by Jane Goodger
“I’ll let you get on with your work, shall I?”
Nathaniel nodded and doffed his cap, nearly smiling when the girl frowned and wrinkled her brow adorably, then went to retrieve his spade, hope blooming in his chest that he would finally find the diamond.
“Well, Mr. Emory. Good day,” she called behind him. “I should like to see your garden design. Perhaps tomorrow you can show it to me.”
Still with his back to her, rudely, to be perfectly honest, he said, “Yes, miss.” Garden design? He hadn’t given that a single thought, but he knew one thing—whatever his design, it would require endless holes.
“Clara, come on,” called the younger sister.
He listened as the sound of her rustling skirts grew dimmer until he was left with only the sound of birdsong and his raging lust.
“Whatever were you talking about to our gardener?” Harriet asked, clearly vexed that Clara had taken so long.
“Gardening, of course,” Clara said, then tweaked her sister’s nose. “Horticulture is a ladylike pursuit and I was thinking that perhaps I should get involved before Mother turns the garden into a miniature version of the Royal Botanic Gardens.” They’d visited the gardens last year, and while they were lovely, Clara had been hoping for something a bit simpler. A curving gravel path lined with all manner of flowers, leading to a lovely bench where she might read. Topiaries were all the rage at the moment, but Clara did not care for them. Something about carving bushes into animal shapes seemed somehow undignified—for both the plant and the animal it depicted. She did hope Mr. Emory was not planning on any topiaries.
“I think Mother would much rather you practice the pianoforte,” Harriet said.
“That is a lost cause and you know it. You simply want to torture me by saying such a thing. What did Cook give us?”
“Beet salad,” Harriet said, then took off with a screech as Clara gave pursuit. She stopped when she was out of breath, still laughing, and Clara pretended to be angry.
“If there is even one speck of beet salad in that basket, I shall steal all the dessert and feed it to the gulls.”
“No, I swear. Not one speck. I asked for some, but Cook said there was none, more’s the pity,” Harriet said with an impish grin.
It was times like this when Clara didn’t understand how anyone could think Harriet plain. She was a little like that odd misshapen paperweight Harriet kept on her writing desk—ordinary at first glance, but with intriguing depths on closer inspection. To Clara, her sister was lovely in every way.
“I think I will get interested in gardening too,” Harriet said, “and tell him that beet greens are the latest rage in English gardens.”
Clara gave her sister a friendly shove, then continued down the long road to the beach.
“What shall I tell the gardener to plant? Other than beets, that is,” Clara asked. Harriet shrugged, and Clara playfully pressed down on her sister’s shoulders. “No shrugging, Miss Anderson. It is a gesture of the lower classes,” Clara said, mimicking perfectly their teacher at Mrs. Ellison’s Seminary for Young Ladies.
Harriet shrugged and shrugged until she was laughing so hard she could not shrug anymore. “We are the lower classes,” she said, still shrugging. Harriet stopped suddenly, then spun around, her eyes wide with mock horror as they turned a corner and saw a man ahead of them on horseback. “It’s the murderous earl,” she whispered frantically.
Clara widened her eyes to match her sister’s. “Do you think he means to murder us too?” Clara asked, giggling when Harriet narrowed her eyes.
“No, but Mother would love to hear that you met the earl by chance,” Harriet said.
Alas, the earl took a turn away from the road to the beach, and the girls trekked on.
In the beginning of her mother’s quest to find her a husband, Clara was careful never to let any gentleman know she favored him, mostly because she did not want to incite anyone’s interest in something that was a futile cause. When the baker’s son, Alfred, a young man Clara had admired, had come around asking for her to ride out with him, Hedra had been outraged by his audacity. She’d had a footman physically remove him from their house, humiliating him in the process. Clara would never forget the look on Alfred’s face, and she never wished to see another friend treated so.
“You will marry a titled gentleman or not at all,” Hedra had declared.
Now, six years after that unfortunate event, it appeared Clara would not marry at all. At twenty-four, she was not very far from being put to the back shelf; most of her classmates had already married, and many had children. Suitor after suitor was rejected out of hand, simply because he didn’t have the word “lord” as part of his name—or at least as part of his sire’s name. More than once Clara had hinted that no titled man would want to marry her, but that only resulted in copious tears and handwringing from her mother—and more than a bit of guilt from Clara.
When Clara was eighteen, after a particularly heated discussion at the breakfast table about the latest lad turned away, Harriet had said, “We should put an advertisement in the newspaper: Wanted: Titled gentleman in need of pretty girl with large dowry.” Hedra’s face had turned nearly purple with rage, and it wasn’t until Clara laughed and made as if it were the greatest joke that her mother’s color returned to normal.
Clara quickly learned it was better just to go along and hope that one day her mother would give up the quest to find her a husband.
When she was Harriet’s age, she allowed herself to take flights of fancy and imagined that a prince or duke might fall instantly in love with her, as her mother insisted would someday happen. Six years of being paraded in front of every titled gentleman that the Andersons could manage to get within a mile of had taken its toll. All the years of finishing school, her substantial dowry, her pretty face, meant nothing to a titled man who was looking for a suitable wife. Breeding meant more than anything, and if there was one thing Clara was missing, it was blue blood. Hers was about as ordinary as a girl’s could get, for it wasn’t all that long ago that her father was working as a tin miner and her mother was working in a bakery—when she wasn’t helping her parents at their pig farm.
