Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  "I would love to," she said. "But even now it is lovely and quite unlike anything I have seen. Almost tropical."

  She seated herself on a nearby rustic bench and pulled out of her pocket a slightly rumpled piece of foolscap and a stubby, blunt pencil. Without hesitation, she began to draw. With such poor tools, Stephen was astonished at the resulting clarity and detail of the sketch.

  "You are very talented," he said as he watched her pencil fly across the paper. "I cannot imagine what wonders you could create with good parchment and paints."

  "How I wish I had them," she said absently, her gaze lingering on the tree for a moment before resum­ing the sketch "It has been years since I could afford them, I am afraid."

  Her offhand remark stunned him. So, Miss For­sythe was not the coddled, spoiled rich girl he had imagined. No wonder she was so unaffected. Where had his mother found her, then? Perhaps she was some other guest's poor relation who had been al­lowed to tag along.

  This train of thought was interrupted when she spoke again. "I find myself fascinated by so many for­eign plants," she said without looking up. Stephen's eyes were drawn back to her sketch, and he became almost spellbound as he watched the magnolia tree magically take shape on the rumpled foolscap, its glossy, dark leaves seeming to shine on the page. "There are many plants here I have only read about," she continued. "It is really quite a marvelous collec­tion. How did you come by all these American plants?

  "Some came by way of Kew, courtesy of Sir Joseph Banks," he said as he watched her add just the right amount of shadow so that the waxy leaves seemed to glow on the page. "The others I collected in my trav­els with John Fraser."

  She looked up with a start. "You have traveled to America?"

  Good God. He had been so transfixed by her work he had forgot his imposture for a moment and spoke to her as the duke. Where was his brain? "I, um, was allowed the trip as a part of my education as a young man. I was, um, very fortunate to have such an op­portunity."

  And so he was. If his father had been alive, he would no doubt have sent Stephen off on the typical Grand Tour once he was finished at university. In­stead, he had tramped all over North America with Fraser, collecting plant specimens. It had been some­times rough and not at all romantic, but it had been the most wonderful experience of his life. There were some advantages to being a duke, after all. He could come and go as he pleased.

  "How wonderful," Miss Forsythe said, returning her attention to the drawing. "I suppose the Duke of Carlisle arranged it for you?"

  "It was at the duke's expense, yes," Stephen said, biting back a smile. "His Grace has been very gener­ous."

  "How lucky you are," she continued.

  "Indeed," he said. Even at this very moment, he was thanking his stars that he had been able to main­tain this idiotic charade for one more day. And won­dering how much longer his luck would last.

  Chapter 6

  Catherine saw the objects the moment she opened her eyes the next morning. Piled atop the window bench were a stack of drawing pads, sheets and sheets of parchment, and a low wooden case that looked for all the world like the paintbox she had once owned as a young girl. She rubbed her eyes, thinking she must be dreaming; but when she looked again, the paintbox and papers were still there.

  She threw the covers aside and bounded, barefoot, to the window bench, tossing the curtains open to allow more light into the room. She ran her fingers delicately over a sheet of parchment, and a shiver of excitement danced down her spine. She never thought to have such good materials again.

  But where had they come from?

  Knowing that she should leave everything un­touched until she had discovered to whom they be­longed, Catherine gave in to her curiosity and opened the lid of the wooden case. She gasped with delight at what she found inside: tiny jars of paint in more pig­ments than she had ever before seen, gum arabic, two small water glasses, several small ivory palettes, and a collection of brushes of all sizes. She picked up one of the brushes ever so carefully, still uncertain if she had any right to touch them at all. This one was a very fine brush, perfect for painting the delicate veins of leaves and flowers. How her fingers itched to do just that.

  Catherine was so absorbed in examining the paint­box that she all but ignored the familiar soft knock on the door and the subsequent entry of Molly.

  "Good morning, Miss Catherine," Molly said in her normal cheerful tone. "I've brung your chocolate."

  "Catherine looked briefly toward the young maid. "Thank you," she said and turned at once back to the paintbox. But something noticed out of the corner of her eye caused her head to whip back around. "Are those violets?" she asked, eying the tiny tussy-mussy perched on the tray.

