Winning Violet

by Becky Lower

  The air almost dripped with moisture, even though the weather in the English countryside had improved slightly with no rain adding to his discomfort. Still, the air both outside and inside the greenhouse played havoc with his congested chest. He held in the threatening cough, wiping his nose as he wove his way silently, and a bit unsteadily, through the roses, touching dark shiny green leaves and soft, creamy petals in more hues than he’d ever seen before. He couldn’t truly enjoy the musky fragrance emanating from the plants, since his nose was still clogged, but he could discern some smell even in his compromised state. However, he could see and appreciate the bountiful display of plants in front of him.

  The roses’ color palette in the greenhouse started with white as soon as one entered. From there, the colors ran from cream to yellow, then palest pink, dark pink, red, and purple, with every shade and depth of color well represented. And in a most orderly fashion. His gaze took in the colorful display. Miss Violet Wilson had a real flair for organization, with her roses marching in perfect arrangement and symmetry. Parker had a sudden urge to stick a yellow rose in the midst of the purple ones just to see how long it would take before his subterfuge was noticed and corrected.

  He shook his head. His plans were to disturb Miss Wilson as little as possible. Or maybe to get under her skin a bit, if his urge to mix things up was any indication. She had been a dichotomy when they’d met. From what little he could remember, she’d presented a frosty exterior even while the air crackled between them as they’d stared at one another. Touched one another. It had been a long time since he’d been affected by a woman’s touch. His reaction had startled him. He gave it some thought while he lay in a strange bed, in a strange house, in a strange country. Maybe his reaction to her had been the result of all the foreign things he’d faced in the past three days. Perhaps her touch and the bolt of energy between them had been what had made him pass out in a most unmanly fashion. Well, he wished for nothing more from Miss Wilson other than the knowledge she could impart, regardless of the bolt of current that had erupted between them. Or at least a bolt of current had erupted in him. He had no idea what Miss Wilson had felt, since he’d passed out upon touching her.

  From their encounters while he’d been in his sickbed, though, she’d made her case very clear without actually saying anything untoward. She didn’t care for him being in her space. Which happened to be fine with him, because he didn’t care for being in her country. He hoped to intrude on her only long enough to learn what he needed about hybridizing, and to maybe get some guidance from her on Mr. Jefferson’s proposed rose garden. Any attempt to get acquainted with Violet, to express an interest in her, would only set back his timeline on returning to America, which hadn’t gotten off to the swiftest start as it was. And it wouldn’t replace everything the British had already taken from him. The best course of action was to be cordial and businesslike so they could wind up his agenda items swiftly.

  Then, he’d be off, back to America, and they’d never have to see each other again. Yes, despite his initial positive gut reaction to Violet, the livery man’s warning played in his head again. Lovely and prickly, so be on yer guard. There had to be something to the statement, regardless of the man who said it. Evidently, the reputation of the Mulberry Hill sisters had made its way even as far as Portsmouth. What about her made his mind object to his sound plan? She had long brown wild curls, tied back from her face with a pale pink bow in an attempt to tame them, expressive blue eyes that shot daggers at him, soft fingers that curled around his hand, and a gentle touch when she applied the salve to his head wound. Yes, he had been awake enough to feel her taking extreme care with him. If he hadn’t been so ill, he would have enjoyed her tender touch.

  The cough rolled up his throat. He clamped his teeth closed, holding his handkerchief to his mouth, but he couldn’t stop his body’s response. The hacking sound exploded from his mouth like a dog’s bark.

  Cough, cough, cough.

  He doubled over as the violence seized his lungs and gripped him tight. His eyes watered and his body shook from the force. He held on to one of the tables full of roses in order to keep his balance.

  Violet scurried from her office area at the sound and rushed to his side in the middle of the greenhouse, touching his arm.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Sinclair? Judging from your cough, of course you’re not. Why are you even here? I was told you’d be abed for at least one more day.” He picked up only frost and annoyance when she spoke to him, but also a bit of worry. Even in his present compromised state of unending coughing, he noticed how her touch warmed him. Well, yes, he had picked up on the way sparks shot from her fingers when they’d touched him, but he’d failed to notice any warmth the first time they met. He glanced up at her now with tears in his eyes from his attack, unable to say a word.

