“How exotic!” Isabelle said.
Lily set her cup down too quickly. “Not Italy? But…” She mopped at the spilled tea with her napkin. This was an appalling turn of events. She shot another look at Mr. Huntington and fought to keep the heat from rising to her cheeks. Bad enough that she had to take tea with him today. Surely her aunt would refuse.
“The Chadwicks have business interests in Tunis,” Aunt Mary said, offering Lily the tea towel. “I do believe Lady Chadwick visited with her husband and reported that the climate and population are far more agreeable than that of Egypt.”
Uncle Edward gave his wife an encouraging look. “Imagine walking the palm-lined ways of Tunis beneath the domes and minarets. We could explore the ruins of ancient Carthage. Be the first to collect a plant not yet known to science. It is an opportunity that simply cannot be passed up!”
Aunt Mary smiled. “Mr. Huntington, are you certain you do not mind? You could hardly have been expecting the lot of us when you signed my husband up for your expedition.”
“In truth I was not, but I need to find the valley where my grandfather discovered the flower, as quickly as possible. I could not delay until Sir Edward returned from Italy. I am grateful that he has agreed to come at all.”
“Then, if we are not imposing, I see no reason why we cannot change our plans. Edward would not be able to enjoy himself in Italy knowing he was missing the opportunity to track down a new flower.” She took up the silver serving dish.
“Tarts, anyone?”
Lily stared at her aunt in disbelief. “Tarts?” This man had been here less than three hours and he had completely upended everything. She did not want tarts, and she did not want to go to North Africa with Mr. Huntington and his scuffed boots—she had been counting on studying the work of the famous Italian artists, not riding camels in the Sahara. Not with him!
She looked to the others. Only Mrs. Hodges seemed to share her irritation. The matron was scowling and attacking her knitting.
Uncle Edward beamed. “I know we will all enjoy this adventure, and I have taken the liberty of inviting Mr. Huntington to stay with us at Brookdale. We’ll need to work together if we intend to depart within a fortnight.”
“I am sure we can manage it, my dear,” Aunt Mary said.
“But remember, you promised to get Lily back home to London before we leave.” She turned to Mr. Huntington. “And when may we expect you to join us here?”
He rubbed his chin. “I can wind up my affairs in London fairly quickly. I’ll return on Monday, if that is acceptable.”
No, Lily thought with a rising sense of desperation. It would not do at all. She glanced at Mr. Huntington. He could upset everything—he had upset everything. But what could she say? That he couldn’t come because she had behaved immodestly?
And it was a wonderful opportunity for her uncle. If Mr. Huntington truly had knowledge of an uncollected flower, there was no choice but to go with him. Even if his gaze carried the memory of her legs bared to the thigh.
“What a time we have to look forward to, eh, Huntington?” Uncle Edward pushed his plate away.
“I’m sure it will be an experience we will never forget.” Mr. Huntington rose. “With your permission. The ride back to London is a long one. It was a pleasure to meet all of you.”
His eyes met Lily’s and she did not look away. She could not let him see how thoroughly the morning had unsettled her. It seemed a long moment before he spoke again.
“Good day, Miss Strathmore.” He inclined his head then followed Uncle Edward out of the room.
Lily watched his departing back, then spoke. “Aunt Mary, do you think it is wise to change our plans? I mean—North Africa! Surely it is far more dangerous than the Continent.”
Her aunt looked at her with raised brows. “Lily, I’m surprised. Mr. Huntington strikes me as a sensible man, and his uncle sent a letter recommending him. Besides, weren’t you the one advocating that we sail to South America and explore the Amazon basin instead of go to Italy?”
“That’s right,” Richard nodded. “You said the dangers of headhunters and crocodiles had been sensationalized and that we would be perfectly safe if we wore wide-brimmed hats and slept beneath mosquito netting.”
Isabelle leaned forward and snatched Lily’s hand. “Isn’t it too thrilling? This will be much better than boring old Italy.”
