Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  "What do you mean?"

  "Young Catherine tells me she had been imposing upon my head gardener to show her the grounds. A Mr. Archibald."

  "Oh, yes," Hetty said. "She mentioned him. The man apparently tripped right over her while she was bending over to examine a flower. Knocked her to the ground."

  "Did he?" The duchess found herself laughing again. "How very like him to be so oblivious of oth­ers."

  "But what does your head gardener have to do with anything?"

  "My dear Hetty, there is no head gardener named Archibald."

  "What?" Hetty's head snapped around to look di­rectly at the duchess. "No Mr. Archibald? You mean Catherine has been blithely wandering about the grounds with an impostor? And you allowed this to happen?" She fixed the duchess with eyes narrowed in anger.

  "Oh, he is an imposter, all right," the duchess said, unable to control the smile that tugged at her lips. "It is Stephen." She watched in amusement as her friend's eyes slowly widened with disbelief. "Yes, it is Stephen, not the head gardener, who has been spend­ing time with your niece."

  "The duke?" Hetty said at last, her voice rising in something close to a squeal.

  "Yes," the duchess replied, laughing. "His full name is Stephen Archibald Frederick Charles Godfrey Manwaring. Don't you see? 'Stephen Archibald.' There's the head gardener for you. And of course that is precisely what he is, in a manner of speaking. The head gardener."

  "And my Catherine has no idea he is the duke," Hetty said, shaking her head in apparent disbelief.

  "No, and you must not tell her, Hetty. I believe I know what Stephen is up to. Let him reveal his iden­tity in his own way and in his own time."

  "But—"

  "You must trust me on this," the duchess inter­rupted. "I know my son well, you see. Your niece will come to no harm through his masquerade. Quite the opposite, if my guess is correct."

  "Oh, but you do not know her. If Catherine finds out the gardener is really the duke . . ."

  "But she must not find out just yet, Hetty. This is the first time, that I know of, that Stephen has allowed himself to get even remotely close to a woman. This is an excellent sign, do you not see? He is intrigued enough to allow her to get to know him as Mr. Archibald. As just plain Stephen Archibald."

  The duchess watched as her friend's brow slowly unfurled and the significance of the situation struck her with all its force. "Oh!" Hetty exclaimed as under­standing lit her eyes. "Oh, my goodness."

  "Yes. He wants her to learn to care for him first as the head gardener so that he will know it is not merely because he is the duke!" It was an ingenious plan and the duchess prayed to God it worked. Fail­ure would only draw her son further into himself and further away from life. She did not believe she would be able to bear it. More than anything, she wanted her son to find happiness. She would be willing to bet that Miss Catherine Forsythe was just the person to help him find it.

  "We must both encourage her, Hetty," she said. "Your niece could well be the next Duchess of Carlisle. I have never known Stephen to show such an interest."

  "Ah, but that could be a problem," Hetty said, her tone downcast. "You see, Catherine will never allow herself to care for a mere gardener. She is hell-bent on marrying a fortune."

  "We must trust Stephen, then, to change her mind."

  "You don't know Catherine," Hetty said. "She's as stubborn as they come. She has lived on the edge of ruin since her father's death. She will not abandon lightly her quest for a rich husband. She will not give your son more than the time of day if she believes him to be a gardener."

  "Unfortunately, Stephen is equally stubborn," the duchess said. "It is unlikely he will reveal his identity until he is certain of her affections."

  Hetty shook her head in resignation. "These two stubborn mules could butt heads all summer, Is­abelle."

  The duchess sighed. "You could be right. Let us watch them closely for a while and see how things progress."

  "And if they do not?"

  "Then we shall just have to see what we can do to help them along."

  Chapter 11

  Catherine was inexplicably disappointed the next day when, for the first time, she did not see Mr. Archibald during her morning stroll through the gardens. She did not believe that he ever actually sought her out deliberately, though such a notion would have been oddly gratifying. He would have no reason to do such a thing. It was just that the gardens were his world and he always happened to be about.

