Diamond in the Rough

by Jane Goodger

  Clara didn’t care about the whys of their invitations, she only knew that receiving them made her mother ecstatic and so she was on her best behavior when they visited the Crocker estate. Conversation drifted, as it often did, to people and places Clara did not know, and so she plastered a polite smile on her face and let her mind wander to more pleasant topics. At the moment, that would be her garden. Or rather, her gardener.

  It was wrong of her, she knew, to admire a servant’s physical attributes, but it seemed she couldn’t help herself. The odd flutter she felt inside when she looked at Mr. Emory seemed to be growing daily and she could only recognize it for what it was: She was getting a bit spoony over him. It would probably be a good idea to stop spending so much time in the garden, but the thought of that was quite depressing. And it wasn’t only that Mr. Emory was so fine looking, but that she quite liked gardening. Not only did it allow her to be out of doors, but she gained a great deal of satisfaction when she returned to the garden and saw the results of her hard work. Her roses were lovely and the garden itself was getting more beautiful each day.

  “I would love to walk in the garden with your daughter, Mrs. Anderson.”

  The reed-thin voice of Lord Foster sliced through her thoughts and brought her back to the room where she sat pretending to listen to the conversation around her. Clara forced herself to keep her smile.

  Lord Foster stood and offered up a wrinkled, rather yellow-looking hand. “Shall we, Miss Anderson?”

  “Of course, my lord.” She stood sedately and walked toward the leering old goat, willing him to look up past her breasts and into her eyes. Then, perhaps, he might read what she was thinking behind her smile. Alas, no, he continued to stare at her breasts, even though her dress was quite modest. “If you will excuse us,” Clara said to the small gathering.

  Lord Foster, snifter still in hand, accepted a refill from a footman before offering his arm, which Clara took. When Clara had told Mr. Emory that Lord Foster was odiferous, she was not simply trying to be amusing. He did stink, an odd assortment of old, unwashed flesh and awful cologne that was meant to mask the smell of him. Clara swallowed and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible until they were out of doors.

  “How are your children, my lord?” she asked as they stepped out the door and into the Crockers’ expansive garden. The last time she’d been to the estate, she hadn’t paid much attention to the flora, but now she examined it with keen interest. It was an appealing garden, she thought, but too structured. Too English, she supposed. And, like so many English gardens, the poor shrubbery had been chopped into topiary. Statuary was placed strategically and predictably, fountains gurgled, spouting water from cherubs’ pitchers, and paths were well-tended and pleasantly positioned. It was, she couldn’t help thinking, exceedingly boring, and she decided that Mr. Smee’s vast wild garden would be far more interesting.

  “My children? Greedy.” He laughed at his own jest, then ended up hacking weakly into a handkerchief.

  Clara hated the thought, for she wasn’t a mean person, but she couldn’t help hope that Lord Foster would meet his maker before he decided whether to court her.

  “And then he keeled over, just like that. The physician said his condition was very grave. I feel terribly guilty.”

  Miss Anderson had rushed into the garden shortly before he was quitting for the day, clearly bursting to tell him about her visit. Though he’d told himself he was glad for the privacy that afternoon—he had made great progress in the area he’d covered—he found he was unaccountably pleased that Miss Anderson had decided to visit him. Apparently, just as Lord Foster and she were approaching a cherub pouring water from a pitcher, Lord Foster had stopped and clutched his chest, then stumbled toward the fountain. If it hadn’t been for the cherub, it was almost a certainty he would have fallen in. As it was, Lord Foster landed heavily on the edge of the fountain, she said, then slid to the ground.

  “Why would you feel guilty? Surely, you had nothing to do with it,” Nathaniel said, pausing in his work to hear her response, the smallest of smiles on his lips.

  “Because just before he suffered the attack…” She paused, then moved closer and whispered, “I was hoping he would meet his maker before he could ask my father to court me.”

