Diamond in the Rough Page 10

  Following their final performance, Baron Longley clapped heartily. “You should spend some time in London, Miss Anderson. I would be more than happy to make the introductions.”

  Clara smiled warmly, excited about the prospects of a season in London, something she would never be able to achieve without a well-placed sponsor. She looked around the room, noting her mother’s beaming face, and then Mrs. Gardener, who was looking at Baron Longley as if he’d grown another head. It was such an odd look, but Clara dismissed it when the baron repeated his invitation with even more enthusiasm.

  When everyone was retiring for the evening, Mrs. Gardener drew Clara aside, and she remembered that odd look she’d given the baron.

  “You are such a lovely girl, Clara,” Mrs. Gardener said kindly.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gardener.”

  “And intelligent. You must have realized by now that I had an ulterior motive in asking you and your parents here.”

  A slight bit of alarm passed through Clara, but she managed to smile politely. “I hadn’t thought you had any motive at all, Mrs. Gardener,” she said.

  The older woman frowned briefly, then smiled. “Baron Longley is a generous fellow, but I would not put any stock in his comment. I daresay by tomorrow morning he will have forgotten he issued the invitation and would no doubt be mortified that he had done so. I have known the baron for a very long time, my dear, and I can assure you no invitation will be forthcoming.” The kind way Mrs. Gardener was looking at her, the pity in her tone, was humiliating, but Clara continue to smile gently, to breathe, to stand still when she wanted nothing more than to run to her room and hide.

  Mrs. Gardener continued, “My mother lives in a pretty little house on the property. She was unable to attend this evening as she was not feeling quite up to it.” Mrs. Gardener paused. “I think that, yes, you would be perfect for her. You are educated, and despite your circumstances, appear to be quite charming and refined.”

  Clara shook her head slightly. “Forgive me, Mrs. Gardener, but I fear you have me at a loss.”

  She let out a light laugh. “I do apologize. I have asked you here because I am considering hiring you as a companion for my mother. I wanted to see you in a social situation, and I must say, Miss Anderson, you have passed muster. I do believe you would be a perfect companion to my mother. She’s a pleasant lady and has few wants or needs other than good company and perhaps someone to read to her. I fear I am far too busy and cannot give her the attention she would wish.”

  Clara could feel a blush of humiliation stain her cheeks. This was the real reason her family had been invited to the Gardeners’ and it had nothing to do with meeting the baron. The woman had simply been sly enough to lure her mother with the baron’s presence. Clara could almost imagine the conversation she’d had with her daughter as they’d schemed to get her to come to Chatford Manor to better get to know her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gardener. I do appreciate your thinking of me. Would you mind very much if I gave it a bit of thought and spoke with my parents about it?”

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Gardener said warmly, seemingly unaware of how she’d humiliated Clara with her offer.

  “Good night. And thank you for a wonderful evening,” Clara said. No one would ever say she was not poised or ungracious. If there was one thing she’d learned in finishing school, it was to maintain one’s dignity at any cost.

  At breakfast the next morning, Clara did her best to hide the sadness that seemed to have enveloped her body overnight. The baron ate a hearty meal but did not re-issue his invitation, much as Mrs. Gardener had predicted. Next to her, Hedra craned her neck trying to get the baron’s attention, but he steadfastly ignored her, even when her mother asked if he were staying another night. The Andersons were not. Mrs. Gardener apologized profusely, but she had dear friends arriving that afternoon. Would it be too much of an imposition for the Gardeners to cut short their visit?

  Hedra, of course, not wanting to upset Mrs. Gardener and ruin Clara’s chances of being introduced in London, readily agreed. Before they boarded their carriage, Mrs. Gardener pulled Clara aside.

  “I do hope you will consider the position, Clara,” she said.

  “I will, thank you, Mrs. Gardener,” Clara said, through a throat that ached. Up until this point, all this traipsing around England in search of a husband had been a bit of a lark. Clara had known, of course, that her low birth would not be seen as desirable to most aristocratic men, but she’d never before been so pointedly—and kindly—reminded of this fact.