Mrs. Hodges gave a snort of disgust. “Italy, Tunisia, Timbuktu, things change so fast around this house it makes me dizzy.”
“Now, Mrs. Hodges, you have accompanied us as governess and chaperone on many occasions,” Aunt Mary said. “Surely this trip is not too daunting?”
“Daunting? Hmph. If I didn’t go, the whole lot of you would wind up in trouble up to your necks. Someone needs to keep a clear head, and I expect it will be me.” Mrs. Hodges returned attention to her knitting, the conversation closed as far as she was concerned.
“It will be high adventure,” Richard said. “I wonder if we’ll meet any pirates on the way?”
“Handsome ones, preferably.” Isabelle released Lily’s hand and swooned back against the cushions.
Whatever her overly romantic cousins thought, Lily knew there was no way she could enjoy the journey. This was to have been the last great adventure with her uncle and his family before—well, before she was married to a man selected by her mother. It was perfectly irksome that they would now have a stranger in their midst—particularly the wretched Mr. Huntington. It was a disaster of the first order.
Aunt Mary set her teacup on the tray. “It will be an excellent thing, getting to know Mr. Huntington a bit before he leads us out into unknown territory. My dears, do endeavor to make his visit with us pleasant.”
“We can all go riding.” Isabelle winked at Lily.
Lily gave her cousin a frosty look and rose to her feet. “I am going to the conservatory.”
Why was it she had so little control over the things that mattered in her life? Let Mr. Huntington come if he must—but she would certainly not go out of her way to make his stay an agreeable one.
Chapter 4
Brookdale Manor buzzed with activity. Messages flew back and forth from London, and Uncle Edward dispatched servants to the train station on a daily basis to receive parcels. On the wide lawn, large canvas expedition tents were spread flat, airing out prior to being packed. Watching from her second-floor window, Lily could not help but be caught up in the excitement.
She avoided most of the disarray of packing by applying herself where she was most useful—in the conservatory painting her uncle’s newest specimens. She had completed several in succession until it was time to see to her own preparations.
Hands on her hips, Lily surveyed the chaos of her dressing room. Trunks lay open, half-full of morning dresses, satin evening wear, and serviceable cotton for the field. Her lady’s maid, Bess, bustled in, balancing a stack of boxes in her arms.
“More hats, Bess?”
Bobbing a curtsy, the maid lost her balance. Lily rushed to catch the teetering boxes.
“Sorry, milady. Your aunt sent these over. She’s keeping us all that busy.”
“Put the boxes in the corner,” she said. “We’ll sort through them later.”
With only ten days left until their departure, Aunt Mary had matters well in hand. Her role, as always, was to transform her husband’s enthusiastic impulses into practical reality. She insisted they pack every element of a proper wardrobe. “After all, we will be traveling in society until we reach Tunisia, and even then will be moving in certain circles. We must dress accordingly.” One would think they were planning to be gone a year, rather than a season.
A tap sounded at the door.
“See who it is, Bess,” she said, trying to decide if her blue crepe evening gown would fit into an overflowing trunk.
“It’s a parcel for you, Miss Lily.” Her maid returned, carrying a bulky package.
“Excellent! Set it down on the bed.” Sometimes, she though
t, the best gifts are the ones you give yourself.
Lily untied the string and carefully folded back the brown paper. Pans of watercolors shone up at her like untouched jewels; a set of new paintbrushes tipped in sable, each polished wooden handle smaller than the next; a perfect gray square of gum eraser; pencils of varying hardness nestled in a metal case. Supporting this wealth, thick blocks of watercolor paper. Lily trailed her fingertips lightly over the textured surface, delighting in its tooth.
She bundled up her new treasures and placed them next to a stack of drawing boards and journals on the window seat. There remained only the delivery of her new folding easel and she would be ready to depart. The thrill of impending travel coursed through her, despite the heavy concerns of the past week.
