Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  As the carriage pulled up before the steps of the entry, huge oaken doors swung wide, and a coterie of liveried footmen spilled out. Some went to the horses' heads, some scurried up to the top of the coach to begin unloading the baggage, while two others handed the ladies down. A tall, thin woman in black appeared and began directing the disposition of the baggage. Another smaller woman dressed in a fash­ionable pink muslin gown floated down the steps to greet them.

  "How glad I am to see you, Hetty," she said. "Wel­come to Chissingworth." She reached out and em­braced Aunt Hetty, and Catherine decided this must be the duchess. She looked much younger than Aunt Hetty, though they must be of an age since they were at school together. The duchess, however, had never faced the sort of financial hardships that had plagued their aunt. Such trials exact a physical toll as well as an emotional one. Nonetheless, the duchess was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, even at her age. Her rich chestnut hair showed only a very few strands of silver. Her eyes were a striking shade of green, and her skin was still clear and smooth with only faint creases around her eyes and mouth.

  Catherine glanced over at Susannah, who had re­moved her spectacles and was looking as wide-eyed and beguiling as ever, and wondered if her sister's beauty would endure with age. There was certainly a better chance of it if she was settled comfortably in an advantageous marriage. Catherine was more deter­mined than ever at that moment to ensure that Susan­nah stayed beautiful and happy for years to come. She would not leave Chissingworth without contract­ing a good match for her sister. She would not.

  Aunt Hetty presented Catherine and Susannah to the duchess, and each of them curtsied.

  "My, but aren't you both pretty?" the duchess said, smiling brightly at each of the sisters. "The gentlemen will be especially pleased to have two such beauties among the guests. What a stroke of luck to run into your aunt so that I might invite you to join us. The other guests will think me so clever for having found you!"

  The duchess ushered them into the entry hall, which was at least twice the size of their entire house in Flood Street, and Catherine heard a soft gasp from Susannah.

  "It is quite daunting, is it not?" The duchess chuck­led merrily as she glanced around the hall. "I had the same reaction, Miss Forsythe, the first time I saw it. It is called the Hall of the Caesars, after all the marble busts in the niches along the walls. And the paintings on the ceiling and along the upper walls depict scenes from the life of Julius Caesar. But do not be discour­aged, my dears. Not all of Chissingworth is quite so grand. We live quite comfortably, as you shall see." She smiled and patted Susannah's hand.

  "Now," she continued, motioning toward the thin woman in black, "Mrs. Beddowes will show you to your rooms. I would be pleased to have you all join me for tea in my sitting room after you've had time to refresh yourselves. I should like to become better ac­quainted with your beautiful nieces, Hetty, before they become monopolized by the other guests."

  Catherine was amazed and delighted to find that she and Susannah and Aunt Hetty each had a private bedchamber. Good heavens, the place must be huge if every guest was so accommodated. Catherine's room was spacious and beautifully decorated, with green silk bed curtains and Chinese painted wallpaper. The friendly reception by the duchess and the lovely bed­chamber served to bolster Catherine's confidence. Her plans could not be off to a better start.

  And it only got better and better. They spent an hour in the duchess's private sitting room while she and Aunt Hetty recounted tales of their school days. Catherine liked the duchess immensely. She was friendly and open and not at all starchy, as one might expect of a duchess. And it certainly did her no little credit that she frequently mentioned certain gentle­men guests—unmarried gentlemen guests—whose acquaintance she was sure the Forsythe sisters would be pleased to make.

  Not all the guests had yet arrived, but by the time Catherine and her family were seated for dinner that evening, they had been introduced to no less than six unmarried gentlemen. Six perfectly eligible, plump-in-the-pocket, titled unmarried gentlemen.

  It was going to be a grand month in the country.