  Nathaniel was quiet for a long moment before barking out one loud laugh, followed by a stretch of silent laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth. She looked so adorably horrified, he felt compelled to put her mind at ease. “Ah, I can understand why you are racked with guilt. But look at it this way, if God heard your wish and then acted on it, then He must have rather liked the idea.”

  “That shouldn’t make me feel better, but I confess it does.” Again, they found themselves staring at one another, smiling stupidly, until they weren’t smiling, they were just staring. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes took on that look he was already beginning to recognize. The surge of lust that hit him was intoxicating, unlike anything he had ever experienced before, at least whilst having an ordinary conversation. She was so innocent, she likely didn’t even know how she was looking at him, but Nathaniel knew.

  Just like the last time, it was he who looked away first. “Miss Anderson,” he said gravely, “I wonder if perhaps you’ve been spending too much time in the garden.”

  His entire body was on edge, a bowstring pulled taut and ready to snap. This lust he felt was making him think things he never should, not about an innocent girl and certainly not the daughter of his employer. Keeping focused on his mission was imperative, but it was damned difficult with her standing there looking at him with drowsy eyes and parted lips.

  “I rather like spending time in the garden,” she said after a long silence. “And I rather like talking to you, Mr. Emory. I know I shouldn’t think of you as such, but I do think of you as a friend. For some reason, I can tell you things I cannot tell anyone else. How many people would have laughed when I told them I wished for someone to die?”

  He let out a low chuckle. “I just…I don’t want you to…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want a friend,” he said finally, praying she knew what he truly meant. He didn’t want the sort of friend he dreamed of kissing, who kept him up at night thinking about how she would feel beneath him. Whose body enticed him and made him wish he was the sort of man who could take advantage of a simple country girl.

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  “We are from two different stations, you and I. It is important that we, both of us, understand that.” He felt a prick of guilt for saying that, but it was a reminder to him, as well, and was nothing but the truth.

  For some reason, that made her smile. “Mr. Emory, you are being silly. We are of the same class. If anything, your background is likely far better than my own.”

  “You shouldn’t spend so much time alone with a man,” he said desperately. “What if someone were to notice? They might think things they oughtn’t.”

  She let out a small laugh, but then her cheeks flushed, and he wondered, dumbfounded, if such thoughts had never entered her head. Perhaps he’d been wrong about the way she’d looked at him; perhaps his own lust had muddled his brain so much he was imagining she felt the same way. “No one would think such things,” she said, sounding slightly baffled that he would have suggested anyone would.

  “I believe you would be surprised what people would think.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Has someone said something? One of the staff?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing like that.”

  “There, it’s settled. I will continue to garden and entertain you with my stories and you shall pretend not to listen and pretend you wish me to go away.”

  “But I really do wish you to go away,” he said, then immediately regretted his words when he saw her face. “Only because I wish you to stay.” Damn. He prayed she didn’t realize what he’d meant.


  They began another staring contest and when her eyes dipped to his mouth, he had to fight not to pull her into his arms. “Miss Anderson,” he said, exasperation tingeing his voice. Surely she knew what she was doing to him.

  She curled her lips inward and furrowed her brow, unable to meet his eyes, making him wonder if she was finally recognizing the danger she was in.

  Letting out a sigh, he thrust his spade into the earth, then tilted it to dig up yet another stone. “Please,” he muttered as he bent over to pick it up, then, realizing it was just another rock, threw it into the pile.

  Clara turned back to her roses, then stilled, her eyes on the small grouping of plants he’d put in just that day. Bluebells, or at least they would be in the spring. She turned and smiled, and damn if his heart wasn’t warmed by that smile. He’d been walking from town and saw a field full of them; it wasn’t as if he’d done much more than dig them from the ground.

  “Thank you, Mr. Emory,” she said.

  “There was a whole field of them.”

  “And now I have some here.” She looked at the bluebells as if he’d planted her a garden worthy of Mr. Smee. That she was so delighted shouldn’t have pleased him quite so much, but it did. And that was, perhaps, worse than lusting after her.