  But his absence that particular morning was espe­cially deflating, for there had been no posy of violets on her chocolate tray.

  She had begun to take for granted the violets would be there each morning, along with the same unsigned note. But there had been none today, for she had dis­appointed him yesterday.

  Catherine did not know what had made her feel she could speak so openly to Mr. Archibald. Perhaps because he was not of her world and there had been no reason to dissemble. His knowledge could do her no harm, since he could never move in the same cir­cles as she. Or perhaps she simply felt comfortable with him because of their shared love of flowers. But as she thought upon it, she realized that their conver­sations had never been limited to flowers. They usu­ally began that way, but almost always veered off into a myriad of interesting topics.

  She had not realized how much she had enjoyed their times together, nor even how much she looked forward to seeing him each day. Until this day when he did not come.

  Nor did he come the next day.

  She had even gone to the Old Hall garden each morning, hoping she might find him there, tending his exotic plants. But he did not come.

  She despaired of ever seeing him again, knowing he felt nothing but disgust for her fortune-hunting ways. But she refused to feel ashamed, for she knew she was doing the right thing. Mr. Archibald simply did not understand the situation.

  Besides, Lord Strickland's interest appeared to grow more and more serious. She was almost certain to get an offer from him, in which case neither the opinion nor the presence of the head gardener was of any consequence whatsoever.

  On the third day, her morning walk took her to­ward the French garden. It was laid out as a square enclosure bounded by a high-cut hedge of evergreen oak and bay. A formal parterre was surrounded by trellised arcades twined over by a variety of climbing roses and the ubiquitous clematis. Beneath one of the arches, spires of Canterbury Bells rose in peaks of lavender and pink. A nearby stone bench afforded the perfect vantage from which to paint one of the blooms.

  Catherine settled herself on the bench and opened her sketchbook to a blank page. She opened her paint­box, retrieved a palette, and began mixing color for the pink blossoms.

  "I applaud your choice of subject, Miss Forsythe, for that is one of the finest specimens in the garden."

  Her heart lurched at the sound of the familiar voice of Mr. Archibald. She looked up at his grim face above her, his eyes hidden in the shade of his wide-brimmed hat. The tight line of his mouth told her he was still displeased with her. She experienced a stab of renewed guilt and shame that she had caused him to be disappointed in her. She so wanted to see that lopsided grin once again. For some reason she could not explain she wanted him to like her. But after thinking she might never see him again, she could not contain her happiness at the sight of him, and she smiled.

  Stephen had tried to avoid her. He had not wanted to see her again. He had spent the last few days hov­ering about the new conservatory, where he knew he had made a nuisance of himself with the workmen. He had stayed away from the public gardens for fear of seeing her again.

  But she tugged at his thoughts until he was driven to distraction. Try as he might, he could not force her from his mind. She gnawed at him like a cutworm on flax, until he could no longer stay away. He had to see her again. Just one more time.

  It had not been difficult to find her. Her paintings generally kept her in the flower gardens closest to the house. But he had tried five other gardens
before run­ning her to ground in the French garden. Stephen was determined to keep his distance this time, to offer lit­tle more than a simple greeting, a few polite words, and then be on his way.

  But she looked so pretty sitting there, framed by the trellised arch of pink roses, that he had to almost physically steel himself against the simple pleasure of gazing at her. If he was not careful, he would be tempted to stay by her side all morning. But no. He would say only a few polite words and be gone.

  And then she smiled at him, and all that well-meaning resolve puddled at his feet.

  "But all of Chissingworth is a paradise of fine speci­mens!" she said, dazzling him with her smile. "How fortunate you are, Mr. Archibald, to spend all your days in such a magical place."

  "I am pleased you are enjoying your visit," he said, "and that my . . . that is, the duke's gardens have af­forded you such pleasure."

