My Darling Caroline

by Adele Ashworth

  She stifled a gasp as her heart began pounding fast and hard with uncertainty.

  “I—I thought you’d be gone,” she blurted shakily, dryly, hoping she sounded less startled than she was.

  Abruptly he turned. “Gone? I’ve only just arrived, Lady Caroline, and I’m transfixed already by your talent. Your woodbines and periwinkles are growing quite well with the density of soil you’ve chosen.” He creased his dark brows, reaching over the back of the table to lightly touch a leaf. “And are you attempting to cross the runners here? Difficult job, really. These scarlets are remarkably healthy for this temperature.”

  Suddenly she was awash with numbness. She could positively feel her cheeks pale as she became paralyzed with shock and unable to breathe.

  “I’d very much like to see your notes on your hydrangea variations as well. These don’t appear to be at all sterile,” he pleasantly added, apparently unconcerned with her silence and oblivious to her astonishment. He looked back to her face then, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “I was looking for a light to better view your work when you walked in. So far, I’m quite impressed. You evidently have as great an aptitude for growing vines as you do for breeding roses.”

  At that point she had to grab the desk to her left to keep from falling. She hadn’t seen him in nearly five years, had never been this close to the man. But in the gray stillness of late afternoon, in her greenhouse, she stood ten yards away from Sir Albert Markham.

  The room brightened as he lit one of the small lamps sitting atop the back table.

  “Much better,” he said agreeably. “Now let’s have a look.”

  He turned to face her again, and immediately she recognized her initial mistake. From the back he was her husband—tall, formidable, same coloring save for his hair, which was slightly darker. But from the front, he was obviously years older and didn’t resemble Brent as much as…

  Revelation struck her like a searing streak of lightning. Albert Markham’s features were masculine, but his face was a mirror image of her daughter’s.

  Caroline started shaking.

  He looked like Rosalyn.

  “Lady Caroline?”

  He looked exactly like Rosalyn.

  Suddenly, and almost too late, she realized she was going to faint. As quickly as she reached for the desk to catch herself before her knees buckled, the man was beside her.

  “Good heavens, dear lady, you’ve gone gray,” he expressed with immediate concern, placing his arm around her waist without second thought and helping her to one of the benches.

  “I—I’m carrying,” she mumbled, gulping for air, slowly lowering her body to the hard wooden surface.

  His voice and alert expression quickly conveyed surprise. “Oh, my. Brent didn’t inform me of that good news.” He sat heavily beside her. “Well, just…relax. Catch your breath.”

  She didn’t want to relax—she wanted to drown herself in a lake. Sir Albert was in her greenhouse, sitting next to her, holding her hand in a fatherly gesture, speaking to her, and in all the years she’d dreamed of having an intellectual conversation with this one man, the first words out of her mouth did nothing but remind him she was female.

  She was so incredulous she’d been slapped with stupidity.

  “I apologize, sir,” she whispered, trying to regain some control, some dignity.

  “Don’t apologize to me, my dear,” he reprimanded good-naturedly, patting her hand. “My nephew said you’d be surprised, and with that he should have informed me of your delicate condition.”

  “He doesn’t—” She caught herself, her eyes shooting back to his face.

  My nephew said you’d be surprised…

  And then she knew. His eyes—expressive, dark, hazel—piercing hers with clarity and intelligence. Rosalyn’s eyes. Brent’s eyes…

  “The Lady Maude was your sister,” she whispered.

  He seemed to grasp that she was concluding this now, for he blinked once, then leaned back to eye her speculatively. “Brent didn’t tell you about us, about Maude and me.”

  Caroline’s lips thinned, her face flushed. “My husband, sir, has more secrets in his tiny, insignificant mind than the entire British War Department has had on file since its inception.” She huffed with pure, disgusted outrage, lowering her gaze to the floor to murmur, “I’ll kill him.”

  Sir Albert laughed, deeply and wholeheartedly, squeezing her hand affectionately.

