Winning Violet

by Lower, Becky

  Edgar raised his hand and stroked her cheek. “You remind me so much of your mother when you get your ire up. You will survive, my dearest Violet, and the American will be terribly impressed by your knowledge and the work you are undertaking.”

  She straightened again and stared at her father. “Flattery, Father, has never worked on me. I have no wish to impress the American. I have no wish to ever leave my greenhouse. I’m comfortable with my plants; their needs are simple. When their leaves droop, I water them. If they begin to lose their color, I add fertilizer. People are a different matter entirely. They talk quite a bit, but I’m never certain of their motives.”

  Her father stood, ending their conversation, and placed an arm around Violet’s waist as he ushered her to the door. “You must let down your guard and face the world sooner or later, Violet. The work you’re doing is important, and all of England and beyond will need to be informed once you’ve successfully completed your experiments. Think of the boon to our business once you have hybrids we can sell. Hiding away in a greenhouse is no way to live.”

  “No, but hiding is a way to survive.” She dropped her shoulders and pivoted away from him toward the door. At the threshold, she stopped and glanced back at her father. “All right. As you wish, I’ll teach Mr. Sinclair all he needs in one month’s time or less, if possible. Then he’ll be on his way back to America, and I’ll have my greenhouse to myself again. And, I’ll mark the days of his visit off on my calendar in bold black ink.”

  Perhaps an oversized calendar showing only thirty days. She would hang the calendar on the back wall in her office so every day Mr. Sinclair would bear witness to how much of her precious time he took up and would wrap up his business quickly. How long could it possibly take to select a hundred varieties of roses? She’d be courteous, of course, but if she didn’t stray from her teaching, did not attempt to engage him in idle conversation, made certain he never got comfortable in her space, perhaps he’d leave before his thirty days were finished.

  • • •

  At dinner that evening, her sisters were all abuzz about their soon-to-be guest. “Ooh, an American,” cooed Poppy, the youngest of the group. “We’ve entertained Europeans before but never an American. What have you learned about him, Father?”

  Violet scowled at the remark. “Americans, from what I’ve read, are uncouth and vulgar. Not at all proper, like the British. I’m not relishing this visit at all. If any of you would prefer he spend his visit with you, please volunteer. I won’t be at all offended.”

  Edgar helped himself to a mound of mashed potatoes before he spoke. “We’ve been doing business with his firm in the United States for years, but how much can one really tell from that?”

  “Where will he be staying?” Lily, younger than Violet by a year, passed the plate of chicken to her right before she took the bowl of potatoes from her father and helped herself. “Are we to put him up here in the house?” She glanced around the table. “This could get quite interesting.” Her grin lit the room.

  “He’s got a room at the inn already bought and paid for by his employer. I specifically told them we had no room to lodge him here. I cannot allow him to stay here with the four of you. I have your reputations to uphold, after all. I still pray one of you will marry a man with an interest in plants who can take over the reins of the business from me someday.” Edgar glanced up from his meal and studied his daughters.

  “You mean someone like Mr. Sinclair?” Poppy’s eyes danced with merriment.

  Her father picked up his fork. “No. That’s not why the American is coming here. He’s probably already married, anyway. I mean a proper British fellow. Besides, Mr. Sinclair is to spend most of his time with Violet because he wishes to learn about hybridizing roses, and I’m sure Violet won’t be tempted by him, because she barely speaks to any men.”

  “So Violet gets to spend the most time with him? That’s not exactly fair.” Poppy pouted at her sister. “I do hope you’ll do something with your hair, Violet. After all, you will be representing all of us.” She then gave a sidelong glance at her father as she played with the peas on her plate. “And if he’s to be with Violet, shouldn’t there be a chaperone? I could take time from my studies to fill the role.”

  Iris, the eldest of the daughters, snorted at Poppy’s suggestion. “You’ll do anything to get out of your schoolwork, won’t you? Violet will be safe with him and vice versa, rest assured. As Father said, she barely speaks to any man who comes to visit, so this will be no different.”