  Chapter 4

  The following morning Catherine slipped away on her own to explore the famous Chissingworth gar­dens. Before leaving the house, she had given Susan­nah a stern lecture against allowing any unknown gentleman to become too friendly before they had dis­covered his circumstances. She had left her in hope­fully safe conversation with Aunt Hetty and the duchess. Between her aunt and MacDougal, Cather­ine had no doubt she would soon be in possession of the facts of the financial situation for each single gen­tleman in attendance. Her spirits were high as she left the house, confident that the selection of wealthy gen­tlemen at Chissingworth would afford at least one sis­ter a proper husband.

  But just now, as she strolled from the east wing along smooth gravel paths and sheltered shrubbery walks, Catherine found another reason to be grateful for the duchess's invitation. Oh, but it was grand to be back in the country again! To smell clean air, fragrant of summer blossoms and wood smoke. To enjoy clear, blue skies unblemished with coal soot, and sweeping expanses of brilliant green parklands. To have so much space to oneself.

  Catherine had not realized how much she missed the country. She had not been out of Chelsea since going there to live with Aunt Hetty after her father's death. Dorland, the small Forsythe estate in Wiltshire, had been lost along with everything else when their father died. All her young life she had longed for a Season in Town, but Sir Benjamin Forsythe's precari­ous finances had never allowed it. More than two years of scraping to make ends meet in Chelsea, how­ever, had shattered any romantical notions she might have once held regarding the glories of London. Oh, there were glories to be seen in Town, to be sure; but not for the likes of impoverished single ladies in Flood Street.

  Perhaps if—when!—she and Susannah contrived to find rich husbands at Chissingworth, she would not mind so much going back to London. In style, this time.

  At the moment, she was simply happy to be back in the country. Chissingworth was famous for its gar­dens and Catherine was anxious to see as much of them as possible. She loved flowers of all kinds, espe­cially wildflowers. At Dorland, one of her greatest pleasures had been painting detailed watercolors of her favorite blossoms. She still kept a portfolio of her paintings of which she was really quite proud.

  It had been a long time since she had been able to afford paints and brushes and decent parchment. But she had brought along to Chissingworth a few rolls of foolscap and two or three pencils, one of which was tucked in her pocket at the moment. She harbored se­cret hopes of finding new and unusual specimens to sketch while in residence at the famous estate.

  With this in mind, she wandered through the sur­prisingly informal arrangement of gardens. In the dressed grounds nearest the house, high, clipped shrubbery hedges of sweetbrier, box, and hawthorn surrounded each garden. Moving through the en­closed hedges was akin to walking through the vari­ous rooms of a house, each room different from the last. One was awash in the bright colors of summer, the gravel paths bordered with stocks, pinks, double rocket, sweet Williams, and asters. The morning sun fell upon spires of delphinium sparkling with dew. Her artist's eye was drawn to the glitter of moisture on the indigo and royal peaks, and she paused to seat herself on a nearby stone bench. She pulled a pencil and scrap of paper from her pocket and roughly sketched the familiar blossoms.

  After a few moments, Catherine moved on to the next garden, which was devoted to roses of all shades. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the heady fragrance of so many blos­soms. She did not, though, stop to draw any of the roses. She instead wandered through a break in the hedge to another garden, this one laid out in a large circle. The plantings graduated in height, from tiny candytuft and sweet mignonette, to lupins, poppies, mallows, and sweet peas. Towering above them all in the center were enormous sunflowers. Catherine was much taken with the harmonious arrangement of such hum
ble varieties as she slowly skirted the circu­lar path, looking for a specimen that she might want to capture on paper.

  "Oh! How wonderful!" she exclaimed as she came upon a patch of sweet violets flourishing in the shade of the larger plants. Kneeling down, she carefully ca­ressed the dark purple blossoms of what could only be a pure viola odorata. She had never actually seen one before, most common violets being hybrids of other violaceae. But she recognized the pure ancestor of the ordinary sweet violet from pictures in one of the illustrated flower books she had once owned. I must sketch this one, she thought. Perhaps if she made a detailed-enough sketch, she would one day be able to paint it in color, from memory. Leaning in closer, she began to carefully examine the soft, fragile petals, holding the blossom ever so gently between her fingers.

