Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  And so, how should he introduce himself? Give his name as Stephen Archibald Frederick Charles God­frey Manwaring? Would she recognize that moniker as belonging to the Duke of Carlisle?

  Perhaps not. Perhaps if he just shortened it, did not give her all the important bits, he might get away with it. "I am Stephen Archibald," he blurted, without further thought.

  "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Archibald," she said.

  By God, it had worked. She believed it. Miss Forsythe truly believed him to be Mr. Archibald, the gardener at Chissingworth. He bit back a grin. It was almost too perfect.

  "And I must tell you how much I have enjoyed your gardens," she continued. "I have only just ar­rived, though, and look forward to seeing the rest of the grounds during my stay."

  "Shall we meet again tomorrow morning, then?" he asked. "I could show you the botanical gardens where the more exotic plants are kept." It was the least fre­quented area of the estate and they were unlikely to run into any other wandering guests.

  "That would be lovely."

  "The same time tomorrow morning, then? But some other place, please. I would not have you re­minded of our ignominious introduction here. Through those hedges and a bit beyond is the Chinese garden. There is a small pavilion in the center. I could meet you there."

  "Assuming the duchess or my aunt have no other plans for me," she said, "I shall be there. Thank you so much, Mr. Archibald. I look forward to it."

  With a wave and a smile, she was off, disappearing through the entrance to the rose garden. Stephen watched her go and gave a wistful sigh.

  And wondered what on earth he had got himself into.

  Chapter 5

  The rest of Catherine's day was filled with organized activity, and she did not have time to dwell on her re­markable encounter with Chissingworth's gardener. She had been much more interested in the tour of the house led by the duchess. Those guests who had never before visited the famous estate were led from room to room while the duchess provided animated commen­tary, liberally spiced with family anecdotes. The public rooms and state bedrooms were quite grand, befitting a ducal residence. The family rooms, however—the drawing room, various salons, the library, the breakfast room—were much more informal and comfortable.

  Catherine had sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the entire house was not as imposing as the public areas. She did not think she would so much enjoy being a guest if she had been given a state bedroom—-imagine sleeping in the Queen's bed!—or spending each day in the formal reception rooms. It was all quite daunting.

  Later that afternoon, Molly helped her to dress for dinner, then hurried off to do the same for Susannah. While Catherine put the finishing touches on her coif­fure, she was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

  "Come in."

  A young maid entered and bobbed a curtsy. "Ex­cuse me, miss," she said as she walked toward the dressing table where Catherine sat. She held out a beautiful posy of violets, gathered together in a tidy mound of blossoms, neatly enclosed in sprigs of greenery, and tied with a pale lavender ribbon. "Compliments of the Chissingworth gardens, miss."

  Catherine took the posy and held it to her nose. "Thank you," she said as the little maid bobbed again and left the room. Violets! They were not viola odorata, of course. But they were beautiful. She wondered if every female guest was given such a favor and se­cretly hoped they were not. She suspected they were especially for her, from Mr. Archibald. Perhaps his way of apologizing for knocking her to the ground.

  She smiled as she recalled their encounter of that morning. Though somewhat clumsy, he seemed a very nice man. It would be a special treat to have someone so knowledgeable show her about the estate gardens. The errant thought that he was also youngish and rather good-looking was immediately dismissed as irrelevant. She had more important fish to bait and had no business having such thoughts about a common laborer, no matter how green his eyes.

  It occurred to her, though, that he could not have been a common laborer after all. Though his appear­ance was certainly not that of a gentleman—she re­membered his dirt-smeared smock and battered straw hat—his speech and manners were refined. She would not have expected a gardener, even the head gardener of an estate as large as Chissingworth, to seem such a gentleman in his manners. He was obvi­ously well educated.

  Perhaps he was something more than a gardener. Perhaps he was one of those landscape designers, like Capability Brown or Humphrey Repton. She had once, years ago, had the opportunity to peruse Mr. Repton's book, Sketches and Hints on Landscape Garden­ing. Mr. Repton was obviously a well-educated man. Perhaps Mr. Archibald held a similar occupation; per­haps he was more of a designer than a mere gardener. Such a place as Chissingworth would need the ser­vices of a designer to bring all the grounds into har­mony. She must remember to ask him tomorrow.

