Garden Folly

by Candice Hern

  And, true to his word, their pennies had somehow stretched slightly farther than expected. He always had some scheme or other to get something for noth­ing. Only look how he had furnished them with all they needed for the Chissingworth party. Of course, she did not like to consider for too long the incidents with Lady Fairchild and Lady Gatskyll. She had been avoiding both ladies assiduously.

  By the time she reached the house, Catherine had a spring in her step and was ready to face the world with renewed confidence. MacDougal had that effect on her, making anything seem possible.

  Her good spirits held through the evening of infor­mal dancing. The carpets in the blue Salon had been rolled up, and Lady Raymond and Lady Norcliffe took turns at the pianoforte. Sir Bertram Fanshawe swung Catherine about with great energy and hearty laughter during a country dance. Lord Warburton had stepped on her toes—no doubt because he could not see the floor over the great cascading folds at his neck, which was immobilized by his ridiculous shirt points. Mr. Septimus Phipps gallantly but soberly led her through a quadrille. And Lord Strickland had waltzed with her.

  After their dance, the earl escorted her out onto the south terrace to enjoy some fresh air. The last time they had stood together on this same terrace, there had been many others strolling about, including, un­fortunately, Lady Gatskyll. This time, however, they were quite alone. Catherine's former confidence dis­appeared completely somewhere in the short distance between the terrace doors and the balustrade over­looking the gardens. She felt inexplicably nervous being alone with Lord Strickland. Her rebellious stomach seized up into knots.

  As he often did with her, the earl began to speak of his daughters. He told her of a letter he had received from Amy, telling him, in her childish scrawl, that she missed him. Caro had sent a drawing that looked re­motely like a pig but that he supposed was meant to be himself.

  "They sound like adorable little girls," Catherine said.

  "Indeed they are," he said. "But. . . they need a mother."

  Good heavens, this could be it, she thought. He was leading up to a formal offer. She was sure of it.

  And all at once, she was reluctant for him to do so.

  "They are so young," he was saying. "They need the guidance, and affection, of someone other than a hired retainer. They need a mother."

  "But at least they have each other," she said, hop­ing to steer the conversation away from where she knew it was headed. "Susannah and I survived our mother's death more easily because we had one an­other to cling to. We have always been close."

  And suddenly she was yammering on about happy memories of her childhood, about the joys of having a sister, about surviving comfortably in a motherless home. She even described Dorland and the beauties of Wiltshire. The earl could do no more than nod his head as she rattled on and on.

  "Miss Forsythe," he said when she paused to take a breath, "do you think—"

  "La, my lord. So much talking has made me parched as the desert sands. Do let us return inside and find some lemonade."

  The earl looked slightly taken aback by her declara­tion, but held out his arm to her. "As you wish, Miss Forsythe."

  He led her back to the Blue Salon, where dancing was still in progress. Somehow, Catherine made it through the remainder of the evening. She danced with several other gentlemen before claiming exhaus­tion and retiring to her bedchamber.

  Once there, she fell back upon the bed and stared at the gathered fabric of the canopy above. Why had she not allowed Lord Strickland to make an offer? The offer she had wanted and even expected? The offer she had been so anxious to accept?

  He had been about to propose marriage. She was certain of it. If only she had allowed it, even now she could have been betrothed and all her worries over. But some strange, new reluctance had grabbed her by the throat and would not let go. She had not wanted to hear his offer. There was no explaining it; she sim­ply had not wanted to hear it. Perhaps she had been afraid of how she might answer. But that made no sense, for she had been planning her answer for weeks.

  She pounded her fists against the counterpane. This was disastrous. She may have just thrown away all she had worked toward. And for what? A pair of flashing green eyes and hands with dirt under the fin­gernails?

  Damn you, Stephen Archibald! I will not let you ruin my life.

  Tomorrow she would renew her attentions toward the earl. She would not allow the merest hint of reluc­tance to stand in her way. And if he so much as hinted at marriage, she would dash off with him to Epping and those little girls so fast his head would spin.