  And suddenly, she was knocked backward with a thud. What on earth?

  "Damnation!" muttered the man who had appar­ently come careening around the garden path directly into her. He grabbed at Catherine's shoulders in an at­tempt to balance himself.

  Instead, he knocked her flat on her back and fell di­rectly on top of her.

  Catherine gasped, her face crushed against a dirt-covered smock. "Get off me, you oaf!" she sputtered, pushing against the man's chest.

  Muttering something unintelligible, he raised him­self slightly and looked down at her. His hat had been knocked away and a curl of dark brown hair fell over his furrowed brow. Green eyes flickered with annoy­ance and his mouth was a thin line of irritation. But the most noticeable thing about the man at the mo­ment was his weight, which was crushing the breath right out of her. "Get off!" she repeated.

  Stephen gazed down into the flashing eyes of a very pretty little termagant. Bloody hell! He was in for it now, for she was no doubt one of his mother's guests. He hadn't expected anyone in the gardens this early. He had not been paying much attention to the path, his eyes surveying the center garden as he hur­ried past. He had not seen the girl as she knelt down at the edge of the gravel walk. And here he was sprawled atop her in a most improper manner.

  If it wasn't so awkward, he might be tempted to enjoy it for a moment. She really was very pretty. Dark blond curls were revealed beneath the bonnet that had been knocked askew. Her brows and eye­lashes were a much darker color, providing a striking contrast to her fair hair. Her eyes, framed by the long, dark lashes, appeared to be gray.

  She really was very pretty.

  "Get off me!" she repeated in a choked voice.

  Coming to his senses, he realized he must be practi­cally smothering her, so he quickly rolled to the side. "I beg your pardon," he said as he struggled ungrace­fully to his feet. He extended a hand to help her up. "I am terribly sorry. Are you quite all right?"

  She grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull her to a sitting position. She neither looked at him nor an­swered him, but adjusted her bonnet. "You might have looked where you were going!" she said in a petulant tone. She sat up on her knees and Stephen offered his hand again. She took it, pulled herself up­right, then immediately dropped it to shake out her skirts.

  "I am terribly sorry," he repeated, brushing himself off and searching the area for his hat. He did not know what else to say. He was reluctant to get into a conversation with the young woman, attractive though she may be. If she recognized him as the duke—which she had thankfully not yet done—there was no telling what sort of fuss she would make. He must get away as quickly as possible before the chit realized who he was and went squealing off to the other guests that she had sighted the elusive duke.

  Damn his mother and her parties, anyway. Why couldn't they leave him in peace to putter in his gar­dens?

  "I am so sorry," he said again, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he retrieved his broad-brimmed straw hat from beneath a patch of blue gen­tian. He slapped it against his thigh a few times and plopped it back upon his head. "It was my fault completely. I trust you are uninjured?"

  "I am fine," she said, still straightening her skirts and not looking at him. Stephen's stomach seized up with the notion that she had not yet got a good look at him. There was still a chance she might recognize him. "No thanks to you," she continued in that irri­tated tone. "And of course it was your fault. I was sim­ply minding my own business, admiring the—" She stopped as she looked down at her hand. "Oh, dear."

  Stephen moved closer, thinking she might have in­jured her hand and cursing himself for his own care­lessness. "What is it?" he asked. "Have you—" He paused as he saw that she was not injured, but was holding on to a crushed purple blossom.

  Good God! It was one of his violets.

  His prized, rare, pure-bred violets.

  Forgetting for a moment his own culpability, he raged at the girl. "How dare you pick my flowers without asking! Do you think these are placed here for anyone to pluck at will? Don't you know—"

  "Your flowers?" she said, her eyes widening in sur­prise.

  Good Lord. He had given himself away. What an idiot! He was in for it, now. But his poor violets.

  "Oh! You must be the gardener," she said.