  He allowed himself a smile and he could not help but think that she relaxed somewhat. Not that she had seemed at all tense. But it was almost as though his smile had melted the last vestiges of her reserve. In­trigued by her reaction, he seated himself beside her on the bench. Now, what the devil made him do such a thing? He was supposed to keep his distance, and yet here he was closer to her than any other time since falling on top of her that first day. Their shoulders brushed momentarily, and she turned sharply to look at him. Their eyes locked, and a sudden shock of awareness trembled in the air between them. She quickly turned away, all at once intent on mixing the pink pigment on her ivory palette. But Stephen had not missed the involuntary tremor that had briefly danced across her shoulders.

  So, she must have felt it, too, that ripple of warmth all the way down his arm from the point of their touching. A smile of triumph tugged at the corners of his mouth. She had felt it, too. She was not indifferent to him.

  Now, that put a new complexion on the matter.

  He moved over slightly so that he was not sitting so close. He did not wish to frighten her away. Instead, he began telling her about the various flowers in this garden, and when it had been laid out. They spoke comfortably for some time, that singular charged mo­ment forgotten, or at least ignored.

  After a time, Stephen's mulish curiosity got the bet­ter of him. "And how does the party progress?" he asked.

  She darted a wary glance his way before returning her attention to the Canterbury Bells.

  "Any more close calls with Lady Fairchild?" he prompted.

  Her musical laughter filled the fragrant air. "As a matter of fact," she said, "there was one incident that almost sent me into an apoplexy." Amidst much laughter, she related to him the story of the Lonsdale jewels and Lady Gatskyll's presumption of a nonexis­tent connection. Stephen realized she was describing to him the very scene he had witnessed on the south terrace.

  "As if that were not enough," she continued, "I have since noticed Lady Gatskyll whispering to other guests as one of us walks by. I am sure she believes Susannah and I are much more than we are."

  "And what is that, if I may ask?" Stephen said "You have never mentioned it."

  "We are merely the daughters of an insignificant baronet. Oh, we have a drop or two of decent blood. Our maternal grandfather was a viscount. But in the grand scheme of things, we are of very little conse­quence."

  "But, thanks to Lady Gatskyll, your consequence has no doubt increased."

  "That may be true," she said, "but it all makes me very uncomfortable. It must eventually be known that I have no connection at all with the marchioness. I have never even laid eyes on the woman. Just to be on the safe side, though, I have decided that neither of us should wear any of the Lonsdale jewels again. It is much too dangerous."

  Stephen was charmed and delighted by her ani­mated telling of the story and by her easy laughter. Despite all he knew of her—all the things he pre­ferred not to know about her—he found himself warming to her once again. As she sat there looking so pretty, painting his flowers, and making him laugh, she seemed once more that unspoiled young woman who had so intrigued him. Until she spoke again.

  "My biggest fear," she said, her nose close to the sketchpad as she painted a delicate outline of the flower stalk, "was that I would be unmasked in the presence of Lord Strickland. He had been so attentive, and I could envision all my good planning going up in smoke."

  Stephen's earlier wariness fell back into place with the swiftness of a clanging portcullis. The anger and disgust that had been simmering for three days was refueled by her casual words. How could he have al­lowed himself to be tempted once again by her smile and her laughter and her big gray eyes? She was everything he despised in a woman.

  "The earl seems genuinely interested in me," she went on, casting a shy look over her shoulder. "I have high hopes in that direction."

  Good God. Was she really going to bring Miles up to scratch? Each night when his friend stopped by Stephen's private office to share a bottle or flask, he could have warned him. He could have steered Miles away from this fortune-hunting cat before she got her claws into him. But Stephen had said nothing.

  "It is fortunate that I have drawn the attention of Lord Strickland," she continued in a light tone, appar­ently oblivious to the change in his attitude. "My sis­ter, you see, has developed an attachment to the totally ineligible Captain Phillips."

  Damnation. His cousin Roger, too? Were all his friends fated to fall prey to this wretched family?

  "And what, may I ask," he said in his most chilly ducal voice, "makes Captain Phillips ineligible?"