  "Yes, miss. Sweet violets, I think. Cook said I was to bring 'em to you with the chocolate. There's a note, too."

  Catherine walked over to the bedside table where Molly had placed the tray and retrieved the folded note. "Compliments of the Chissingworth gardens," it read. There was no signature. Catherine smiled as she picked up the tussy-mussy and brought it to her nose. How very thoughtful of him, she thought as she in­haled the delicate fragrance of the violets; for they could only have come from Mr. Archibald. It had be­come clear that no other female guest received such favors from the gardens. It made her feel singularly important, somehow. And strangely warm all over as she brought to mind an image of his green eyes smil­ing down at her. And the easy grin that had so sur­prised her. He had seemed so dour at first. And yet now, memory of that grin, lopsided and almost boy­ish, gave her an odd tremor of anticipation.

  Would she see him again today?

  It was strange how much she looked forward to their strolls together. He was only the gardener, after all. But he was so easy to talk to. She could be quite comfortable with him. She often found herself speak­ing openly and candidly with him about almost any subject that arose. Only yesterday she had hinted to him of her poverty without the slightest qualm about doing so. It was his position, she supposed, that in­spired such ease. Every other person at Chissing­worth was her social superior. When she was with Mr. Archibald, she did not have to worry about mak­ing an impression, about disguising her circum­stances.

  Given a choice, Catherine would rather stroll about the gardens with the knowledgeable guidance of the head gardener than the effusive chatter of Sir Bertram Fanshawe or one of the other gentlemen guests. The fact that the gardener was infinitely more attractive than any other man at Chissingworth had nothing to do with it.

  The sound of Molly opening the bedchamber door interrupted Catherine's thoughts. She did not want the girl to leave before questioning her about the paints, for she suspected Molly's uncle was somehow behind their unexpected appearance. "Just a moment, Molly. Do you happen to know what these are doing in my bedchamber?" she asked, a sweep of her arm indicating the paintbox and papers on the window bench.

  "Oh yes, miss. I brung 'em in whilst you were still sleepin'. I tried not to wake you."

  "But where did you get them?"

  "One of the chambermaids give 'em to me and says Mrs. Beddowes told her I was to give 'em to you. I hope I did right," Molly added with wide-eyed ap­prehension.

  "You are certain they were meant for me?"

  "Oh yes, miss. Mrs. Beddowes told the chamber­maid to make sure as Miss Catherine Forsythe re­ceived 'em. Clear as day, she was. Miss Catherine Forsythe, she said."

  "Well," Catherine said, smiling as she picked up one of the brushes again and touched its soft bristles with the tip of a finger. "How very kind. I suppose MacDougal must have mentioned how much I enjoy painting."

  "I'm sure I don't know, miss. I ain't. . . that is, I haven't seen Uncle Thomas all morning."

  "It does not matter," Catherine said absently, her thoughts on all the beautiful specimens in the gardens just waiting for her paintbrush. "But please thank Mrs. Beddowes for me. And I shall do the same when next I see her."

  Catherine wanted nothing else but to sit down that
very moment and begin painting. It had been so long since she had had paints that her hands almost shook with excitement. But she knew she must get dressed and join the others for breakfast. She walked over and picked up the cup of chocolate. As she sipped it, she tried to recall the plans for today, wondering if and when she might find time to sneak away to the gar­dens with her new paintbox. Her glance strayed once again to the tussy-rnussy of violets. She smiled as an idea struck her. She picked up the flowers and carried them over to the small writing desk near the window.

  Sometime later, Molly returned and was aghast to find that Catherine had neither washed nor dressed. She quickly helped Catherine to do both. Molly apolo­gized profusely for the cold temperature of the wash water, when it was Catherine's fault that it had been allowed to cool, and for the simple chignon she was forced to fashion with so little time. The rushed toi­lette would have to do.

  Adjusting the pins in her hair, Catherine dashed down the long corridor with very unladylike speed and practically bounded down the stairs. When she reached the breakfast room, most of the guests had al­ready left, but there were still a few stragglers, so she did not feel utterly gauche for being so late. Two of those lingering over their coffee were Susannah and Aunt Hetty. Catherine filled a plate from the side­board and joined them.