  “Don’t be so hard on him, Lady Caroline. He’s had a rather difficult life, and you must be the light of it or I wouldn’t be here at all.”

  That both confused and warmed her. As she grew more composed and sure of herself in this great man’s presence, the uncanny coincidences began to explode in her mind, and within seconds she was filled with questions. Before she could open her mouth to begin the inquisition, he started to answer them for her.

  “This was my greenhouse,” he disclosed softly, glancing around in remembrance.

  That one fairly knocked the wind out of her. She’d been working in Albert Markham’s greenhouse for months without that knowledge. Brent wouldn’t just die at her hands, he would die painfully.

  “I haven’t been inside it for nearly thirty years, though,” he continued, releasing her hand and sitting back casually, “not since my falling out with Maude.”

  “I—Forgive me, sir.” She turned her body to face him fully. “I’m not sure I understand any of this, why you’re here, why I’ve been sent here today, why my husband never mentioned you were his uncle.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “Truthfully, I’m quite stunned.”

  “You’re stunned?” he exclaimed, smiling. “I was shocked to see Brent walk into my office at Oxford yesterday to speak to me for only the second time in as many decades. And imagine my amazement when he informed me his wife was the woman who had sent me years of extensive studies on the very same rose I’ve pulled my hair out trying to create.”

  “But I sent you a letter and copies of computations and growth conditions more than a year ago, and you weren’t interested in my findings,” she quickly rebutted.

  He sighed loudly and waved his palm in annoyance. “Brent explained as much. I’m sorry, Lady Caroline, but my secretary answers all my correspondence through the university. He’s an annoying individual but efficient, so I keep him in my employ. Unfortunately, because of his efficiency, I never received your first letter and I certainly never had the opportunity to look over your findings. If I had, I would have been intrigued and more than eager to discuss them.”

  “I see…” she murmured, dejected.

  His voice and expression softened. “I know about your work, Lady Caroline, and quite frankly, I find it exceptional. You’ve made some remarkable discoveries, and your talent and knowledge are unsurpassed, from what I’ve observed today. Your garden is healthy and managed for this time of year, your breeding techniques are logical and convincing, and your crossings, some standard, some unusual, are challenging as well as productive. I also found myself utterly overwhelmed by the conclusive compilation of notes you sent last November. I’ve been a tutor for more than twenty years and never have I known a student more organized and, as it appears, more focused than you. I say this not because you are a woman or my nephew’s wife, but because you are probably the most gifted botanist I’ve come across in years.”

  Caroline beamed, dazed and, as the sincerity of his words seeped in, thoroughly touched. Clutching the folds of her pelisse in her hands, she attempted to remain composed. Sir Albert Markham was here, sitting beside her and telling her he thought she was gifted. This chance meeting was turning out to be more splendid and exciting than any botanical discovery. If she never worked as a scientist another day in her life, she would know that she had done something unique, respected among her peers, that her accomplishments were credible. Please, God, she prayed silently, please don’t let me start crying.

  “Did my husband tell you I’ve been studying your work for years?”

  H
e smiled again, leaning toward her. “Your husband is so proud of you I was certain he was nothing but a lovesick puppy embellishing fair success,” he mischievously confided. “That was, of course, until I realized he married the same woman who had sent me a bundle of notes she’d gathered regarding the now-famous lavender rose. The same woman who was one of the few to stand outside my classroom and listen to me lecture. Had I been allowed any liberties, madam, I would have gladly invited you and the other interested ladies to join us for our discussions inside the classroom, but alas, in our culture this is not permitted, and I must adhere to university rules.”

  She blinked. “You would have done that?”

  He chuckled. “My sister, if nothing else, forced me to look at life and women differently in my early years, but I should probably start at the beginning. If Brent hasn’t told you anything, you’re probably puzzled.”

  “Puzzled doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling at the moment,” she disclosed. “Flabbergasted would be more accurate.”