  “Oh dear. You need to sit and get some hot tea into you. Here, come into my office.” She led him by the arm to a corner of the vast greenhouse and plunked him into a chair. He continued to cough and fight for breath, so he couldn’t argue with the woman. But he could keep track of her movements as she bustled about, putting a teakettle on the wood stove whose main purpose was to warm the air. Her lithe body performed a symphony of motion as she prepared the drink, drizzling honey into the hot water along with the tea. By the time he got his lungs to cooperate, he had a mug of fragrant tea in his hands, and Violet had retreated behind a big desk, where she cast a worried glance his way.

  “You don’t sound at all well, Mr. Sinclair.” Her gaze met his bleary one. “You should have taken another day and rested.”

  He could swear her eyes were blue yesterday when she cared for him in his sickbed, but today, in this light, and in his present teary state, they appeared to be purple, almost as violet as her name. How could he have forgotten her name, even for a few hours? It suited her well. He stared at her, slack-jawed, his mind as bleary as his vision, before he straightened in his chair and inhaled sharply.

  “England’s blasted damp weather is the culprit, I’m afraid. I much prefer the climate in my own country.” His voice croaked as he raised his mug to her. “I appreciate the hot tea with honey. You English have the notion that tea is the antidote to everything, but in this case you are spot on. The hot liquid is helping.”

  “What is the climate in your country? Is it so different from England?” Violet’s blue, or purple, eyes danced. He struggled to focus.

  “It’s a huge, vast country with all types of climates.” Parker spread his hands wide to show the breadth of America before covering his mouth as he coughed again.

  “And you can grow roses there?” She lowered her lashes, not being coy, but rather as if reluctant to meet his gaze, to show her interest.

  “Yes, in some parts.” Parker tried to suppress a smile and failed. “The rose border I’m creating for Mr. Jefferson will be at his plantation in Virginia, where the climate is mild with adequate rain. It’s a perfect environment for roses, and he needs a rather large display.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Jefferson, your president.” Her eyes grew large as she faced him, not even making an effort to hide her interest. “The one who owns all those slaves.”

  Parker cringed slightly. Was Jefferson’s ownership of slaves the only thing the British knew about the man? Slavery held no appeal to Parker either, but he kept his opinions to himself, especially in front of Mr. Jefferson. “He’s no longer president. And yes, he needs a huge workforce to operate his lands, since the man is still very much involved in politics, as well as inventing all kinds of things and writing. His mind never stops.” Parker’s voice gave out and he once again was racked by a coughing fit.

  Blasted English weather. If he survived this trip, and learned for certain the color of Violet’s eyes, he’d be a happy man. A tall order, on both counts, because he’d never been so sick before, and it had been a long time since he’d been happy.

  • • •

  “Oh dear. There you go again.” Violet glided over to
the wood stove. “Let me refresh your tea.” She took the mug from Parker’s fingers and filled it with hot water and a dollop of honey. “I have something else that may help, too. Just a moment.” She left the confines of the office and dashed to the outer portion of the greenhouse, returning a few minutes later. When she strode back into the room, she noticed Mr. Sinclair had risen from his chair and now stood in front of her hastily made calendar. Stitches and biscuits!

  “Here, take these.” She placed some dried licorice root into his hand. “It not only tastes good and sweet, but it will help keep you from coughing, too.”

  He glanced at the chips in his hand, and then his gaze rose to her face.

  “Go on. It’s licorice, not poison. You’ve only been here a few days.” She tried for a smile.

  “So you hold off on the poison until someone’s been here a while? What’s your timeline? A week?” Parker attempted to chuckle but coughed instead.

  “Trust me, no one’s lasted with me as long as a week. Go on, put one in your mouth. I’m tired of hearing your cough.” Violet urged him to take the medicine, in part to keep him from commenting on her calendar.