  Catherine buried her nose once again in the posy, breathing in the soft, elusive fragrance of the violets. What a kind man he was to send her such an offering. He must have remembered her remark that violets were her favorite flowers. As she held out the posy and ran her fingers over the satin ribbon, she realized the flowers were the perfect complement to the pale blue silk of her gown. Of Miss Fairchild's gown, she should say.

  As she pinned the posy to her bodice, she admired Susannah's handiwork in transforming the dress by the simple addition of embroidered ribbon trim and a new flounce. Miss Fairchild would never recognize it as having once belonged to her.

  The violets were the perfect accessory, and so there was no need to avail herself of any of the more grand pieces of jewelry procured by MacDougal. She was still a bit nervous about wearing some of the finer pieces, in any case. But there was a simple, delicate amethyst pendant on a gold chain which would be just the thing. Simple and inconspicuous, yet of a quality that would not embarrass her among such lofty guests as were gathered at Chissingworth.

  When Susannah and Aunt Hetty came to collect her for dinner, Catherine was confident that she did not appear the least bit shabby genteel. And, of course, Susannah looked gorgeous. But then, her beautiful sister would look stunning in sackcloth.

  As they descended the stairs three abreast, Cather­ine was asked about her violets. She gave them a spir­ited account of her encounter with Mr. Archibald, so that all three ladies were delightfully flushed with laughter as they approached the drawing room below.

  "How extraordinary," Susannah said. "I did not know there were men who actually made a living de­signing gardens."

  Aunt Hetty chuckled. "Did you think gardens just sprang up naturally? Arranged in perfect patterns by nature, simply to be pleasing to our eyes?"

  "I suppose I never really thought of it," Susannah replied. "And your Mr. Archibald arranged the gar­dens here at Chissingworth?"

  "Not just the formal gardens but the grounds as well, I should think," Catherine replied.

  "What do you mean, the grounds?" Susannah's brow beetled in confusion.

  "The trees, the lakes and ponds, the parklands. The whole estate."

  Susannah stopped in her tracks and glared at her sister. "But. . . but you cannot design trees and lakes. They are just there where God put them."

  Aunt Hetty chuckled and patted Susannah's arm. "Not necessarily, my dear," she said. "In most private estates nature has been rearranged to please the eye. The trees placed just so, lakes dug or filled in, as re­quired to achieve the proper effect. Landscapes are often designed in much the way you would design a dress, to please the eye, to accommodate the latest fashion, that sort of thing."

  Susannah stared openmouthed at Aunt Hetty, as if she had just uttered some arcane blasphemy. She turned her huge blue eyes upon Catherine, as if seek­ing confirmation. "Is that true, Cath? All those beauti­ful trees and creeks and such we saw as we came through Chissingworth were all designed to be that way? By your Mr. Archibald?"

  "Or someone before him, I should think. The plant­ings are not recent." Catherine tugged her sister along once again toward the
drawing room.

  "My goodness!" Susannah exclaimed. "I had no idea. I assumed everything was just naturally beauti­ful. Who would have imagined that it was the hand of Man and not the hand of God that created such vis­tas? My goodness! He must be very clever, this Mr. Archibald, to know how to do all that. I should like to meet him, I think."

  "Do not concern yourself with Mr. Archibald, Sukey," Catherine said. "There are more important gentlemen for you to impress this evening." She stopped and turned toward her sister and lowered her voice so that the footmen hovering beside the drawing room doors would not overhear. "We must make certain, Aunt Hetty, that the duchess introduces us to Lord Warburton. His father is an earl and he has an income and estate of his own through his grand­mother."