  He laughed again softly and leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring once again toward the other side of the room. So like her husband in stance, bearing, voice, and briefly she wondered why she had never recognized the similarities. Probably because she’d never been this close to him, hadn’t seen him in years, but more likely, because it was all so coincidental. Too coincidental.

  “My sister was only eleven months younger than I,” he began quietly, “but much more aggressive, more mischievous as a child. She always felt cheated, threatened by me, partly because we were so close in age, but mostly because we were different sexes and treated as such. From the time I can remember, Maude took this personally, feeling neglected by our parents, believing thoroughly that I received more love from them, more…liberties and respect. With each passing year, she grew more bitter and resentful of her sex, her station, and of me.”

  Slowly he stood and walked toward the oblong tables.

  “I became interested in plants at a very early age. I was fascinated, not by the flowers and their appearance, but by how they grew, their varied patterns, the intricacies of their individual and unique structures. I found myself more engrossed in them as the years went by, and finally, around the time of my fifteenth birthday, I knew I wanted to make botany my lifelong work.” He turned to her, resting his hip on the vines spilling over the thick slab of wood.

  “What started all of this,” he softly continued, gesturing to the room, “was Maude’s insatiable desire to have what I had. She wanted to be a botanist because I wanted to be a botanist, and felt she’d make a better one than I if only given the opportunity to prove herself. But Maude would never be able to do such a thing because she was disorganized, acutely self-centered, and undisciplined to a fault.

  “She was intelligent, but when it came to science, she was the kind of person who wanted answers given to her instead of working them out for herself. She had no original ideas, despised being told that she, God forbid, was wrong about anything, and had no patience when it came to learning something new. You and I both know that when it comes to botany, patience is not a virtue, it is a necessity. Absolutely essential to success.”

  Rain began to sprinkle atop the glass, creating a hollow, splattering noise, quenching the peacefulness inside.

  Gently Caroline shook her head. “I don’t understand how someone who wants something so badly wouldn’t work for it. Even if I had no talent whatsoever, I’d find myself in my green house every day because I love it.”

  Markham nodded and strode toward her, sitting once more on the bench. “Exactly, and that’s why I worked at it myself. You were born with a gift, Lady Caroline, and the love of the challenge and the science. I wasn’t born with the gift, but I, too, loved the challenge and the science. The only difference between you and me is that I must work harder at what comes naturally to you. This puts me at a slight disadvantage, but because I adore the work, I work harder for similar results. With all things in life, we each must accept and then deal with our own limitations.”

  He scoffed. “But my sister had neither the gift nor the desire to work. She fell into a fierce competition with me, only to lose because she never loved botany. She was not a scientist, was never born to be a scientist, but absurdly enough, she wanted to be a scientist because that was what I wanted for myself.”

  Caroline knew that the conflicts between siblings could be great. Indeed, she’d felt them herself over the years, especially with Mary Anne because of her gregarious nature, her exceptional beauty. But over time Caroline had grown away from the jealousies by finding the strengths in herself. Sadly, it appeared Lady Maude was never able to find herself because she was, ironically enough, so self-absorbed. Her jealousies became her enemy, the center of her hatred, only because she was too selfish to take an honest look at the qualities she alone possessed.

  “But more than all of her problems combined,” Markham stressed almost passionately, snapping her out of her contemplative thoughts by taking her hand once more, “my sister Maude despised the knowledge that she had no intrinsic gift. She had a green thumb, could make plants grow and gardens bloom when she took the time, but that was the extent of her ability, and it never came easily to her. Maude wanted everything in life to be easy.”

  “But inbred talents cannot be measured, Sir Albert,” she reasoned quietly. “Many noted botanists sometimes have trouble growing flowers—”

  “Exactly my point, dear lady,” he cut in. “I am one of those noted botanists, and my reputation, as humbling as the thought is, exists worldwide. But Maude hated the fact that botany didn’t come naturally to her, and she simply would not discipline herself enough to put forth the effort to learn and study as I did. She seethed with the knowledge that her achievements were strictly up to her and no one else, and she made me the cause of what eventually became her failures. She blamed me.”