  Finally, he popped a piece of licorice into his mouth. His body radiated heat, warming her like the wood stove. Did the man have a fever? He swayed. She jumped to take hold of his elbow. “You need to sit.”

  He plunked down into the chair and raised his cloudy gaze to her. “Thank you for your assistance this morning, as well as the past few days. I do feel better now than I did upon my arrival.”

  “You still should be in a bed, not sitting in a humid greenhouse,” Violet exclaimed and then had a vision of him as he had been in the guest bed yesterday afternoon, when she’d taken over his care from Iris. Even in his compromised state, he had a commanding presence. Very unsettling. Her entire body quivered slightly.

  “I can’t afford to waste time. Mr. Jefferson wants the roses planted as soon as possible, and Mr. McMahon expects me to return before the planting season begins with the other merchandise I’ll purchase here. But, I agree, my head is too fuzzy to absorb any of your teachings today.” Parker coughed, but only slightly. The licorice had soothed his throat.

  Violet brushed a hand down the front of her apron to calm herself and took her seat behind her desk. “Well then, since you insist on being here, what shall we talk about?”

  “Tell me about your family.” Parker raised his gaze to her. “How you all fit into the business. I’d prefer to have some idea in advance the kind of evening I’m in for, since I’m to dine with you tonight.”

  “Surely we can put off your introduction to my rather raucous family until another night.” Violet’s gaze met his, and she narrowed her eyes. “You are in no shape to be assaulted by my sisters.”

  “Well, I must eat. And I’ve been told I bounce back quickly from adversity, so I expect to be fine by this evening. I’m most anxious to meet them.” Parker covered his mouth as he coughed yet again. Or had his movement been to cover his grin?

  She smiled slightly. “What were you told?”

  Parker shrugged. “The man at the livery mentioned there were four of you.”

  Violet’s smile became a grin. “I’ll bet he told you much more than that. What else did he have to say?”

  Parker rolled his shoulders and squirmed. “He did mention how attractive you all were. And that you were an uncommon bunch.”

  Violet grimaced at his statement. “All right, fair enough. I’ll give you a brief introduction to each of my sisters. You can barely stand, as is, between your injured leg and your befouled lungs, so we’ll put off touring the greenhouse for the present.”

  He burrowed into the chair, shifting to make himself comfortable, and stared at her expectantly. She stared back at him, wondering where to begin. Chronologically made the most sense.

  She ticked off her sisters’ names on the tips of her fingers. “All right. First, there’s Iris. You met her already, because she helped me get you down the hill and into the house and took care of you part of the day yesterday. But you probably only barely registered her in the room, because you were so ill. She’s the eldest and handles Father’s accounting.”

  Parker nodded. “I vaguely recall her telling me I’d lost my sense of humor.”

  Violet stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Well, she had just finished a shift in your sickroom. Then, there’s myself, second in line. Lily is the third daughter.”

  Parker raised his hand and she stopped her recitation. “You didn’t give me a description of your duties, as you did Iris. Do you have more than one greenhouse under your command?”

  Violet squirmed in her seat. She had hoped she could gloss right over herself. What could she possibly say? “You don’t need a description of my duties, since you can see for yourself what I’m about. The rose house is the only greenhouse I maintain.”

  Parker shook his head. “But why has this become your domain? Iris must be very organized, if she handles the books. What character trait makes you suitable to handle a greenhouse full of such sweet-smelling plants? Is it because you’re so sweet? ”

  She glanced away, searching the room for an answer. Then, she took a short breath, puffing out her cheeks. “Hardly because I’m too sweet, Mr. Sinclair. You’ll undoubtedly find out for yourself how mistaken you are if you’re to be here for a month. I’m meticulous, I guess. I love keeping track of when I planted the cuttings or when I pollenated a shrub, and then seeing the results of my work.”

  Parker nodded his agreement, and Violet decided she could now continue. “Next in line is Lily. She enjoys working outdoors and dresses in men’s clothing when she does so.”