Still, Clara could not bring herself to tell her mother that her efforts were futile. It hurt so much to see Mother sad, so Clara did what she could to make her happy. And if that meant going along, that’s what she would do and what she had been doing since she’d returned from finishing school, that bastion of manners for upper middle class girls who had heightened expectations.
“Oh, there’s Rebecca,” Harriet said, then lifted her skirts to hurry and catch up to her friend. She’d gone perhaps twenty feet before she realized Clara was still walking sedately toward the beach.
“Go on,” Clara called, smiling at her sister’s enthusiasm. Her shy sister seemed to break out of her shell when she was with her friends. Clara, on the other hand, had few close friends, mostly because there were few girls her age that her mother considered suitable. Her mother’s ambitions for her had the unfortunate result of making the local girls think Clara was a social climber, which she was, she supposed, even though she did not truly care if she married a gentleman—or know if she wanted to marry at all.
Clara stopped at the top of the stairs that led down to the beach, watching her sister’s progress, and wondered if there was something wrong with her own heart. She’d never been the least bit interested in any boy she knew, never mind finding herself in the throes of love. From what she’d seen, girls made complete cakes of themselves when they were in love. When she’d been in finishing school, her classmates had spent endless hours giggling about this man or that man, describing how their hearts beat faster and their stomachs went all aflutter. No one had ever made Clara’s stomach do anything but twist in worry or revulsion. Perhaps it was the sorts of men her mother had pushed toward her—widowers or men desperate to get their hands on her dow
ry.
She shook her head and pushed all those thoughts away. It was a lovely day, warm and sun-filled, and she was on her own without a chaperone to make certain she didn’t laugh too loudly or lift her skirt up too high so she could feel the cold sea wash up against her. She spied a perfect wentletrap and bent to pick up the shell, all thoughts of husbands and falling in love erased from her head.
With endless reluctance, Nathaniel realized that if he were to continue his ruse, he would actually have to begin planting…green things. St. Ives had no lending library and no bookstore, so Nathaniel had to travel to Penzance to procure a copy of My Garden, Its Plan and Culture by a bloke called Alfred Smee. He couldn’t help thinking that a man named Smee would certainly be the type who would enjoy gardening enough to write a book about it. Nathaniel much preferred books of adventure, so it was with great unwillingness that he opened the thick tome and began reading about how to create the perfect garden. Lord knew he had no experience with it.
As he picked up the book, he winced in pain from the blisters that were just starting to heal on his hands, and questioned, not for the first time, the sanity of his scheme. No matter how long and hard he thought, however, finding that diamond seemed to be the only way to begin to restore his properties and make sound investments that would ensure the future of the barony. The sun still shone brightly outside and he positioned himself by his quarters’ only window. It was a cozy little place, tucked behind a large storage shed on the edge of the property, and one he was glad to have. He had no desire to sleep on the third floor with the other servants. As it was, he could tell the others on the staff looked at him suspiciously and with a small bit of hostility, mostly because he spurned all offers of friendship. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly or a snob—Lord knew he had no right to any snobbishness given his current situation—but rather that it was safer all around if people let him be.
Part of him wished he was the sort of man who could allow all the Alford holdings to fall into complete ruin. More than once he wished he’d had the chance to ask his grandfather why he’d allowed his son to nearly decimate all they had. Rents had not been raised in more than twenty years, mostly because no improvements to the properties had been made. Nathaniel’s tour of their holdings shortly after his grandfather’s death had been more than depressing. The few tenants they had were ancient and no longer able to pay their rents at all; their children had left to work in mines or factories. More houses and farms lay fallow than were worked, and the income generated from rents hardly paid for the interest on the debt his father and grandfather had incurred. Any investments his grandfather had made had been divested by his father—with the blessing of his grandfather. He had vague recollections of his father urging his grandfather to take money away from one investment to put into another, the heated arguments, his grandfather finally relenting. When Nathaniel had turned twenty-one, he had gladly signed the deed of settlement, which in effect prohibited him from selling the last of their holdings. Everything was entailed for another two generations and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
It was his intention to systematically search every inch of the garden until he found the diamond, whether it took days or weeks, though he prayed it would not take nearly that long. The only alternative to finding the diamond would be to marry an heiress. Frankly, he’d rather have blistered hands and an aching back for a few days than marry. He was only twenty-five and hadn’t nearly had enough bachelorhood freedom to tie himself for life to some girl who could only attract a man because of her dowry. Just the idea of it, of selling his heritage to the highest bidder, was extremely distasteful. As long as he still had hope of finding that blasted diamond, by God, he would look for it.
Now, flipping through the gardening tome, he wondered if he had made a mistake. The Andersons’ garden now seemed endless—at least he could be certain he was searching on the correct property. His grandfather, for all that he’d died before giving him an exact location, was quite clear about the property on which he had buried the diamond.