  Lily ran a hand through her short hair and glanced down the table at Violet. “Why, Violet, do you not talk to men, anyway? That’s all I do, all day, every day. Give my workmen direction. I don’t have a problem with men, nor does Poppy, or even Iris, for that matter.”

  “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but I find most men uncouth and not worth my time.”

  Violet shrunk inside her clothing. Davey had certainly not been worth her time. Poppy had to draw attention to the deficiencies in her appearance, to her unruly hair, and then point out how inappropriate this whole visit would be with no chaperone. Just the two of them, alone in the greenhouse day upon day. But Violet had faced adversity before. As long as her barbed tongue still worked, she’d be fine.

  Chapter Two

  Day One

  Having made some missteps during the night, it was afternoon by the time Parker and his weary mount found their way to Salisbury and Mulberry Hill Nursery. His head ached from where he’d been clubbed, and unsure of his route, he’d let the horse wander a while before a kind passerby set him on the right course. He raised a weary gaze as he passed a huge residence along the way from Portsmouth and marveled at the estate house, which more resembled a castle than a warm, inviting home. The building interested him a bit, but his attention almost immediately strayed to the grounds surrounding the house. Acre upon acre of lovely landscaping, trees, bushes, mazes, and ornamental structures. Who lived here? Who had the money for all of its upkeep?

  Soon after passing the large estate, he arrived at Mulberry Hill. Parker stood for a moment and took in his surroundings while he let the horse drink his fill of water at the trough. Several greenhouses dotted the landscape, and he noted a well-tended orchard behind the large white house in the middle of the foliage. Fields of flowers and bushes radiated to the left and right of the house. He hitched his horse to the post in front of the house, assuming the office was inside, and strode through the door to face the man who he had come from America to meet—Edgar Wilson. A young man met him at the door and led him into Mr. Wilson’s office.

  “I apologize, sir, for my tardiness. The ship had a rough go of it for a few days, and we lost a bit of time. And then there was a bit of a problem getting here from Portsmouth.” Parker shook the elderly man’s hand.

  “I thought the way over from Portsmouth might have caused you problems. No need to apologize.” Edgar offered Parker a seat. “May I get you something to eat or drink?”

  “A little something would be nice, thank you. I have come down with lung fever or possibly bronchitis, thanks to England’s damp weather, and my trunk was tossed in Portsmouth after I was knocked unconscious.” Parker gratefully sank into a seat and waited for the man to give directions to his assistant, who then hustled from the room.

  “Your trunk was tossed, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. The only clothes I now have are the ones I’m wearing, plus one shirt and a pair of boots the robbers didn’t care for enough to take. Or didn’t have enough arm room to carry off along with everything else.” Parker tried to grin but didn’t quite succeed. “I’ve got quite a good-sized goose egg on the back of my head, as well.” Parker raked his hand over his head and came away with a trace of blood.

  “I am so sorry. To be clubbed in the back of the head and robbed is a rather inauspicious beginning for your trip.” Edgar shook his head. “But we will endeavor to change your experience in the next few days as I introduce you to my lovely daughters who are
part of my business. Ah, here’s the food.” Edgar waved toward the door as a serving girl entered with a tray of cold meats and cheese, a few slices of warm bread, and a glass of ale. “Have you any money to buy replacement clothing?” Edgar leaned over his desk and searched Parker’s face.

  Parker wiped his hands on the napkin that accompanied the food, clearing away all traces of blood before he pried off his boots and removed the money he’d been carrying. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep this for me. It’s the money my employer sent to buy merchandise from you. Since my personal money pouch was lifted at the same time my trunk was tossed, that’s all the money I have.”

  Edgar picked up the bills and formed them into a neat pile. “We don’t keep any valets on staff, so I’ll have my youngest daughter, Poppy, help locate some clothing for you. Perhaps there are enough spare items here on the property to give you several options from which to choose. Poppy’s the best of my daughters to aid you, because the latest clothing from France is all she talks about. The others don’t care so much about what they wear.” He placed the money in a strongbox under the desk. “And of course, if we can find you some clothing here, there will be no charge. You may have to go to town for some additional items. Poppy loves to shop, so I’ll put her in charge of that, as well.”