  And Stephen Archibald, with his lopsided grin and his smoldering kisses, could go to the devil.

  Chapter 15

  Everything was ruined, and it was all her own fault. Catherine had spent the entire next day and evening brazenly encouraging the earl's attentions, moving to his side at every opportunity, turning the full force of her charms upon him as often as possible without seeming too forward, and directing conversation to­ward his home and his children.

  But she had received no offer.

  Lord Strickland had been all that was polite and friendly, but he had taken no opportunity to be alone with her. He had given her no sign that he wished to renew the discussion he had begun the previous night, about how much his daughters needed a mother. And Catherine had done everything short of openly declaring that such a discussion would now be welcome.

  Everything was ruined.

  Catherine silently prayed that he would invite her for a stroll on the terrace; but he did not. Even now, the earl stood at the side of Miss Fenton-Sykes and turned the pages of music while she played the pi­anoforte.

  She had lost him. She was certain of it.

  Catherine felt the sting of tears building up and knew that in moments her eyes would be brimming. She did not wish to make a spectacle of herself and so quietly stole away from the Apollo Salon and made her own way to the terrace. Other couples strolled about, and so she walked on until she could find a more secluded spot. The moon was high and almost full, and several guests were enjoying the gardens in the moonlight. Catherine walked past them all, spine stiff and jaw clenched as she wandered from garden to garden. She would not give in to her emotions until she was quite alone. She would not disgrace herself in front of other guests.

  She finally found the solitude she sought in the French garden. She made her way to the bench near the Canterbury Bells, where she had once sat with Stephen Archibald. But she could not think of him just now.

  She sank down onto the bench, propped her elbows upon her knees, and dropped her face into her hands. Tears did not come at once. She felt almost paralyzed with a despair so overwhelming that it seemed she might never be able to lift her head again.

  She had been so close, so close to her dream, and yet she may have foolishly thrown it all away. And for what?

  She recalled the day after her father had killed him­self, when an army of creditors had swooped down upon Dorland like birds of prey. They had taken everything. She and Susannah had been able to sal­vage no more than one small trunk of belongings, and a few of their mother's things. And most of those items had been sold over the last two years in order to put food on Aunt Hetty's table. There was nothing left. Nothing. Except perhaps for the clothes MacDou­gal had virtually stolen from the Fairchilds.

  How could she return to Flood Street with Aunt Hetty and face that life again? After she had been so close?

  But there was still a few days left of the house party. There just might be time to convince the earl that she would welcome his offer. Yes, there was still time. Perhaps it was not too late. But this evening's at­tempts had led nowhere. The tiny glimmer of hope that all might not yet be lost was almost totally extin­guished by doubt and despair. What if he never made an offer, after all?

  All at once, Catherine felt a presence at her side. A strong arm wrapped itself around her shoulders.

  "Why so sad, Catherine. Have you been missing me?"

 
Oh, no. That familiar deep voice was almost her un­doing. This was all that was needed to complete her despair. The man she could not seem to resist. The unsuitable man who had made her so mindlessly fall in love with him. The wretched man who had caused her to behave in such an idiotic manner with the earl.

  It was all his fault. He had ruined everything. She wanted to scratch his eyes out.

  But then he turned her toward him and gathered her in his arms.

  Stephen knew it was foolhardy to be in one of the public gardens while so many guests strolled about. But, as so often was the case when Miss Catherine Forsythe was involved, he had not been able to stop himself. He had seen Catherine walk down the terrace steps and had followed her from garden to garden, skulking in the hedges so as not to be observed. The French garden was a bit of a distance from the house, and he had hopes that no other guests would wander this far afield in the night.