  Parker chuckled.

  “Last is Poppy. She’s only fourteen and isn’t certain where she’ll fit into the business yet. What about you? Do you have brothers or sisters? A wife and children?”

  Parker’s eyes closed, and he ran his hand over them. “No, no siblings. No wife. No child. I have no one.”

  When he made eye contact again, Violet read the pain in them. What had she said to cause an unpleasant memory? Did she even care? Time to shift the conversation to a more businesslike topic.

  She stood. “Your cough has subsided somewhat, so I can at least give you a quick tour of the greenhouse this morning and show you what I’m working on.”

  He drained the last of his tea and stood as well. “Yes, I am most curious about your work. Especially what you’re doing with hybridizing roses. A tour would be quite nice.”

  Violet let her gaze wander down Parker Sinclair’s front side. Strong, muscled arms and shoulders, a chest that narrowed at his waist, slim hips. Other than the bum leg, his body conveyed strength and good form. If he were a rose shrub, he’d be considered healthy stock. Although she’d be tempted to cut off the bad appendage in the interest of the whole. Or at least put it in a splint. She shook her head at her outrageous thoughts and brushed past him. She didn’t need to find out any more than she had to about the bloody American. About how he’d gotten his limp. She just needed to do her job as quickly as possible and send him packing.

  Chapter Five

  Parker followed Violet into the main greenhouse, lulled by the sway of her skirts. He’d always loved the sound his wife’s skirts had made as she’d dashed from one task to another. Funny how his fuzzy brain latched onto that particular memory. In a foreign country with a strange woman and sick as the proverbial dog, and all his mind could conjure up was the sound of his dead wife’s skirts. And even though the memory made his heart ache, perhaps that little slice of heaven would help get him through his task and back on American soil. He rubbed his chest as he followed along behind those comforting skirts. He held a firm belief God created only one woman for each man, and he’d found his already, years ago. Until a band of marauding British soldiers invaded their town and destroyed all he held dear while Parker was off fighting the war.

  Since the war, he’d concentrated on learning the nursery business and getting by. Thomas
McMahon, younger than Parker by several years, leaned on Parker heavily to keep his father’s nursery running and showing a profit after his father’s untimely death. Parker had been sent to England to handpick the roses for Mr. Jefferson’s garden and also to learn the groundbreaking techniques of hybridizing being achieved by Mulberry Hill Nursery. He was gratified by the faith placed in him, but all he really wished for was a speedy return home. A tour of Miss Wilson’s greenhouse could be marked off his rather formidable list after today. He’d see how the British laid out their greenhouses and if they were so different from the American way of doing things.

  Parker shifted his bleary gaze from Violet to the sweet-smelling flowers in the greenhouse, all set in orderly rows. Even in his compromised state, he caught a faint whiff of their familiar odor and started to unwind. Here, he could feel most at home, most relaxed. His fingers brushed leaves both fuzzy and shiny, petals that were whisper-soft, and his heart rate settled into a nice, even pace, his muscles beginning to uncramp. He needed to spend time amidst the roses when his nose wasn’t quite so stuffed, to lean over and inhale their musky fragrances to truly feel at one with the world again. His senses would go into overload once he regained his health.

  Violet led the way to a small area off the main floor of the greenhouse. Here, all the plants were in small containers on shelves, with drying racks hung from the ceiling. The racks were chock full of various herbs. Violet picked up a container and carried it to him.

  “Can you smell this, or are you still unable?” She held out the plant for him to sniff. He obliged her and got a whiff of a strong, pungent odor, which made his head snap back.

  “That scent certainly cut through my congestion. What is it?” He touched a shiny, waxy, narrow leaf, his curiosity aroused.

  “It’s from India and is extremely rare in England, at least currently. It’s called cardamom and is in the ginger family. The flowers are pretty, but the seed pods are the golden part of the plant.” Violet stroked her finger lovingly over a plump pod as she spoke.