  Parker made short work of the food and drank the ale quickly. “How old is Poppy?”

  “She’s fourteen, but in her mind, she’s much older.” Edgar smiled. “You may be of the opinion she’s too young to be able to properly assist you, but trust me, none of my other daughters can tell a cravat from a pair of breeches.”

  Parker rolled his shoulders. “I’ll take her assistance, gladly. Will I be working with her on the roses as well?”

  “No, another daughter runs my greenhouse operation. You’ll be working with Violet, who is in charge of our roses. But you’ll meet each of my daughters, and they’ll show you the part of the business for which they have responsibility. Our business arrangement may be a bit unusual, but when my wife passed away five years ago, the girls kept the business going while I grieved. Since it’s to be their legacy, I decided to continue to include them even once I got back on my feet.” Edgar spread his hands on top of his desk. “Why don’t you get to the inn, settle in, then come back here and I’ll take you to meet Violet?”

  “Since I’m late already, I’d rather you take me to Violet now. I can go to the inn later.” Parker ran his hand over his now full stomach and coughed slightly. “If I were to go now, I’d probably fall into bed and waste what’s left of the day.”

  Parker wondered which of the prickly daughters would be the most difficult to deal with. If the daughters were, indeed, prickly. After all, the man who’d imparted that information had then robbed Parker of all his material goods. So far, his choices were a fourteen-year-old with an adult attitude or the one who had control of the roses he needed to complete Thomas Jefferson’s gardens. Neither sounded all that prickly. If he weren’t so sick, it might be fun meeting and dealing with all the sisters. It had been a long time since he’d been in the company of women. Eleven years, as a matter of fact. Since the British had destroyed his family.

  • • •

  Violet affixed the big calendar to the wall behind her desk just as the door to the greenhouse opened. The enclosure had misted over during the night, condensation on the glass shielding her from the outside, but she didn’t need to see who had just entered. She’d been waiting for him all day. She straightened her spine, willing it to be composed of steel for the next month. Her American albatross was here. Later than she expected, but still.

  Time to face the inevitable. She could be cordial, as her father had requested. She’d be the epitome of frosty English grace. Teach him quickly and send him on his way with a boatload of roses. Sell him much more than necessary in order to gain more profit from his visit. More money in the nursery’s coffers wouldn’t make up for the lapse in Violet’s hybridizing efforts, but it would at least be something to point to with pride. She pasted a smile on her face, left the confines of her small office, and strode out to meet her father and the American.

  Her footsteps faltered as she caught sight of their guest. She’d expected an older, white-haired, balding gentleman, possibly stooped over from decades of tending young plants. Yet the man standing in front of her was neither white-haired nor stooped over. Instead, he towered over her by at least eight inches. His arms were well developed from his work in his American nursery, and his buff-colored breeches were sculpted to his toned legs. Her gaze traveled up, over his broad shoulders to his face. His mop of dark hair had been tossed about by the wind, and his eyes were the blue of winter ice. He couldn’t be more than in his late twenties, early thirties, if that. Certainly not what she’d envisioned. Not what she’d hoped for.

  Their eyes met.

  He smiled ever so slightly.

  Violet caught her breath, her heart pounding against her rib cage.

  He didn’t speak.

  Neither did she.

  A hot stretch of silence spooled between them.

  “Ah, there you are, Violet.” Her father entered the greenhouse after his guest, filling the void in the conversation. “This is Mr. Parker Sinclair, from Philadelphia. Mr. Sinclair, meet my second eldest, Violet.”

  “So, you’re finally here, Mr. Sinclair.” Violet extended her hand, expecting him to kiss it the way a proper English gentleman would have.

  Instead, his big calloused fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed ever so slightly. His palm was tanned and nicked with scars. She shouldn’t have noticed. Why had she? Her breath climbed her throat in a thin wisp of air.