  After only a few words of greeting, they were joined by Lord Strickland. Both Forsythe sisters had been introduced to the earl the previous evening. Catherine had quickly divined that he was unmarried and mentally added him to her list of potential hus­bands. His joining them at breakfast meant that Su­sannah had no doubt caught his eye, and that, at least, was a good sign. He was attractive, with dark hair and eyes, and a pleasing smile. Unlike some of the other gentlemen in attendance, Lord Strickland did not seem the least bit frivolous. On the contrary, he had an aura of seriousness about him that hinted at solid dependability.

  He would do very nicely, Catherine thought, so long as his circumstances were acceptable. She would have to ask MacDougal to investigate. She thought of the paintbox again and wondered what they would do without their invaluable manservant.

  "And what have you ladies planned for this morn­ing?" Lord Strickland asked, his eyes sweeping all three of them but resting on Susannah at last.

  "Lady Raymond and a few others have organized an outing to the village," Susannah answered in her breathiest voice. "They have asked me to join them." She sounded utterly surprised that anyone would wish for her company.

  "And you, Mrs. Hathaway?" the earl asked, turning to Aunt Hetty. "Are you driving into the village as well?"

  Aunt Hetty chuckled. "No, no," she said. "I shall leave that to the young people. I will stay here and have a nice quiet coze with some of the other older women."

  "And you, Miss Catherine? What are your plans?"

  Catherine thought of the paintbox and dismissed all notions of a village outing. "Frankly, I had thought to explore the gardens a bit more. They are so lovely. And so vast, I have not seen even half, I am sure."

  "Have you seen the Italian garden?" he asked.

  "I do not believe so."

  "Then perhaps you will allow me to be your guide," Lord Strickland said. "It is one of my favorites of all the Chissingworth gardens. I would be honored if you would join me in a walk there."

  Catherine was momentarily discomposed that the earl should be seeking her company and not that of her beautiful sister. It was unexpected, but very grati­fying. She smiled and accepted his offer.

  Less than an hour later, she strolled alongside Lord Strickland through the familiar gardens nearest the house. After a time, they finally cut off toward the east, a direction she had not yet explored. Flower gar­dens gave way to shrubbery gardens. They were soon following a gravel path bordered by very tall, neatly clipped hedges. The path curved one way and then another, so that she could not really see where they were going.

  "This is known as the Serpentine Walk, for obvious reasons," the earl told her. "It allows an element of surprise when we finally reach our destination.

  When the walk at last opened up quite unexpect­edly onto a large formal garden, Catherine did indeed gasp in surprise. "How wonderful!" she exclaimed.

  "Welcome to the Italian garden," the earl said with a smile.

  The huge expanse of garden was ringed by a fine bank of arbutus, laurustinus, and other evergreens. A network of gravel walks bordered by ornamental shrubbery all met in the center at a large marble foun­tain supported by the figures of four dolphins. At one end of the garden, orange trees in wooden tubs were arranged in front of a building that boasted a series of large paned windows across the entire front.

  "That is the old orangery," Lord Strickland said. "I believe it was built in the last century by the present duke's grandfather."

  At the opposite end was a terrace ascended by a se­ries of diagonal balustraded slopes. In the center of the balustrade along the top stood a huge classical statue flanked by two smaller statues. Other classical sculpture dotted the garden.

  "The present duke's father had this garden built to display his collection of Roman sculpture, acquired during his Grand Tour." Lord Strickland's gaze swept the garden from end to end. He turned to Catherine and smiled. "I have always been pleased that Carlisle has chosen to leave it intact. Though he has put in a new orangery and is even now building a modern conservatory, he had shown good sense in allowing some of these older, less fashionable settings to re­main unchanged."

  "You seem to know quite a lot about Chissing­worth, my lord," Catherine said. "Have you visited often?"

  "Quite often. The duke and I have been friends for years, you see. I have spent many a summer among these gardens."