  They were a joke. An amusement at best, pitied at worst.

  Clara climbed aboard the carriage, across from her parents who were in unusually high spirits. “Imagine,” Hedra said once they were under way. “A baron sponsoring you. Oh, Clara, I do believe he has an interest in you. A widower with children needs a wife.” Hedra clapped her hands together, unable to contain her exuberance. “I am so proud of you, Clara. Imagine, you, a baroness. Or at the very least, attending balls during the little season. A dream come true after all our efforts.”

  Hedra was so happy, Clara didn’t have the heart to tell her the true reason they’d been invited by the Gardeners. Why make everyone miserable?

  “That’s wonderful, Mother,” Clara said, giving her mother a happy smile to hide her pain. As they rumbled down the long drive, Clara gazed out the window at the gardens, knowing now she would never get the chance to tour them. At least if she had seen the garden, this trip would not have been a complete waste of time. As they drove through the arched entry to the property, Clara heaved Mr. Smee’s thick volume upon her lap, ignoring her mother’s look of exasperation.

  “A book that large is hardly a ladylike pursuit,” she said with a sniff.

  Clara pointedly ignored her mother and opened to a chapter on glass houses. Their glass house, of course, would be diminutive compared to Mr. Smee’s, but Clara could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of growing exotic plants year-round. Imagine growing oranges and lemons.

  “I wish you were as enthusiastic about finding a husband as you are about your garden,” Hedra complained, but Clara could tell she wasn’t angry with her. Nothing this day could make Hedra angry with her elder daughter.

  “I am always exceedingly pleasant whenever we are near a potential husband,” Clara said, reluctantly returning her attention to her mother. “Perhaps we ought to double my dowry, as that seems to be the only characteristic the men we have met are interested in.”

  Hedra narrowed her eyes as if assessing whether her daughter was jesting or being snippy. “Perhaps we will,” she said, daring Clara to object.

  “Triple it then,” she declared with a laugh, and Hedra giggled.

  “If I thought it would work…”

  “Mother! Really, if that is all a man is interested in, then I am not interested in him.”

  “Unless he has a title,” Hedra sniffed. “At any rate, I do have the feeling Baron Longley will be visiting St. Ives quite soon. I issued an invitation, you know. And I know once he sees our estate, he will better understand what a fine investment joining our family would be.”

  Clara reached deep inside to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Mrs. Pittsfield had expressed horror that Clara had rolled her eyes and ever since that occasion, the gesture was strictly forbidden.

  “Papa,” Clara said, “did you marry Mother for her money?”

  “For her peach pie, it was,” he said without hesitation, earning him a playful kick from his wife.

  “Even with the best peach pie in all of England I could not have attracted the men who are eyeing you, my dear,” Hedra said.

  Clara did not possess a vain bone in her body, but she was aware God had gifted her with several fine features: her thick, golden hair; her delicate chin and nose; her brilliant blue eyes (the color of bluebells); her womanly curves. But when she looked in the mirror,
she did not see a rare beauty; she saw herself, an ordinary girl who wanted more than anything else to live an ordinary life.

  “Clara had to get ’er looks from someone,” her father pointed out. “And it sure as rain wasn’t from my side of the family. Bunch of ogres.” That was, Clara realized, her father’s attempt to say he thought his wife pretty.

  Clara leapt from her seat and gave her father’s cheek a quick kiss. “You do not look like an ogre, Papa. You only act like one.”

  He growled and Clara squealed, hurriedly returning to her seat. It was so rare that her father jested about anything, the small exchange left Clara feeling strangely melancholy when it should have just brought happiness.