  The gardener? Looking down at himself, he realized that no one would take his scruffy appearance for that of a duke. He experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. "Yes," was all he could say. They were his gardens, after all. And he did design them and work in them. So in a sense, he was the gardener.

  "Well, you still might try to watch where you are going next time," the girl said. By God, she was look­ing him straight in the eye and truly believed he was the gardener. It was too good. "I am sure you are quite busy and all," she continued, "with such a large estate to care for. But you must know that the duchess has a house full of guests who might be wandering the gardens at any time. You really must be more careful." The petulant tone had disappeared and she seemed less offended. Interesting. He would have ex­pected most young women of her station—for she must be aristocratic to have been invited by his mother—to disdain the working staff. He would have expected her to rail against his clumsiness, to threaten to report him to his employer, to exert all the superi­ority of her station. Instead, she looked wistfully down at the crushed blossom in her palm.

  "And I was not picking your flowers, if you must know," she continued. "I was simply admiring them. I must have accidentally grabbed at it when you fell over me."

  "Yes. Yes, of course," Stephen muttered. His cheeks felt warm and he knew he must be blushing as he re­called how he had been sprawled atop her. "I should not have shouted at you. It is just that. . ." He paused and looked down at the remains of the tiny purple flower. "Well, you cannot know how precious that lit­tle plant is."

  "Oh, but I can," she replied. "It is a pure viola odorata, is it not?"

  "Why, yes," he said, completely taken aback that this young girl would know such a thing. "Yes, it is. How did you know?"

  "Oh, I have never actually seen one before," she said, "not really, anyway. But I have seen many pic­tures of them. I love flowers, you see and have—had—many books on the subject. Some with lovely colored prints of various blossoms. Violets have al­ways been my favorites, the simple viola odorata most of all. When I saw this patch of them," she said, ges­turing to the clump of purple blossoms at the edge of the path, "I could not resist examining them up close. You must have cultivated them especially to bloom so long into summer, did you not? I thought to sketch one, you see. Oh, and I had also considered drawing this one, too," she added, bending to admire the fringed gentian. "Very unusual. The dark blue color­ing and the fringed edges are a combination I have never before seen. Are they a special hybrid?"

  Stephen's breath was almost knocked out of him as he listened to this extraordinary speech. Here was a very pretty young girl, with dark blond curls spilling out of her bonnet and huge gray eyes peering at him guilelessly, who knew about rare flowers and special hybrids—his favorite subjects—and wasn't fawning all over him. And she actually had no idea who he was.

  It was deliciou
s.

  It was too perfect.

  He could not keep from smiling.

  "Yes," he said at last. "How clever of you to notice. They are indeed a special hybrid. I developed the strain myself."

  "How wonderful," she exclaimed. "You must be very proud. Of everything here at Chissingworth."

  "I am indeed," he said, strangely affected by her genuine interest and admiration for the one thing in his life of which he was truly proud. "You must feel free to sketch or paint all you want while at Chissing­worth," he said. "I promise you will not be so rudely accosted again."

  She smiled at him, and he almost forgot to breathe. "Thank you," she said. "I imagine there are many other rare specimens besides viola odorata. It would be lovely to sketch them."

  "I would be pleased to show you the gardens my­self, and point out the most unusual specimens and such." He could have bitten his tongue off the mo­ment the words were spoken. What on earth had made him say such a thing? He was trying to hide from his mother's guests. He had no business encour­aging this young girl, this very pretty young girl, to fraternize with him. What if she discovered his true identity?"

  "How kind of you," she said, flashing a brilliant smile. "I would enjoy that. What better tour guide could I possibly ask for than Chissingworth's gar­dener? By the way," she said, "I am Miss Catherine Forsythe."

  Good Lord. What was he to do now? Introduce him­self as the owner of Chissingworth, not merely the gardener? How would she treat him, then? Her open, artless conversation would change to egregious fawn­ing and preening, and that inevitable predatory glint would brighten her eyes. He did not believe he could bear it.