be very pleased about me conversing with his head gardener.”

  “He’s not here now,” Adam said.

  “You are suggesting I go behind his back?”

  “As long as you’re here and you insist on walking the grounds every damned day, we’re going to encounter one another. I’d rather not pretend that we were never friends.”

  She sighed. “It does seem silly to go out of our way to avoid each other,” she said cautiously.

  And the idea of not seeing him anymore caused a funny little twitch in the area of her heart. Besides, she enjoyed talking to him when he wasn’t making veiled insults about her lifestyle. But that admission was going to stay buried so deep no one would ever draw it out of her.

  “A truce, then,” she finally agreed.

  She only hoped, as she walked toward the hall and carefully refrained from glancing back at him, that she wouldn’t come to regret it.

  Chapter Five

  The first thing Adam heard as he approached his cottage was a loud squeal that ended on a whine. It sounded sort of like a pig, but he had no idea how a pig could have gotten into the small cottage on the Riverton grounds that each consecutive head gardener had dwelled in.

  He tentatively pushed open the heavy door, and almost shut it again at the excited cries that met him.

  “Uncle Adam!” That was Sarah, bouncing on her heels with ill-contained excitement.

  “Uncle Adam!” That was Hannah, holding her rag doll—just like the ones her mother used to play with—in a grip so tight it looked like its head might pop clean off.

  The smallest, Jane, who was in her mother’s arms, just gurgled. His sister looked up from the chair by the fireplace and smiled as though she were the mistress of the house greeting him with angelic benevolence.

  His home had been invaded.

  He shut the door behind him and leaned down to kiss Sarah and Hannah. When he straightened, he stared at his sister. “Are you well?”

  “Perfectly,” she said.

  Although Adam still had a trace of an Irish accent, his sister’s had faded completely through the years. She sounded like any other London shopkeeper’s wife, though her raven black hair still set her apart. Of all the children, Molly was the only one who’d inherited their father’s green eyes.

  “I just thought it’s been too long since I’ve seen you,” Molly said. “And the girls wanted to come and visit their uncle, too.”

  “You left Francis alone?”

  “Oh. He’s not alone,” she said, waving her hand like it was no matter. “He has the boys to keep him company. They all have two hands and some sort of brain in their head. I should think they can manage by themselves for a few days.�
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  “A few days,” Adam repeated blankly.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He looked around the small sitting room. Aside from the chair Molly had taken—a simple Windsor armchair, just wood and no upholstery—the room contained a worn green settee, and no other furniture. They wouldn’t even be able to all sit down at the same time. “Have you noticed how small this cottage is?”

  “There are two bedchambers, are there not? We can all fit nicely into the spare one, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe if you sleep on top of each other. The bed is very narrow.”

  “Then someone can sleep out here. It shall all work out.” She flashed him her most winning smile.

  He folded his arms across his chest and stared her down. His sister was being entirely too pleasant. “Why are you here?”

  “I told you. I wanted to visit.”

  “I visit you in Town. You never visit me here.”

  “I thought it was time to change that.”

  “Tell me,” he demanded softly.

  To her credit, she met his hard stare for several seconds before her long eyelashes lowered. “The newspapers say Julia Forsythe has left London. She was spotted in a village not far from here.”

  His heart beat unsteadily. He’d suspected from the beginning that this was all Julia’s fault. She inspired chaos wherever she went. She didn’t even have to do anything, for God’s sake, other than simply appear and wait for about two seconds to be noticed.

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” he said, far more calmly than he felt.

  “Don’t you see?” Molly exclaimed. “Lord Riverton is her latest lover. She must be here—at Blakewood Hall!”

  “I don’t know that one fact necessarily leads to the other.”

  “Well, have you seen her? I don’t think she’d be easy to miss.”

  Far from it. The maddening woman was like a beacon, always drawing his gaze to her.

  But if he told Molly the truth, she would stay here and insist on meeting Julia and spending time with her. The children would probably run Julia ragged. Then she wouldn’t be up at dawn any longer to talk to him before the house fully woke.

  Even though Julia had only been at Blakewood Hall a fortnight, they’d developed a pattern to their mornings. She rose early and walked the grounds, and eventually she’d come across him in whatever part of the estate he was weeding. Without asking, she would kneel down next to him, softly, gracefully, then pick up a trowel and start working.