  “Did you meet your baron?” Mr. Emory asked the next day. Clara had gone to the garden directly after breakfast, brimming with excitement about their planned glass house. Mr. Smee offered excellent advice and she could hardly wait to share what she’d learned. Mr. Emory had begun the foundation, creating a large rectangular outline on the far corner of their property. They had debated its location before she’d left, deciding it should be as unobtrusive as possible.

  “He is not my baron, and yes, I did,” she said, nipping off a rose whose petals were turning brown. Now that the pests were mostly gone, she’d become rather obsessed with the appearance of the roses. They were fully in bloom, and the scent of them filled the air. Clara hadn’t really liked the smell of roses; they had seemed so cloying when inside. But out of doors, with a soft breeze making the blooms dance, the scent was purely wonderful. “He was far too old for me and I told my mother I would reject his suit even if offered. It was a waste of a trip.”

  She heard the deep sound of his chuckle and looked up at him from beneath the brim of her straw hat. “What is so amusing?” she asked, laughter in her own voice.

  “I suppose it’s seeing the other side of things. I must confess, I had no idea.” He shook his head and continued raking the newly laid gravel that snaked its way to the pond. Eventually, they would plant shrubbery and trees that would one day provide needed shade. Their garden had started as nothing more than a large expanse of green. Apparently, the family who’d lived in the house before them had been avid cricket players and had used the lawn as a playing field. Now, though, Clara could see the beginnings of something wonderful, something lush and pretty and magical.

  “What do you mean, ‘seeing things from the other side’?”

  “The side of a female who is looking for a husband. I must confess, I believed it all happened much more naturally, rather than like a well-planned assault. Your mother would have been a great military leader.”

  Clara laughed, for that was an apt description of her mother. Every appointment, every entertainment, every trip was carefully planned and executed. This latest trip, though a failed campaign, was a great victory in Hedra’s mind and Clara would never correct that misconception. Mr. Emory stood as he often did, hands resting on the top of the rake’s handle, chin resting on his hands, looking at her with a smile. She ought to commission a painter to capture him thus, for he looked so uncommonly handsome. When she realized where her thoughts had wandered, how her fancies were creating a turmoil inside her, she lowered her gaze and turned around. Had it not been only a few hours since she’d vowed to stop thinking about Mr. Emory in such an inappropriate manner? But how could she help it, the way he smiled at her, the way he looked at her as if…

  As if he were thinking the same thing. Clara drew in a sharp breath. Surely, Mr. Emory did not think of her in that way. He’d done nothing untoward, hadn’t looked at her the way she was used to men looking at her. And yet…the air seemed electrified whenever she was with him. Was it all her imagination? What if he did think of her, want to kiss her? What good would it do to acknowledge such a thing when she could never, ever act on it? Mr. Emory, for all his fine diction and charming ways, was their gardener.

  Swallowing heavily, she chanced a look in his direction and was disappointed to see that he’d gone back to work. Had she expected him to be staring at her like some lovestruck fool? Really, she thought, could she get more ridiculous? He was working his way toward her, the sound of the rake getting louder, and she could almost feel his presence, like some magnetic pull. When he was by her side, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, because she swore she felt the heat of him. The sound of the rake ceased, and her senses were filled with the scent of warm man and soap. And that made her recall his naked torso, his gleaming muscles, that tantalizing bit of hair that disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers.

  “Excuse me, Miss Anderson,” he said softly.

  She managed to turn her head to look at him, and he moved back a bit so the brim of her wide hat would not smack him in the face. His dark green-gray eyes regarded her and she felt herself drawn to him as if she truly was being pulled toward him. He wants to kiss me. I know he does. “Yes?” A breathy syllable.

  “I need to rake where you are standing, miss.”

  Clara was momentarily confused. Rake? “Oh, rake. Of course. I am in your way.” She let out a nervous laugh, feeling her blood heat, but this time in mortification. “I’ll just move, shall I? So you can rake.”

  He gave her an odd look. “Thank you.”