  “I hope I’ve been worth the wait, Miss Wilson.” He pumped her hand heartily as if attempting to extract water from a well. Held on far too long. His thumb tightened its grip on the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger, and she couldn’t breathe.

  His scent—rich and earthy—surrounded her, invaded her nostrils.

  Her stomach tightened, burst into a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Alarmed, she tugged her hand back. “Let’s just say I’ve not been holding my breath.”

  “Really?” Slowly, he let go. His eyes flashed at her.

  Bloody American.

  Parker glanced toward her father, and then, as if collecting himself, he faced her again. “Miss Wilson,” the American spoke in a deep, gravelly voice so low she had to lean in to hear him. His face had a grey pallor, and his body was covered in a sheen of sweat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your father tells me there’s no one better . . . ”

  Her father grabbed at Parker’s arm as the American swayed, crumpled in front of them, and then fell to the floor.

  “Dear Lord, what’s happened to him, Father?” Violet gasped as she knelt beside the man and could feel the heat of fever radiate off him.

  “He mentioned he’d been robbed while in Portsmouth and had a bump on his head. And that he’d contracted lung fever. Maybe it’s all been too much for him.” Her father tried to right the man but couldn’t.

  Violet leaned close to the American, searching for the wound. She could smell the ale he’d consumed. She glared at her father. “You were told he’d suffered a blow to the head and you still gave him a mug of ale? No wonder he’s passed out.”

  Edgar shrugged. “The man had a thirst.”

  “Let’s get him into the chair.” Violet sighed. Already, in the space of five minutes, this American had proved to be a passel of trouble.

  Together, they righted the man and hauled his heavy body into the chair. Breathing hard, Edgar glanced at him. “I’ll go down to the house and fetch Iris for you. In the meantime, do what you can to clean him up and set him to rights. I’ll tell Millie to make up the guest bedroom. We can’t have a man this ill stay at the inn by himself. He’ll reside at the house with us until he’s better.”

  Violet’s day kept getting worse. As did Mr. Sinclair’s, she supposed. She set a pot of water on the woodstove to heat up, and
then ran to her herb garden to cut what she needed for a salve and some soothing tea. The water had warmed by the time she got back to the unconscious man, so she grabbed a cloth and dipped it into the pan. Before she cleaned his head wound, she took a hard look at the person who would seriously disturb her life, at least for the next few weeks. He coughed uncontrollably even in his compromised state. Funny how mere moments ago when he’d entered her quarters, he’d come across as such a healthy specimen of male flesh that she couldn’t find her tongue. Now, he resembled some old, doddering, broken-down fool in need of her care. And with her father’s declaration that he stay at their house for a few days, care of this man had only just begun. She sighed and wrung out the washcloth. Maybe he’d take a turn for the worse and perish. Of course, she didn’t wish death on anyone, but her life would at least return to normal should the worst happen. And lung fever was no laughing matter.

  Iris bustled in as Violet finished wiping the remaining blood from Mr. Sinclair’s scalp. “So this is our rugged American?”

  “In all his glory. May I present our illustrious guest?” Violet waved her hand in his direction.

  Iris touched the man’s forehead, feeling the fever radiating off him. “He’s in a bad way.”

  “I am concerned about his wound more than I am about his cough. Father said he’d taken a blow to the head while in Portsmouth. To still be oozing blood two days after his head came into contact with whatever knocked him around is a bad sign.” Violet showed Iris the pan of bloody water. “I’m making a salve of calendula and comfrey to reduce the swelling and help heal the wound.”

  “Let’s treat the wound, wait for him to come around, and then get him to the house.” Iris ticked off what needed done on her fingers. “Do you have any smelling salts here?” She frowned when Violet shook her head. “Well, then, we’ll just have to wait for him to wake up. Mr. Sinclair won’t be touring the greenhouse or selecting roses for a few days, so you can take comfort in the fact you’ll get a respite.”