  “As well as her children,” Caroline said dejectedly.

  “As well as her children,” he softly concurred. “It’s always easier to take out one’s anger by abusing those who are small, dependent, and under one’s complete control.”

  Caroline had no idea what to say to that sad truth.

  Markham sighed and released her hand. “In any case, I left her and Miramont—which was rightfully mine—nearly thirty-five years ago because I could no longer stand her resentfulness. Maude was a manipulator, and if she was gifted with anything it was the ability to make a person feel guilt. My parents felt guilty, and that’s why they had this greenhouse constructed for her. I was the one to use it, though, and she made me feel guilty because I did so. I was the botanist, but my father gave Maude the green house.”

  He snorted sarcastically, reminding her so quickly of her husband that she had trouble containing her sudden urge to laugh.

  “Eventually,” he continued, “realizing that my interests were not with marriage and family, but with teaching, I decided I didn’t want the estate, this greenhouse, or anything else that had to do with a sister who had come to despise me. So, without regrets, I gave everything to her and her husband, the former Earl of Weymerth. He hadn’t much in the way of property when they married thirty-six years ago, and truthfully, I think he suspected he’d one day inherit Miramont, since my life had moved in an entirely different direction by then. I also believe,” he added simply, “it’s the reason he wanted Maude for a wife. That, and the fact that she was physically beautiful and socially polished.”

  “And then you began tutoring at Oxford,” Caroline mumbled.

  “I didn’t tutor at first,” he corrected easily. “I studied on the Continent for a while, first in Paris, then Germany and Italy, eventually working my way to Northern Africa, where I stayed for three years before coming back to England. But I studied, Lady Caroline, and I worked hard. In 1799, I was knighted by King George for my accomplishments, having impressed those in the worldwide botanical community as well as His Majesty with my detailed analysis of breeding techniques—roses p
rimarily—and my extensive fifteen-year study of—”

  “Sterile vines…” she finished in a whisper, looking to the floor as she slowly stood. “I’ve also read most of your published works, sir, and have followed your studies very closely. I adore breeding roses because the flowers are so delicate and the colors so variable and lovely, but like you, I find great challenge in vines.”

  “They can be uniquely difficult,” he acknowledged.

  “Indeed they can,” she agreed, walking to the table to gaze down at the healthy, plush hydrangea. “I seem to be drawn to all things difficult, which makes me again wonder exactly why you’re here, Sir Albert.” Quickly she hugged her belly over her pelisse and turned to face him. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with my husband.”

  He regarded her closely for a long moment, then rubbed his jaw with his palm. “I think I’ll just let him explain everything in detail. He’s here, by the way, at the house.”

  Caroline felt her pulse escalate, her face flush. “Brent is here? At Miramont?”

  He grinned devilishly. “I told him I’d send you along at my leisure, and I’m certain he’s wearing a path in the rug just worrying about it. But again, don’t be too hard on him. He’s been through some rough times, and coming to me yesterday, inviting me back to my greenhouse, took courage. He and his sister are my only living relations, and I hear from Charlotte only once or twice a year.”

  She stared at him, her mind racing. Brent wanted her to come home, and going to Sir Albert, asking him to meet her, was his way of breaking the ice. And it was working, she had to admit, irritated at the weakness in herself. Her heart was melting.

  “So why hasn’t he spoken to you all these years?” Sarcastically she added, “I mean, my husband adores tossing people from his life; it nourishes his ego. But why you? Why for so long?”

  Markham breathed deeply and became serious again. “Well, he resented me because he felt I was the cause of his mother’s abhorrence of him. He didn’t really toss me from his life, though, or pretend I didn’t exist. He just didn’t have any reason to contact me through the years—”