She had always loved traveling, particularly with Uncle Edward and his family. Mr. Huntington could not take that from her. She had given it much thought. He would be no different than the foul-smelling guide who had led them through the Pyrenees—a necessary, sometimes useful person, but someone to keep at arm’s length, especially when the wind was blowing from the wrong direction.
Lily drew a battered journal from the stack beside her supplies and paged through it. This one held her impressions of Scotland—quick pencil sketches of faces, studies of building details, the coach that had conveyed them through the lowlands. Tunisia would be far more exotic. She imagined sketching an ancient minaret at dawn, or a Berber woman veiled in blue standing beside a hidden fountain.
She was just setting the journal back when Isabelle burst in laughing.
“Hello, Isabelle. What mischief are you up to?”
“Mischief?” Isabelle widened her eyes. “You must have me confused with someone else. My brother, perhaps.”
“My mistake. What serious matters have you come to discuss, then?”
“The arrival of the exceedingly handsome Mr. Huntington, of course. What are you planning to wear?” Isabelle bounced down on the bed. “I think one must make an effort to make a good first impression, though,” her brow furrowed, “I suppose the second impression must be equally important. It would, after all, be quite impossible to make a first impression now.”
As if she needed to be reminded.
Although to his credit, Mr. Huntington had been discreet. Her uncle remained unaware of the incident, and she had received no letter from London informing her that she was the subject of gossip. If the man could hold his tongue, she might yet avoid a scandal.
Lily grimaced. “I shudder at the first impression I made. I can only comfort myself by hoping Mr. Huntington took me for a lunatic. People tend to excuse the insane. You don’t suppose he has forgotten the whole affair?”
“I very much doubt he will have forgotten you, Lily. The way he looked at you in the drawing room…no matter, he will not forget me either if I wear my blue…or no, my yellow gown, although perhaps that is too elaborate. What do you think?”
Lily made a show of looking her cousin over. “I think,” she tipped her head, “you will look lovely whatever you choose.”
Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “That’s no help. But I thought we could, well, coordinate?”
The sound of a vehicle coming up the drive bought them both to the window. A black coach slowed as the driver pulled smoothly back on the reins. The manservant seated beside the driver hopped off, folded down the steps and opened the door.
James Huntington stepped out. His dark green coat hugged his shoulders as he descended with easy grace onto the drive.
“Ooh,” breathed Isabelle.
Lily’s heartbeat quickened. Drat the man. It was going to be exceedingly awkward facing him again, much less traveling to Africa and back in his company. She leaned closer to the window.
Footmen busied themselves unloading a trunk and various bundles as Mr. Huntington disappeared beneath the portico.
“He’s here!” Isabelle turned, gave her cousin a quick embrace and whirled out the door.
Lily sank down onto the window seat. The sight of Mr. Huntington had made her feel rather peculiar. She must still be recovering from the shock of their first encounter. Whatever the case, he was not like that fragrant guide in the Pyrenees. He was not a hireling—he was a gentleman and a guest. Her aunt and uncle would insist on treating him like one of the family. Of all the bad luck.
She took a steadying breath. She could manage. What choice did she have? It was not as if she were some silly young girl. She had only to keep a clear head and pretend they had never had that unfortunate encounter by the front gate.
That evening Lily took extra care with her appearance, directing Bess to style her hair in the latest mode. It’s because of Isabelle’s expectations, she told herself, studying the effect of her up-drawn hair. The heavy mass of chestnut waves was difficult to coil into the sleek chignon, and Lily sighed as yet another strand escaped to tickle her bared shoulder. She had chosen her green satin gown, but was wondering now if she should change it for something more demure. I’m turning into Isabelle, she thought with a wry smile. The green would do quite well.
The chime of the dinner bell sounded through the hall, followed by a quick knock on her door.
“Come in, Isabelle,” she called without turning.
“How did you know it was me?”
Lily looked at her cousin’s reflection in the mirror. Isabelle’s pale yellow gown and burnished hair made her shine. “Who else? I’d hardly expect Richard to come escort me. You are all aglow like a narcissus, cousin.”