  Clara turned away and squeezed her eyes shut briefly, silently chastising herself for her foolishness. It was bad enough to have the maids gawking at him; certainly she shouldn’t count herself in their numbers. A thought occurred to her then, a cold dash of realization, that perhaps Mr. Emory was so uninterested in the maids because he had someone back home that he’d already set his cap for. The maids, Sara in particular, were pretty enough and had made it abundantly clear they would be open to his interest.

  The sound of a wagon drew her attention and when she saw what it held, her mortification was completely forgotten. It was filled to overflowing with shrubs and small trees, trees that would one day grow and give her garden little spots of shade.

  Whirling around, she gave a small sound of delight and was glad to see Mr. Emory grinning back at her. “Elm trees and poplar cuttings. Geraniums and some other flowers I thought might look nice. Your garden will have lovely shade in about twenty years.”

  “Oh, that one in the middle will give shade today,” she declared, lifting her skirts and hurrying over to the wagon. “Hello, Joseph,” she called to the driver. Joseph lived not far from her grandmother’s farm and she’d known him most her life. If her father hadn’t discovered tin, he was just the sort of man she might have married: strong and honest, with a ready smile and a lovely Cornish accent. He set the brake, then swung down with the easy grace of a man who has jumped from his wagon a thousand times.

  Clara ran to the wagon and clutched the rough wood, peering inside to see what it contained. Marigolds, feverfew, sweet woodruff, their scents mingling together to create such a tantalizing aroma. Breathing in deeply, she could hardly contain her excitement at what her garden would look and smell like when they were all planted in the earth.

  Behind her, she heard Mr. Emory approaching. “This is wonderful, Mr. Emory. Now we shall have a true garden, not only a rose garden. It shall rival Mr. Smee’s.”

  “A small version of that esteemed gardener’s creation,” he said.

  A particular scent touched her then. “Lavender. Oh, it’s my mother’s favorite scent. She’ll be so pleased when I bring in a bouquet from our garden.” Without realizing it, Clara had clutched his wrist in her excitement, giving it a little shake. When he looked down, she followed her gaze and dropped her hand, quickly mumbling an apology.

  “No apology needed,” he said, bending down, whispering. “If Joseph wasn’t here, I’d swing you about in celebration.”

  “And I just might let you, Mr. Emory,” she said saucily.

  Joseph dropped the back of the cart and Mr. Emory was drawn over to assist in the removal of the plants.

  “Goodness, Mr
. Emory, where did all this come from?”

  He hefted out a large clay pot containing a small tree, letting out a brief grunt. “Here and there,” he said with a mysterious smile. That smile was intriguing, for it seemed to hold a secret.

  “Where, specifically, here and there?” she asked, hurrying to follow him as he trudged toward the garden.

  “Here, do you think?” He nodded his head to an area near where the gravel path began.

  “For now,” Clara said distractedly, looking around and wondering where all those lovely plants would go. “We should remove everything and then decide. Oh, is that a pear tree?”

  “And a plum,” Joseph said, pulling another small tree from the back of the wagon.

  Clara watched the two men going back and forth from the wagon to the growing collection of plants, too many varieties to begin to name. When they were finally finished with their task, Clara slowly toured the plants, feeling like a child on Christmas morning. With all these varieties, they could, indeed, create a pretty little garden that would be worthy of showing off. Behind her, Joseph’s wagon rattled away, and Mr. Emory came up beside her.

  “There’s another load coming next week,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his brow.

  “From where?”

  “An estate up north, I believe.”

  Clara stared at the plants, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. “Mr. Smee?”

  “The very same,” Mr. Emory said with odd hesitation.

  For some silly reason, Clara’s eyes pricked with tears. She’d been carrying around that thick volume for weeks, reading and studying, and imagining what it would be like to create such a masterpiece as Mr. Smee had done. And here before her was his garden—or at least bits and pieces of it. All hale and hearty and filling the air with the sweet and rich aroma of Beddington, a tiny town in Surrey, where Mr. Smee had created his wondrous garden.