by Syrie James
“Darrows,” was his reply.
“These are beautiful gardens, Darrows. We have nothing like them in the United States, and certainly none so old.”
“They be old enough, miss, fer certain. Go back centuries, these gardens do.”
She recalled Mrs. Mitchell mentioning that they only had one gardener. If the entire job of caring for this place fell to this elderly man, it was no wonder it was in its present state. “It was nice meeting you, Darrows.”
“And ye, miss.”
Alexandra continued on, soon finding herself in front of an old blue wooden door that was set into a long brick wall and sagged halfway open on its hinges. On the other side, she glimpsed an inviting tangle of undergrowth. Curious, she passed through the opening and made her way along a path bordered by dense vegetation and overhung by leafy trees covered in pink flowers.
The farther in she went, the more tropical the setting became. Eventually she came to a break in the trees. Before her stretched a wide blue pool, surrounded by a grove of the same pink-flowered trees and other tropical-looking plants, including numerous tree ferns. Birds chirped. Insects buzzed. Green lily pads clustered in spots on the surface of the water, and reed-like plants at the water’s edge were topped with buds of white, pink, and yellow flowers that threatened to burst into bloom.
“Oh,” Alexandra murmured, reveling in the sweet, floral scent that filled the air. She would never have guessed that such a place existed on the estate. It was like a secret jungle garden.
At the same time, she became aware of movement from one of the flowering trees a few yards away. Despite the lack of a breeze, one of the branches was swaying and rattling. Below it, piles of leafy branches looked as if they’d been ripped from the tree itself.
Suddenly, the waving branch toppled to the ground with a crash, partially exposing a man who was standing beneath the canopy, wielding a pair of pruning shears. Well, Alexandra thought, it seemed that Polperran House had more than one gardener, after all.
A few more movements with the pruning shears, however, brought down another limb, and with it the revelation of the man responsible.
It was the Earl of Longford himself.
Alexandra’s heart skittered despite herself. Beneath a jaunty felt hat, his face was smudged with dirt and glowed with sweat. Tight-fitting dark trousers emphasized the leanness of his hips and thighs. The sleeves of his dirty white shirt were rolled up past his elbows, once again exposing the sun-kissed muscular forearms that she had so admired when he’d painted her.
So this explained where his tanned coloring came from. It was because he worked out in the sun. But what was an earl doing trimming his own trees?
As she stood gaping, Longford turned and saw her. His eyes widened. “Miss Watson.”
She had to remind herself that, even though he was dressed like a groundskeeper and was trimming a tree, he was an earl. She dipped a curtsy. “My lord.”
Ducking beneath a low branch, he skirted around the piles of scattered limbs and crossed the bank toward her. She supposed it wasn’t entirely proper for them to be alone together like this, in such a remote part of the gardens—but she’d never expected to see him here. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the curly golden hair that covered his upper chest. Which was also glowing with perspiration. Dear Lord. Even dirty and sweaty, he was a specimen of exquisite masculine beauty.
Alexandra felt her cheeks flush as he approached, recalling the dream she’d had about him that morning. Thank goodness he couldn’t guess what she was thinking. His own expression was equally difficult to interpret. As he looked her over, his eyes and the tilt of his mouth seemed to convey an odd mixture of frustration and pleasure. He commented under his breath, something that sounded like “If thoughts were a magnet.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head slightly as if to clear it, then said more audibly, “You are quite the adventuress, Miss Watson, to have found this place.”
Alexandra willed her heart to stop thumping as she groped for words. “How is it that a place so tropical exists in England?”
“This sort of garden is not uncommon in Cornwall. Our climate is typically warmer than the rest of the country.”
“Well, it’s beautiful. I feel like I’m in paradise.”
“An apt description. I have loved this spot since I was a boy. I think I am the only person who comes here now.”
She gestured toward the piles of broken branches on the ground. “I see you are pruning?”
“The rhododendrons require regular maintenance, or they take over.”
“An unusual activity for an earl.”
He frowned at her now. “You disapprove?”
“Not at all. I’m merely making an observation.”
He took a long breath and blew it out in a huff. “I was holed up all morning in my study, going over the accounts of the estate. I can only take so much of that without going mad. I wanted to do something useful. Thus . . .” He nodded toward the trees.
“You made excellent progress. I’m sure Darrows will be impressed.”
“You have met Darrows?”
“I have. He seems like a good fellow.”
“Darrows is wonderful. He has worked for our family since he was a boy in short pants. His father was head gardener, and his grandfather before that. He is so old now, he really should retire. I can only afford one gardener, and I would be far better off hiring someone young, energetic, and fit, but . . .”
“But?”
“His wife and child are gone. He has nowhere else to go. Apparently, he wants to die standing on a ladder and clipping something, and who am I to tell him no?” He cast her a small, shrugging smile.
“It is kind of you to keep him.”