  Her aunt quirked a brow at such intelligence. "Mac­Dougal," Catherine whispered, and her aunt nodded in understanding. Turning back toward her sister, she knotted her brows in earnest. "Sukey," she began, "you must remember to be very pleasant to Lord Warburton. He is eminently eligible. You may also allow Mr. Percival Brooke—you recall meeting him this afternoon?—to engage your attention. He has no title, but is the grandson of an earl and extremely rich. You must be cautiously civil to all other unmarried gentlemen until we know their circumstances." She glared at her sister, dismayed at the all-too-familiar look of wide-eyed apprehension. Too many such in­structions would only confuse Susannah. The result­ing nervousness coupled with her nearsightedness could result in disaster.

  "Do not worry, Sukey," Catherine said, patting her sister's hand. "You look beautiful and everyone will love you. Just try to remember about Lord Warburton and Mr. Brooke."

  Susannah gave a tremulous smile. T will try to re­member, Cath. Really, I will. But there are so many people here. I will just have to make a special effort to remember those two gentlemen. Mr. Warburton and Lord Brooke."

  Catherine sighed in exasperation. "Lord Warburton and Mr. Brooke," she said, trying to ignore her aunt's stifled chuckling.

  "Oh, yes," Susannah said. "Of course. I have it now."

  It was going to be a very long month, Catherine thought as the drawing room doors were opened for them by the footmen.

  Stephen arrived twenty minutes early for their ap­pointment. He wondered if Miss Forsythe would come at all. She had not been certain that she would be free, after all. Stephen decided it did not matter if she did not come. He should not expect it. In fact, he should rather be hoping she would not come, for it was sheer lunacy to arrange a meeting with one of his mother's guests. What on earth had possessed him?

  He puttered around the Chinese garden as if he had no other occupation in mind. He plucked away dead columbine blossoms, reminding himself that they must be cut back within the month, and trimmed a few wayward branches of honeysuckle. The bamboo plants near the small, slope-roofed pavilion had be­come overgrown. He must have them thinned.

  "Good morning!"

  Stephen looked up at the sound of her voice. Miss Forsythe stood on the red-painted bridge—a bit of folly he now thought of as embarrassingly trite—and waved at him. She lifted her skirts slightly as she de­scended the bridge, providing him a fleeting glimpse of very trim ankles. She flashed a brilliant smile as she walked toward him.

  "What a glorious day!" she said. "And what a lovely garden, Mr. Archibald." Her gray eyes darted about, those intriguingly dark brows bobbing up and down with interest. "I have never before seen a Chinese gar­den. Good heavens. Is that real bamboo?" She strolled toward the pavilion and fingered the spiky leaves, then jumped back and laughed when she discovered they could be very sharp indeed. "I did not know bamboo grew in this country. I remember as a child my mother had a few small pieces of faux bamboo furniture that always intrigued me. I never thought to see the real thing. How wonderful."

  Stephen watched her in fascination. She was ab­solutely delightful, her heart-shaped face animated with eager curiosity. And she looked very pretty this morning in a green muslin gown and matching bon­net. He found himself bursting with unexpected pride as he saw his garden through her eyes.

  "Would you like to sketch it?" he asked.

  Miss Forsythe looked around the garden and smiled. "The morning light is just about perfect. It is very tempting."

  "Oh, but I see you did not bring your drawing ma­terials," he said as he realized he would have ex­pected her to be carrying a large sketchbook and a case of pencils, pastels, and charcoal. Perhaps she had decided to leave that for another day.

  Miss Forsythe's hand reached into a pocket, and he could have sworn a brief shadow passed over her eyes. But perhaps it was only a trick of the light. "I have all I need right here," she said, her smile some­how less brilliant. "But I think I will wait. I am only going to allow myself one drawing today, and so I will wait for something really special. I would much prefer to spend the time touring the grounds with you. I have been so excited to know that I am the only one to have such an expert guide."

  "Ah," he said. "Then you have not told the other guests of our appointment?"

  "Of course not!" she said, and he expelled a breath he had not know he had been holding. Thank God she had not announced his presence to the entire company. "I am selfishly keeping you all to myself," she added with a grin.

  "Shall we walk, then?" he asked.

  "Lead on, Mr. Archibald."

  And so she still had not discovered his true iden­tity. He did not know what perverse pleasure he thought he would enjoy by misleading this innocent young girl. But some imp of mischief urged him on in his deception. She must surely learn who he was eventually. What would she think of him, then?