  “I’ll probably kill them.”

  She grinned. “I know, Mr. Emory.” After letting out a giggle, she turned and left, leaving him completely confused about what had just transpired.

  Before entering the house, she called back, “See you in the morning, Mr. Emory.” Then she spun about and rushed inside, leaving him staring after her. After a time, he started laughing.

  That night, Clara sat in front of her mirror combing out her hair and humming beneath her breath while Jeanine set out her dress for the next day. She and her mother were lunching with some “important family” who had ties to some earl and her mother wanted them to create a relationship with them so that they might be invited along when they went to visit the earl. Hedra was an expert on forming relationships with families who had vague ties to the aristocracy that she so wanted Clara to be a part of. For the past week, she’d been all atwitter about Lord Berkley, who was rumored to be coming home to St. Ives to permanently take up residence at Costille House, an historic old castle not three miles from their home.

  “You’re in a fine mood tonight,” Jeanine said.

  “I do believe gardening has lightened my disposition. Who knew toiling in the dirt would be so beneficial to my constitution?” It was true, but Clara worried that the thing that lightened her mood the most was not gardening, but their gardener. It was wrong and silly but she couldn’t help it when her heart sped up a beat when she saw him, or when he smiled, or when he threw a rock into the growing pile. Or when he looked at her as if he was thinking he might kiss her. Was he? Or was she simply wishing?

  A long silence ensued, the sort of silence that was filled with meaning. Clara glanced at Jeanine and something about her expression made her believe her maid had some deep thoughts brewing in her head.

  “Mr. Emory has been making eyes at Sara,” she said finally, and Clara paused momentarily in her brushing before continuing on, with slightly more force than before.

  “She’s a bit young for him, is she not?” Clara asked, striving to keep her tone neutral, trying to ignore the fact that Mr. Emory’s looking at anyone bothered her a bit.

  “She’s just a few months younger than you,” Jeanine said, snapping open a petticoat and laying it next to her gown.

  “I’m sure they’ll make a lovely couple,” Clara said. Really, what business was it of hers whether their gardener and one of their kitchen maids made googly eyes at one another all day long? Perhaps he was one of those men who flirted with all girls, and she was one of those girls who thought he only flirted with her. Now, that was a sobering thought.

  “I don’t trust him,” Jeanine said. “There’s something about him that’s off. You spend a lot of time with him. Haven’t you noticed he hardly speaks a word? I thought perhaps he was touched in the head, but then I heard him talking to Mr. Standard, all friendly like. I’m wondering if he’s got his sights on some position in the house. I think Mr. Gregory is worried about his job. That gardener is a head taller than Mr. Gregory and you know how footmen are supposed to be of a certain height. It’s a wonder your mother hasn’t thought of it herself yet.”

  “I hardly think Mr. Emory has designs on Mr. Gregory’s job.”

  “But have you heard him talk? We all think he’s taken diction lessons, and why would he do that if he didn’t have ideas about bettering himself?”

  Jeanine rarely annoyed Clara, but at this moment, Clara was feeling a bit of annoyance creep into her.

  “He’s causing problems,” Jeanine said, lowering her voice as if someone might overhear.

  This got Clara’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  Jeanine stopped her work to come over to where Clara sat. “Whenever he’s in the room with the rest of us, well, it’s just not the same. Mr. Standard acts like he’s something special and Mr. Emory sits at the table like he owns it.”

  “Is he rude?” As much as she enjoyed Mr. Emory’s company, if he was disruptive with the other members of the staff, he would have to go.

  Jeanine furrowed her brow. “It’s not like that. It’s difficult to explain. Just a feeling, small things that make me think he doesn’t belong here. Most of us grew up in St. Ives. Where’s he from? What’s he doing here? Who is his family?” Her maid worried her hands together in her lap, and Clara knew Jeanine was upset, but without a specific complaint, there was little she could do.

  “Would you like me to speak with him?”