He flipped to the dedication page of the gardening book and read: To Elizabeth, who had ever promoted my studies, shared my anxieties and cares, and participated with me in the delights of My Garden.
“What a load of hogwash,” Nathaniel muttered. He could not imagine anyone getting so enthralled in growing plants that he felt compelled to write a massive book—the thing held 736 pages—and enlist the help of his spouse. Poor Elizabeth, Nathaniel couldn’t help but think, tied to a man who likely cared more about fertilizer than her. Then again, perhaps “participated with me in the delights” held a naughty meaning. The book had just been published, which meant his friend Alfred Smee was likely still alive. If he discovered the diamond, he just might visit Mr. Smee and his lovely wife and thank them.
Scanning the contents, he skipped the boring stuff and went straight to the chapter titled, “The General Plan of My Garden.” Nathaniel had no guilt at the idea of copying precisely, inasmuch as he could, the gent’s plan. But it was soon obvious that what he was reading about was far beyond his capabilities; he would require an army of gardeners working on the Anderson property to accomplish one-tenth of what Smee’s garden held. And he was not about to allow an army of gardeners onto the property, where one of them might discover the diamond before he could.
Smee, it appeared, had planted vegetables in and around all the pretty stuff—not a very practical plan, Nathaniel thought. What was a maid to do if she was told to fetch a bunch of carrots? Fight the thorns of a rose bush to get to the edible bits?
He was beginning to think he might be in over his head, and his promises—made when he’d thought he would be in and out of the Anderson property in a matter of hours—had been a tad overstated.
Still, Nathaniel kept reading, hoping he would be able to muddle through long enough to fool the Andersons into thinking he was an actual gardener.
“Hello? Mr. Emory?”
He whispered a curse. He had hoped Miss Anderson hadn’t meant to oversee the construction of the garden, but it seemed she was paying him a visit as promised.
He went to his door and opened it to find her standing in silhouette just outside the shed. “Yes?” he asked as he made his way toward her, trying not to notice how the setting sun behind her only accented her shapely form. Instead, he thought about how very annoying it was that this young miss was interested in the garden. He did not want anyone in the household interested in anything he did, and so by the time he was standing in front of her, his expression was wholly uninviting. She came only to his chin, if one were to press down on the mass of hair piled on her head.
She looked at him warily, her eyes going from his hair, now uncovered and still damp from dunking it beneath the water pump, to his eyes, which were narrowed. He imagined he was quite a frightening sight to a young woman. “I thought I could look at your plans for our garden,” she said uncertainly. “I’ve given it quite a bit of thought.”
He stared at her, wishing he could tell her to go away, but there was something about her expression that made it difficult to send her off. Besides, she was the daughter of his employer; he could hardly be rude. “Let me get a pencil and paper,” he said, then turned and was surprised when he heard her following behind him. How very bold and improper of her. He turned and stared at her, and she pulled up short as if just then realizing she was walking toward his private quarters.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said, then smiled, and he tried hard not to be stunned into immobility by that smile.
He took up a piece of paper and pencil and, as an afterthought, the thick gardening volume. A footman had delivered the paper and pencil the day prior, but Nathaniel hadn’t thought to do anything with them. He had hoped he would not need to actually design a garden, that he would be on his way to London to find a gem expert and a buyer for his diamond. The girl was outside, sitting on the garden’s only bench, when he return
ed. Lord, she was a picture. The sun shining on her hair made it seem spun from gold; her skin held the blush of a perfectly ripened peach. Nathaniel stopped dead, and if he were alone, he might have laughed until he cried at the thoughts that had just gone through his head. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what her skin would be like beneath that fashionable gown of hers, smooth and soft and warm to the touch. And perhaps as tasty and sweet as that peach.
“What have you in mind?” she asked.
If only he could tell her, she’d likely run from the garden and never bother him again. Actually, if not for the threat of losing this position, he might have done just that. But the thought of her running, screaming into the house to get her father stopped him cold. He mustn’t forget why he was here. No dalliance, even with a girl as lovely as Miss Anderson, was worth losing the diamond. Then he realized something. He was not a man to her, he was a servant, and even the hint of a flirtation would be deemed not only improper but grounds for dismissal. He had to remind himself that he was not a baron, far above this girl’s station, but a gardener speaking to a girl who was far above his.
A soft floral scent teased him, and he stiffened, realizing she was close enough that he could smell whatever perfume she had applied that morning. The bench they sat upon was quite small, forcing them in close proximity, far closer than would have been deemed proper had he been a man calling on a lady. He pushed himself as far away as he could, but was still too close for comfort.
“Would you be more comfortable in my father’s office?”
“No,” he said, staring at the blank page before him. Nathaniel tried to recall something he’d seen in the book, then drew a square and pointed, using the book as a desk. “This be your house,” he said in an awful attempt to sound like a working man. He drew a winding path and little misshapen globs that in his mind were shrubbery and plantings. At the far end was the small pond, so small that it had only attracted an errant mallard or two since he’d begun. A few rectangles, a circle, and he was done.