  "Just about everything," she said. But then she turned abruptly toward him. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Perhaps he is a friend of yours, since he is the steward here."

  "Indeed," he replied, his tone rapier sharp, "he is a good friend."

  "Well then, I apologize for speaking so disparag­ingly of your friend. But you must see that he is not at all what I would have hoped for Susannah."

  "No, I do not suppose he is quite up to your stan­dards."

  Nor could he ever be, as plain Mr. Archibald. She would probably die rather than admit to an attraction for someone so unworthy as an estate gardener. For he knew the attraction was there. He had felt it during that charged look between them earlier, and her shiver when they touched. How hard would she fight it, he wondered.

  Out of sheer perversity, he decided to find out.

  Stephen rose from his seat on the stone bench. "I am afraid I must go," he said. "There is work at the new conservatory I must oversee. But it has been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Forsythe." He reached down and took her unoccupied hand as he watched her eyes widen with apprehension. "A sincere plea­sure," he said as he lightly brushed his lips over her bare fingers.

  He turned and left before he could gauge her reac­tion.

  If it was anything like his own, she would need to cool her sizzling fingers in the paint water.

  Catherine was not certain whether it was wise to be so far away from the house, alone with Mr. Archibald. She had missed his company for the few days when he had not joined her in the gardens. But in the two days since he had begun seeking her out once again, things had changed between them, somehow.

  It had all started with a seemingly innocent brush­ing of shoulders that had sent an unexpected tremor of pleasure quivering down her spine. And she had been astonished when he had kissed her hand. But he had dashed away before she could protest such famil­iarity. It was just as well. Her fingers had tingled so where his lips had touched them that she had been unable to resume her painting.

  But such feelings were too inappropriate to be con­sidered. He was only the gardener, for heaven's sake. He was also handsome and interesting and kind, to be sure. But he was only the gardener. She had no busi­ness tingling at his touch. She should avoid him alto­gether after he had taken such liberties.

  But she had not done so. Neither had she protested yesterday when he had ever so briefly caressed the edge of her jaw with a knuckle. They had been laugh­ing over something, and i
t had seemed such a sponta­neous, almost unconscious gesture that she had not the heart to chastise him for it. Even so, her skin had quivered sweetly at the remembrance of his touch. And thoughts of Mr. Archibald and her strange reac­tion to him kept her tossing and turning long into the night.

  To be alone with him now, at the farthest end of the estate grounds, was sheer folly. And it was all her own fault. She had asked to be taken to the Grotto to paint the duchess's rose. But she had no idea the Grotto was in such an isolated part of the estate. She did not like to consider the propriety of being alone in such a place with a man. Especially a man who had such an unnerving effect on her.

  Mr. Archibald had been the perfect gentleman dur­ing their long trek to the Grotto, never so much "as touching her. The formal gardens had been left be­hind for some time. The gravel walkways and shrub­bery borders had also long disappeared. They walked now through a heavily wooded area that was almost magically quiet and serene. Conversation between them had gradually ceased altogether. Catherine was lured into peaceful reverie by the sound of the wind in the tops of the cedar trees, like a gentle tide break­ing on the shore.

  Suddenly, the copse opened up onto a large pond. Ancient oaks ringed its banks and were reflected in its smooth surface along with broom, willow, larch, sil­ver fir, and a dozen other trees Catherine did not rec­ognize. Long grasses sprinkled with pink and white wildflowers marched toward the banks, and reeds hugged the water's edge, meandering right into the pond itself.

  At the opposite end of the pond, a short distance from the bank, stood the Grotto. It appeared to be a natural formation of rocks with a cavelike opening in the front. At the grotto's edge, a single pink rosebush seemed to spring right out of the rock.

  "Oh, how lovely," Catherine exclaimed as she drank in the beauty of the sight. Dipper, drakes, and a whole family of teal glided across the water. Two dragonflies skittered along the surface and darted away. "It is like entering a whole new world," she said as her eyes were drawn to the emerald glint of a passing kingfisher. "A bit of unspoiled nature."