  He had watched Catherine sink dejectedly down upon the bench and wondered what was wrong. She looked so forlorn sitting all alone in the garden. Had Miles at last discovered her scheme and turned his back on her? Had she been denounced by Lady

  Fairchild as a fraud? Or, was it possible, was it at all possible, that he had something to do with her sad­ness? Was she feeling torn about her feelings for him?

  Such a notion gave Stephen an extraordinary jolt of pleasure. Perhaps he would be able to break her down yet, to win her as Stephen Archibald, estate gar­dener. It was with this possibility in mind, that all was not lost, that Stephen approached her.

  She was soft and warm in his arms, but she had not yet melted against him as she usually did. He rested his chin on her head and held her close, stroking her back with his hands. But something was wrong. She felt like some kind of rag doll, limp and uninvolved, her arms still at her sides. He pulled back slightly and lifted her chin to kiss her. Before he could coax a re­sponse out of her, she had come alive and was push­ing furiously against his chest. He pulled away, startled at her sudden ferocity.

  "How many times do I have to ask you to leave me alone?" she said in a voice that was almost a wail. She launched herself off the bench and stood to face him from a few feet away. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides. "It is all your fault!" she said., "You are ruining everything!"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "There is an earl—an earl!—who may want to marry me. And yet you keep pushing yourself on me, ruining everything."

  "I am not pushing myself, madam," he said, sud­denly angry at her outburst. "It has not been neces­sary. I have not failed to notice that you enjoy it as much as I do. You cannot deny it."

  "It is not my fault that you are a skilled seducer, sir­rah," she spat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You are loathsome to me. Why can you not see that? You are nothing more than a stupid, ignorant gar­dener who has got above himself. What makes you think that you have any right to presume upon me? To seduce me? And you only a gardener, while I am the guest of your employer."

  Her voice had risen to something close to a shriek, and Stephen felt as if he had been slapped across the face with a dirty rag. His anger rushed to the surface. How could he have been so thick to believe that she might be different, that she might be willing to love him as a simple gardener and not as the duke? What a bone-headed notion. What a fool he had been!

  "I swear to you," she said, "if you so much as touch me one more time I will report you to the duchess. I will see that she has you fired."

  Stephen jumped to his feet and almost lurched at her in his rage. "Go ahead. Go ahead and run crying to the duchess," he said, his words rough with anger. "See how much good it does you. I shall simply tell her how easily you melted in my arms." He moved toward her until she was backed up against a trellis. "How you pressed your breasts against my chest, arching against me and almost begging for more." He loomed over her, his face only inches from hers.

  "Oh, you hateful beast!" She pushed against his chest so hard that he fell back a step. "You forget your place, Mr. Archibald," she said, spitting out his name like so much bile. "You must have thought it would be some sort of triumph to seduce a woman of my class. But you will not get away with it, do you hear me? You will not get away with it. And if you think for one minute that I am one of those women in­trigued by men of the lower classes, then you are more stupid than I thought."

  "Oh, no," he said, pacing in front of her, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "No, no, no. I know better than that. Miss Catherine Forsythe is the granddaugh­ter of a viscount and destined for a fortune. She would never dream of admitting an attraction for a mere gardener."

  "Well, at least now you seem to understand."

  He whirled around at her. "You silly little fool!" He glared down at her and wanted nothing more than to shake her by the shoulders until her head snapped off. "I was only trying to show you that there are more important things in life than money. But, no. You are too thick-headed and stubborn to understand such a thing. Well, I hope you get what you want, Lit­tle Miss Fortune Hunter, and live to regret it. And if you think I care even this much," he said, snapping his fingers in front of her nose, "then you are dead wrong. I could never care for such a heartless merce­nary. I do not know why I waste my time with you. Go ahead. Run away to your rich lord. He is welcome to you. And I hope he makes your life miserable. Per­haps he will beat you when you dare to indulge in such waspish outbursts as I have seen today." The sharp intake of her breath told him his barbs had reached home. But it gave him no pleasure. "Go ahead. Get out of my garden. I don't want you here. I hope I never lay eyes on your greedy little face again. Do you hear me? I never want to see you again!"