“It makes him happy, gives him purpose. And it does not really matter in the long run, since the whole garden is going to rack and ruin anyway.” He briefly removed his hat, raking his fingers through his hair as if to cool off his head. “So,” he went on, changing the subject, “what brings you here, so far from the house? Have my sisters treated you so ill that you were obliged to escape?”
“No, I think Julia and I made a decent beginning with her studies today. She wanted so badly to go riding this afternoon, I allowed it. I’m mortified, though, that I have yet to meet Lillie! I think I found one of her hiding places, but was loath to force her to come out.”
“Well, she is shy.” He didn’t sound concerned, or ask where the hiding place was.
Alexandra frowned. “Are you aware that Lillie often takes her meals in the kitchen with the staff?”
“Mrs. Mitchell mentioned something about it.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“No.”
“No one seems to know where she goes or cares what she does all day. She could be in danger for all we know.”
“I doubt that, Miss Watson.”
His lack of interest in his sister’s welfare was infuriating. “You hired me to teach both of your sisters. How am I to do so, if Lillie doesn’t show up?”
“Give it time. Surely you have run into this kind of thing before? First day on the job and all?”
“Well,” Alexandra began, wishing she could tell him the truth: that she’d never run into this kind of thing before, because she’d never been a governess before, or had a first day on the job of any sort. “Not really.”
“I used to hide from the governess on a daily basis when I was a boy.” He flashed her a mischievous grin.
The merriment in his eyes was so infectious, it speared straight through Alexandra’s indignance. She gave him a reluctant half smile in return. “You say that with pride.”
“I think I spent half of my childhood in some far-flung, forgotten corner of the house, or in these gardens on my own. Supervised instruction is necessary, but a child also needs some alone time, do not you think?”
“Yes. But—”
“When Julia goes riding, Lillie may roam
free as well, as long as they both return at a given time. It will be beneficial for all concerned.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I just pray Lillie makes an appearance soon.”
“I am sure she will.”
“I wish I shared your confidence.”
Removing his hat again, Longford wiped his perspiring forehead with the back of his forearm, an action that drew Alexandra’s attention to his eyes. A sudden realization struck her, bringing a memory with it. He must have noticed her looking at him strangely, because he said, “Is something wrong?”
“No. Yes. It’s just that . . . you’re not wearing eyeglasses.”
He paused. “True.”
“And you weren’t wearing them yesterday, on the train.”
“On the train?”
“Not long after we boarded, you removed your spectacles. Yet you spent most of the journey reading.”
He flushed slightly but didn’t comment.
“And there was that time in London when you were painting me, and forgot to put on your glasses.” She thought about the portrait in the gallery, in which he was clean-shaven and long-haired, but not wearing glasses. All at once, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “You don’t need eyeglasses at all, do you?”
Longford replied tersely, “No.”
“The fake eyeglasses, your mustache, the short hair . . . is it so people in London won’t recognize you?”
He smiled grimly. “You have figured me out, Miss Watson.”
“But why? Why would you go to such lengths to disguise yourself?” Even as she asked the question, the answer finally occurred to her. “Oh,” she said, now recalling something Madame Dubois had told her, and what she’d gleaned from people she’d met during the London Season. “Oh. I see. I understand.”
Chapter Eleven
Thomas had known, of course, that Miss Watson would figure it out. It was only a matter of time.
More surprising, though, was the fact that she was standing here before him. After a nearly sleepless night, in which he’d been unable to banish the lovely Miss Watson from his mind, he had ventured here, to the farthest corner of his estate, to vent his frustration with physical labor.
It was the last place he had ever expected her to find him, and yet here she was. A vision of loveliness, her sienna hair sparkling in the sunlight beneath her bonnet, her luscious curves accentuated beneath the confines of that awful black dress. Thank God he’d agreed to buy her a new gown. The sooner it arrived, the better.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared out over the sparkling blue pool, trying to keep his voice even, to ignore the longing that stretched his every nerve. She seemed to suspect the reason behind his little deception, but he felt he owed her a fuller explanation. “You have seen the condition of my house, Miss Watson, and the deplorable state of my gardens.”
She nodded.
“As you have no doubt gleaned, my income is insufficient to maintain this vast property. My chimneys and rooftops are crumbling. The lighting and plumbing are decades out of date. The furnishings are ancient and threadbare. But how am I to acquire the money I need to repair and improve them? Any attempt to engage in an honest occupation—”
“Like painting portraits,” Miss Watson interjected quietly.
“Like painting portraits for hire. God forbid we should in any way associate ourselves with the middle or lower classes by accepting money for a service rendered. That would be vulgar. That would be unseemly.”
Miss Watson nodded again. “That would be considered trade.”
Her expression was so perceptive and deeply felt, it cut straight through Thomas’s wall of bitterness and made his heart turn over.
Reminding him once again of why he had gone to such lengths to avoid her all day.
It had been a means of self-preservation. He could not be around her, could not talk to her, without wanting to touch her. Even now, standing three feet away, discussing a subject that never failed to infuriate him, he longed to take her hand, pull her close, touch her cheek, discover if her skin was as soft as it appeared. And then kiss her.