  "And where is the duke this summer?" Catherine asked. She thought she saw a flicker of apprehension cross the earl's face before he replied.

  "I. . . I could not say. He does not enjoy his mother's parties. He generally takes care to be away during such occasions. Here, let me show you these agave plants."

  Catherine could sense that the topic of the duke was an uncomfortable one for Lord Strickland, and so she let it drop. No doubt he did not wish to admit that the man was simply unfit to take part in a social gath­ering. She admired his sensitivity and loyalty toward his friend, which only served to increase his eligibility in Catherine's eyes. Such a man would make a won­derful husband for Susannah. She followed the earl toward one of several huge spiky plants in stone tubs, dismissing all thoughts of the absent duke in favor of the more interesting subject of exotic plants.

  Stephen was inordinately happy to see Miss Forsythe perched in front of a patch of white bryony, sketchpad on her lap and paintbox open on the bench next to her. He halfway looked for her every time he wandered through the gardens, but always per­suaded himself that he would not be disappointed if he did not see her every day. But the sight of her this afternoon bent over the sketchpad made him smile with anticipation.

  Not wanting to startle her and perhaps ruin her painting, he waited until she had finished tracing a delicate outline of leaf and pulled the brush away from the page. Before she could dip again into the glass of water, he cleared his throat. She turned around at the sound. When she saw him, her face lit up with a smile that singed him to his toes.

  "Hello!" she cried, a look of pure delight in her eyes.

  By God, she was happy to see him. Not His Grace, but plain Mr. Archibald. He could not say that he had ever experienced such unbiased regard, and his heart swelled with pleasure.

  "Look!" she said, her face as animated as a child's at Christmas. "See what I have!"

  "Aha," he said as he moved closer. "You have found painting materials. How fortunate for you."

  "Yes, it certainly is," she said with breathless enthu­siasm. "I cannot tell you when I have been so excited. It has been donkey's years since I have had a real paintbox. And such colors! Carmine, vermilion, Prussian blue, even ultramarine. Is it not wonderful?"

  "Indeed." Stephen had remembered the pa
ints and brushes and drawing materials and such up in the old schoolroom. He had never shown any talent with them as a boy, and so they had languished unused for years. He had asked Mrs. Beddowes to locate them and make them available to Miss Forsythe. He was a man of great fortune and had often used it generously to help others, or simply to give someone pleasure. But rarely in all his life had anyone so appreciated one of his gifts. And such a simple offering that had cost him nothing at all. How curious. And how curi­ously satisfying.

  "I have no idea where they came from," she contin­ued, "though I have my suspicions. My maid insists that Mrs. Beddowes meant them for me and so I shall not protest. I have hardly been able to contain myself until I could get away this afternoon and bring them into the garden. Oh!" Her smile brightened, if that was possible. "I have something for you."

  For him? She had something for him? She had no idea he was responsible for the paints, and yet she had something for him?

  Miss Forsythe briefly rifled through the sheets of parchment and pulled out a painted page. "Here," she said as she held it out to him. "I wanted you to know how much I appreciate the posies of violets. No, do not deny it," she said, raising a hand as he started to speak. "I know it is you who is responsible for providing them. And I thank you for it. They are my favorite flower, as I believe I told you. As a small token of my thanks, I made this for you."

  The parchment sheet was painted with a few violets and leaves, not the whole bouquet, but just a sample specimen. It was an impressively accurate picture, capturing both the range of shadings of the flower petals as well as their delicate porcelain texture.

  "You painted this for me?" he asked, studying the picture. "But this is excellent. Truly excellent." He looked up to see a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

  "Do you really think so?" she asked in a suddenly shy voice.

  He did. Stephen was more than a little familiar with botanical illustration. His vast library included the complete works of Redoute as well as several earlier painters. He knew Miss Forsythe to be talented with a pencil. But he had never expected her paintings to be so fine. Many society ladies these days had taken up the art of flower painting, reducing it to a genteel ac­complishment. But here was no trivial exercise. There was nothing mawkish or sentimental about it. Miss Forsythe's painting was bold and exactly observed, beautifully and skillfully executed.