  He threw her own oft-repeated words back at her with particular relish. And with perfect truthfulness. He truly never wanted to see her again. He never wanted to be reminded of what a fool he'd made of himself over a girl who was no different from all the rest. Over someone he had once thought was so spe­cial, but was not special at all. Over a girl he had once thought he loved.

  Bloody hell.

  Stephen stormed off in the direction of the old con­servatory and his private office. Once there, he pro­ceeded to get very, very drunk.

  The duchess enjoyed a clear view of the gardens from her sitting room on the third floor. She watched her son stalk away from the French garden and groaned aloud.

  "I think she may have lost him for good this time, Hetty," she said to her friend, who warmed her feet near the coal fire. "He looks furious. Oh, and there goes Catherine in the opposite direction. Good heav­ens, I believe she is crying."

  Hetty gave a loud and gusty sigh. "I suppose she will accept the earl, then, after all."

  The duchess turned from the window and joined her friend in a chair near the fire. "Oh, dear," she said. "I had so hoped . . ."

  "Do not give up so soon, Isabelle. Nothing is settled yet with the earl. I am sure of it. Catherine would have told me. Besides, you know how these young people are. Things can change overnight. One never knows what will happen next." Hetty leaned back in her chair and brushed a stray auburn curl back up under the edge of her lace cap. She sighed again wearily. "But I confess, I will be very surprised if Catherine does not accept the earl. She is determined on it, you know."

  "Oh, Hetty. This is terrible. I believe Stephen is in love with her."

  "But so long as she believes he is nothing more than the gardener, she will reject him. A fortune is far more important to her than love."

  "Someone should talk to her," the duchess said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Explain to her the importance of love in a marriage."

  Hetty laughed. "It should not be you, then, Isabelle. You had the good fortune to fall in love with a duke. I, on the other hand, fell in love with a sweet-natured vicar who had not a sou to his name. But I have spo­ken to the girls often enough about how happy I was with Nathaniel, despite the fact that he gave away every extra shilling to the poor. Unfortunately, Cath­erine knows too well my circumstances
as a widow. No amount of affection will make her accept the pos­sibility of that sort of future."

  The duchess considered the matter. Something must be done.

  "Perhaps someone her own age would be a better ambassador," she said. "After all, young people sel­dom believe their elders understand anything at all useful. Especially when it comes to affairs of the heart. Each new generation thinks they have invented love. I know I did."

  "Who did you have in mind?" Hetty asked.

  "Susannah."

  "Susannah? But you know that she is . . . well, she is not exactly the stronger of the two sisters. She is very beautiful, but. . . Oh, for goodness sake, Isabelle. I can hardly imagine Susannah offering any kind of sound advice to anyone. Especially Catherine."

  "I think the elder sister may just have the advan­tage this time," the duchess said.

  "Oh?" Hetty quirked a brow and tilted her head to­ward the duchess, knocking her cap askew. "How so?"

  "Susannah, my dear, is in love."

  "Ah, yes," Hetty said, a slow smile brightening her face. "I see your point. I shall speak to her right away."

  "And I," the duchess said, "shall keep my fingers crossed."

  Chapter 16

  At the sound of a knock upon the office door, Stephen lifted his head from the desk to see who had the im­pertinence to disturb him just now, when he was feel­ing so miserable. The door opened slightly and Miles stuck his head in.

  "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

  "Oh, perfect." Stephen groaned and dropped his head back on his crossed arms. "You have no doubt come to tell me that I may wish you happy." He rolled an eye toward Miles and saw that his friend had a rather shocked look upon his face. Poor old chap. Probably shouldn't be so sharp with him. Not his fault, after all.

  Miles glared at Stephen and then shrugged, no doubt assigning his black mood to the drink. "Not just yet," he said as he cleared off a chair and sat down. "So, your celebration may be a bit premature."