  “No. I’d like you to sack him.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “He’s not much of a gardener, for one.”

  Clara laughed aloud. “That is true. But my mother hired him, not I, so I’m not certain what I can do. I suppose I could speak with my mother about it, though to be honest, I rather like Mr. Emory. I find him to be a pleasant fellow.”

  Jeanine narrowed her eyes slightly. “It’s like that, is it?”

  To her horror, Clara felt her cheeks redden, though she wasn’t even certain why. “What can you mean?”

  “He’s handsome enough,” Jeanine said with a shrug.

  “Are you implying that I have set my cap for him? Because I can assure you, I have not.” Clara rarely spoke sharply to anyone, and for her to do so to Jeanine was highly unusual, but for some reason her maid’s words touched a nerve.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Anderson.” Jeanine squeezed her eyes shut, clearly mortified. “Of course you would never carry on with a member of the staff.” She put her hands on each side of her face. “Sometimes I forget who you are and who I am.”

  Clara stood and gently grasped Jeanine’s wrists, bringing them down so that she could look into the maid’s eyes. “You are my friend,” she said, giving Jeanine’s hands a gentle shake. “I confess I have noticed how handsome our gardener is. Like every other female in this household. But he is only our gardener, nothing more.” In that moment, Clara made a silent vow to herself not to become spoony over Mr. Emory, something she knew she was on her way to becoming. Perhaps she should stay away from the garden for a while, just so she could clear her head.

  Jeanine let out a long sigh. “I am relieved,” she said, then laughed. “I must say one would have to be dead not to notice how handsome he is. And I do worry about Sara. She’s beginning to make a cake of herself, inventing all sorts of reasons to go out to the garden. Of course we all see through her.”

  “Why would it be so bad if Sara and our gardener fell in love?” Clara asked, ignoring the twinge she felt in her stomach that protested against the idea of Mr. Emory falling in love with anyone.

  “Because, like I said, something’s off with the man.”

/>   “Does anyone else feel the way you do?”

  Jeanine made a face and Clara laughed. “We’re all a bit suspicious of him, to be honest. But it could be only that he is a stranger here.”

  “Let me know if something happens beyond your imagination,” Clara said, teasing her.

  “If I wait until he murders us all in our sleep, it will be too late,” Jeanine mumbled darkly, but Clara just laughed.

  “The man can hardly bring himself to kill garden pests. I do not think any of our lives are in danger.”

  Jeanine seemed slightly appeased, but said ominously, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Chicken and dumplings tonight, Mr. Emory,” the cook said, beaming at Nathaniel. Mrs. Ellesbury was the only member of the staff who had been kind to him. He felt more comfortable in her company than anyone else’s, perhaps because as a young boy he’d spent long hours in the kitchens watching the family cook work. She’d been the only woman in his life when he’d been young, the one who had bandaged his scrapes and given him hugs. Mrs. Ellesbury, with her rosy cheeks and dandelion-fluffy hair, reminded him of those long mornings when a bored young boy had watched his cook make berry muffins just for him.

  “Now I have something to look forward to all day,” he said, grinning. “That and your beautiful company.”

  She blushed and waved a hand at him. “I’ll be telling Mr. Ellesbury that you’ve been flirting with me again,” she said, placing in front of him a plate heavy with browned potatoes and a thick slab of ham. This simple fare and the hard physical labor was agreeing with him, for he could feel himself growing stronger, leaner. Though he’d never had much fat on his bones, laboring in the garden had trimmed him down so that he’d noticed his trousers were getting a bit loose in the waist.

  He sat at the table and nodded when Mr. Standard entered. The butler’s eyes widened and he jerked his head, indicating Nathaniel should stand, which he did as soon as he realized his error. It was something he often forgot to do since he was so used to servants hastily standing when he entered a room, he’d hardly noticed them actually doing it. Perhaps he ought to pretend Mr. Standard was a woman, he mused, as he gave the butler an apologetic smile.