Isabelle curtsied. “And you are a forest sprite, Lily. That gown is very becoming.”
“Well then,” Lily said, rising, “let the flower and the fairy proceed to dinner.”
There was a tall figure on the landing as they approached. Mr. Huntington, dressed for dinner in a cognac-colored coat, lighter waistcoat, and tan trousers. Lily hesitated, then lifting her chin she marched forward. It was too late to hope he had not seen them.
He smiled, deepening the dimple carved in his cheek, and bowed as they approached. “The Misses Strathmore. May I have the honor of escorting you both down to dinner?”
Isabelle giggled. “Thank you sir, for the kind offer.” She set her hand on his sleeve and leaned close.
Inappropriately close. Heavens, they hardly knew anything about this man, and here was Isabelle dangling off his arm like a butler’s tea towel. Something would have to be done.
“Isabelle!”
Surprised, Isabelle dropped Mr. Huntington’s arm and turned. “What’s wrong?”
“Um…your hair.”
Isabelle’s hand flew to her head. “Oh dear. If you will excuse me, Mr. Huntington.” She dashed back down the hall.
Lily stepped forward and took his arm. It was fortunate that she had intervened. Her cousin was far too naïve. The girl had practically thrown herself into Mr. Huntington’s arms—second impressions indeed.
“Shall we proceed to dinner?” she asked. Mr. Huntington raised an eyebrow, but made no comment. She could smell the faint trace of soap and musk on his skin. His strong hand covered hers completely—odd how she could sense the slightest movement of his fingers against hers. And even stranger how that sensation made her heart beat faster. She glanced up into his amber-flecked brown eyes and for an awkward moment she could think of nothing to say.
“Miss Strathmore,” he said finally, “are you well?”
“Yes…no…it’s just…lovely weather we are having. Was your drive out a pleasant one?”
His gaze sharpened. “Are you sure there is nothing besides the weather you wish to speak of? You did send your cousin spinning off like a top. I assumed it was because you wanted to converse privately.”
She drew in a steadying breath. “What would we have to discuss?”
“I thought you might be concerned that I had spread the tale of our unusual introduction.”
“Really, Mr. Huntington.” Lily winced inwardly. He had her at a true disadvantage. “I was hoping you had forgotten the incident
in the excitement of your preparations.”
He looked down the empty hallways on each side of the landing then leaned so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin when he whispered, “I have not spoken of it to anyone, nor will I. But it is unlikely I will forget.”
A door opened nearby and he straightened. “And the weather was fine for the drive out.”
Dinner was the usual informally genteel affair. True to his word, Mr. Huntington made no attempt to bring the conversation around to their first meeting. Instead, he spoke vividly and entertainingly of the cities in the Far East he had seen as an officer stationed there, although Lily was too preoccupied by the encounter on the stairs to do much more than nod or smile when it seemed appropriate. She did manage to listen when the conversation turned to his grandfather’s estate. Mr. Huntington’s description of its extensive gardens and enormous glasshouse made it sound very much like a grand version of Brookdale.
“I understand that your grandfather made an unusual bequest of that estate to Kew Gardens,” Uncle Edward said. “A pity, really.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Huntington, setting down his fork. “Why so?”
“Because they will destroy it. Your grandfather’s collection of plants is the envy of every horticulturist in England, and Somergate is too remote to be attractive in itself. I expect it will be stripped of anything of botanical interest and the property leased out to generate income. There will be a good deal of infighting over his rarer specimens.”
Mr. Huntington looked genuinely pained. “Why didn’t my grandfather realize this? He devoted the latter half of his life to Somergate. I can’t believe he would willingly allow it to be destroyed.”
“I think he was rather blinded by his love for the place. He thought everyone would treasure it as he did. I’m afraid there were those who played upon that sentiment. In his correspondence he seemed desperate to see it preserved. Why he thought entrusting it to Kew would be preferable to the stewardship of his own heirs, I can’t understand.”
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