  He led her through the Chinese garden and toward one of the botanical gardens where he kept most of the North American plantings. As they approached the clearing dominated by American plane trees and Canadian red maples, Stephen noticed that two of his workmen were attending to a new planting of black locust. Oh, Lord. He must get them out of there before they gave him away.

  "Excuse me, Miss Forsythe," he said as he dashed ahead to speak to the men.

  "I have a guest to view the botanical gardens," he told the workmen, who had stood and doffed their caps when they first saw him. "Please leave us," he said in a lowered voice. "You can attend to this when we are through. I should think an hour would be suf­ficient." He sensed Miss Forsythe had approached from behind, and his stomach seized up in knots.

  "Yes, Your Gr—"

  "That will be all, Tomkins," Stephen interrupted. 'Thank you."

  "Yes, Your Gr—"

  "Thank you. You may go now." The two men stared at him wide-eyed, but nodded, gathered their tools, and left. Stephen almost collapsed with relief. He took a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. He then turned to face Miss Forsythe, indicat­ing with a sweep of his arm that she should enter the garden.

  "I had wondered," she said as her eyes followed the retreating workmen, "if you were not the head gardener. You spoke yesterday with such possessiveness about the grounds that I thought you must be. But then I considered that you might instead be some sort of landscape designer. Like Mr. Humphrey Rep­ton."

  "Repton! Please, Miss Forsythe, do not equate me with that arrogant peacock. His work is all artifice and no science." The girl looked distressed at his out­burst, and so he smiled down at her to take the sting out of his words. "I beg your pardon, ma'am, for my harsh reaction, but I am afraid you hit upon a sensi­tive subject with me. Repton actually came here once—uninvited, I might add—to view the grounds. He had the audacity to advise me on the disposition of trees." Stephen chuckled as he recalled his one and only meeting with Repton, who had come hoping to commission a Red Book for Chissingworth, and had expected one and all to kowtow in admiration.

  "I gather, then, that you are not an advocate of the picturesque?" Miss Forsythe said.

  "I confess I have not the least understanding of it. It seems so much silliness to me. But then, I suppose I am nothing more than an ordinary gardener—a botanist, actually—and
will never see the sense in all those artificial vistas. Do you know," he continued, chuckling, "that Repton actually suggested I have a few woodsman's cottages built at the far edge of the estate. No woodsmen would live there, mind you. They would be purely decorative structures. He went on to recommend that the cottages, though unoccu­pied, should have fires lit to allow 'curls of smoke to enliven the landscape.'" Stephen laughed at the recol­lection and was pleased to hear Miss Forsythe's laughter joining his.

  "I suspect," she said, "he only meant to bring to life Wordsworth's words. 'Wreaths of smoke, sent up in silence from among the tress.'"

  "Precisely," Stephen said. "Can you imagine any­thing more ridiculous? But, forgive me, perhaps you are a proponent of the picturesque yourself. I should not speak so disparagingly of what so many others admire. But you asked if I was a landscape designer. You may label me such, if you like, for I do most of the planning here."

  "I thought as much," Miss Forsythe said.

  "But I much prefer the humbler title of gardener, if the truth be known."

  "Ah, but there is nothing at all humble about Chiss-ingworth's gardens, is there? It is a most extraordi­nary and magical place, due in great part, I should imagine, to your efforts, Mr. Archibald."

  She favored him with a smile warm enough to sprout daisies in winter. Stephen's heart tumbled over in his chest at her obvious admiration. He felt unchar­acteristically puffed up with his own consequence. And she did not even know he was the duke!

  He walked her through the gardens with renewed pride and pointed out several of the more unusual shrubs and trees. Miss Forsythe's genuine interest and intelligent questioning brought an additional spark to the already brilliant morning. Stephen could not re­member when he had so enjoyed himself.

  She asked to pause for a moment while they ad­mired one of the magnolia trees. She was thoroughly captivated and wished to sketch it.

  "You ought to see it in the spring when it is in bloom," he told her.