He had hoped that whacking away at those trees would distract him, but it had been a futile exercise. His head had been full of her the entire time he was working. And then she’d found her way here. As if his thoughts were a magnet that had drawn her.
“It is the exact opposite of the way we do things in America.” Miss Watson’s voice cut through his thoughts. “There, men are rewarded for hard work. A man can earn enough in a single generation to rise from poverty to exceptional wealth, and be respected for it.” She looked troubled suddenly, as she went on, “Yet even in America, the highest levels of society can be snobbish and exclusive toward the nouveaux riches.”
“The great irony is, were I not the heir—had I been a second or third son—I would have been obliged to find a profession. From a short list of those occupations considered suitable for our class, that is.”
“Portrait artist not being among them.”
“Unfortunately, no.” He sighed. “Recently, I had to sell some of my family’s prized paintings and other collectibles to cover expenses. I couldn’t bring myself to sell the books yet.”
“The books! Oh, I hope you do not have to sell those.”
“I hope so as well. At this point, though, it would require a king’s ransom to make even a dent in the improvements my property requires. But I could not sit idly by and watch the place fall into utter disrepair. Two years ago, I decided I had to do something.”
It felt strange to be discussing this with her. He hadn’t opened himself up like this to anyone in years, and certainly never to an employee. But for some reason, he felt compelled to go on. “The portraits do not bring in much. But they help keep a few servants employed, make it possible for the tenants to go on about their lives. I hope that as my reputation grows, I can raise my fees, which will allow me to put a bit away towards my sisters’ dowries.”
“I admire your determination, and applaud your decision to circumvent convention. But aren’t you afraid you’ll run into someone you know in town?”
“I have spent very little time in London before now. There are hundreds of earls in this country, and Carlyle is a common name. There is the worry that I might run into an old acquaintance from school. Which is why I keep my head down when I am in town, take commissions by word of mouth, and rarely go out. So far, the mustache, glasses, and shorter hair seem to be working. I have found that no one looks too closely at the artist who paints their portrait.”
An odd expression crossed her face. “People see what they expect to see.”
“Exactly.”
Her mind seemed to drift elsewhere for a moment. “When we arrived yesterday,” she commented finally, “you said you don’t even want anyone here to know about the portraits you paint in London.”
“Servants talk. If they knew, word would get out, and could easily travel to town.”
“I see. But you’re so good at what you do. I hope you paint here as well, for pleasure?”
He felt his lips tighten. “If I had my way, Miss Watson, I would never pick up a brush again. I paint only because I have to. I no longer get any enjoyment from it.”
“But—why?”
“I think I have said enough on that subject.” Gesturing toward the pile of branches on the ground, he added, “And I have done enough damage for today. It will take Darrows a week to clean this up. May I accompany you back to the house?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Thomas led the way back down the narrow path, pausing now and then to hold aside branches so Miss Watson might pass by.
“How long have things been so bad, financially?” she asked as they walked. “If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I do not mind. It is common knowledge in these parts. It began with a fire about a hundred years ago that destroyed the entire west wing of the house. My great-grandfather could not afford to rebuild that wing, so it was removed.�
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“Oh! Is that why Polperran House is shaped like a U?”
“Yes. It used to be a square. Four wings around a central courtyard.”
“Why is it called Polperran House?”
“It is an old Cornish name. Pol in Cornish means a pool, no doubt named after the very pond where you found me. Perran is the patron saint of tinners. Tin mining has long been a staple industry in Cornwall.”
“So I’ve read. What a shame about the fire.”
“It caused a great deal of interior damage to the adjoining wings. Untold sums were spent to repair and refurnish them. The family debt only increased after that. My grandfather and father were both given to too much drinking, and could never resist an evening at cards. Then there was the custom-made billiards table from Italy, the collections of French and Chinese porcelain, elaborate fountains in the gardens. The Longfords are proof positive that when you combine rampant overspending and gambling with an agricultural recession, you can run a family fortune into the ground in three generations.”
“I’m so sorry. You deserved better.”
“I do not know what I deserved.” Thomas frowned. “I always had the sense, growing up, that my family had financial problems, although my father tried to hide it. My first proof was when, while I was at Oxford, he sold our London townhouse, which had been in the family for a hundred and fifty years.”
“So that’s why you stay at Mrs. Gill’s in town.”
“Yes. But it also served my purpose as an excellent cover.” He shrugged, continuing, “In any case, I did not understand the true depth of our troubles until my father cut off my allowance and I was obliged to return from Italy.”
“How long did you study in Italy?”
“Two years. The best two years of my life.” They reached the blue door and continued walking side by side along the hard-packed dirt path, stepping over the tangled roots of trees and shrubs. “I was furious at first that my father had called me home from an enterprise I so enjoyed.”
“I know exactly how you felt. I loved college, found it so challenging and intellectually stimulating, and then my mother forced me to leave so that—” She broke off, her face coloring.