by Anna Bradley
The horses were agitated after the ditch fiasco, so instead of hiring another coachman, Oliver had taken the reins himself. The pup, after he’d made it clear with an expressive waggling of his eyebrows that Dinah was a distant second choice, reluctantly curled up on her lap. She wrapped another rug around him and tugged him tight against her chest.
She couldn’t regret delivering Mrs. Claridge to her daughter for the Christmas holidays. No one who’d seen the joy on her face when Mrs. Edwards lay her newborn son in his grandmother’s arm could regret it.
But God in heaven, poor Grim!
Dinah had always rather liked Grim. That is, she hadn’t wanted to like him. She’d done her best to find him as tiresome as she did most people, but it hadn’t worked. It was a great nuisance, really, but disliking Grim was rather like disliking iced teacakes, or puppies, or roaring fires on a frigid winter’s night.
It just wasn’t done.
When she saw Grim lying motionless on the ground, she’d feared the worst, but the doctor didn’t expect him to suffer any lasting effects from his injuries. Still, Grim was obliged to remain in bed while he healed, and so Dinah and Oliver had left him under the sympathetic eye of Mrs. Claridge and Sarah Edwards. He’d follow them to Cliff’s Edge in a few days, when he was able to travel.
Dinah might scoff at the idea of ghosts in general, and Viking ghosts in particular, but when they’d come upon Grim half buried in the mud, clutching his shoulder with his face twisted in pain, even her stoicism had deserted her.
She sighed, her head falling back against the squabs. A dislocated shoulder and a mild concussion, the doctor had said. Poor Grim was facing a Christmas spent in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by people he didn’t know. The Edwards were very kind, but they were still strangers.
She wriggled her feet inside her boots to thaw her frozen toes. If she was as cold as this, what must Oliver be feeling right now?
He’d seen Dinah safely settled inside the carriage with half a dozen rugs to warm her, then he’d climbed onto the box without a word of complaint and pointed the horses’ heads toward Southend-on-Sea.
And that, seemingly, was that. They’d arrive at Cliff’s Edge in the early morning hours, and Dinah would have fulfilled her promise to Penelope. She was pleased about it, of course. Very pleased, indeed. It was what she’d wanted all along, only…
It was so dreadfully cold outside, and it seemed to be growing more so by the mile. The icy rain would likely turn to snow soon enough, making a mess of the roads, and God knew the horses were fussy enough as it was.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Dinah held onto that thought as she stretched out on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Perhaps if she lay all the way down…ah, yes, that was much better. She balanced the pup on her chest and closed her eyes, determined to fall asleep.
Less than ten seconds later her eyes popped open again. Had the wind just picked up? It seemed to be blowing with unusual force now, and what was that dreadful cracking sound? Had a rock or tree limb hit the carriage? Had it hurt Oliver? He was already injured, his face battered and bruised. Could he even see out of that black eye? Or was he struggling through the darkness half-blind?
She threw her limbs this way and that, squirming and cursing the carriage springs—springs that had been perfectly comfortable until this moment—and the pup tumbled off her chest and onto the floor with a protesting yelp.
“You needn’t look so judgmental,” Dinah scolded, frowning down into the puppy’s reproachful blue eyes. “It wasn’t me who injured Grim. It was the Viking ghost.”
The pup didn’t appear to be impressed with this argument. He stared up at her, his eyes growing more mournful by the second.
“I know what you’re thinking. I was the one who suggested we come to Canvey Island.” Dinah scooped up the pup and laid him on his back across her knees. “If you insist on looking at it that way, you could argue I’m at fault for everything that followed.”
The pup wriggled and squirmed and kicked his furry legs.
Dinah tucked the pup into the curve of her shoulder with a sigh. “There’s some merit to your argument, I suppose.”
Oliver hadn’t said so, but given the injuries on his face it stood to reason he was bruised and aching all over, and now he was doomed to spend the darkest hours of the night alone on the box with freezing rain dripping down his neck. If he caught his death of a cold and expired from fever, it would be all Dinah’s fault.
At least, according to the puppy’s logic, it would be.
Well, that decided it, then. She refused to have Oliver’s death on her conscience.
Dinah patted and crooned to the pup until he grew drowsy, then she settled him on the seat, made a nest of carriage rugs around him, and banged her fist against the roof.
The carriage slowed at once, then stopped and sagged to the side as Oliver jumped down from the box. A moment later his face appeared at the open door. “What’s the trouble, Miss Bishop? Are you unwell?”
His cheeks were reddened with wind and cold and his hat and coat looked to be soaked through. Some troubling emotion burned through Dinah—regret, perhaps, or worse, tenderness. “No trouble. I’m perfectly well. I signaled you to stop because I’m joining you on the box.”
Oliver’s eyebrows shot so high they disappeared under the brim of his hat. “Have you lost your wits?”
It was a fair question. Dinah was half-convinced she had lost them, but her mind, such as it was, was made up. She slid across the seat to the carriage door and gestured for Oliver to move aside. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
He didn’t stir a step. “You’re not riding on the box. It’s wet and miserable. You’ll freeze.”
“If you can tolerate it, then so can I.”
Dinah waved him aside again, but Oliver braced his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. She tried to dart past him, but he blocked her, and a push against his shoulder proved equally ineffectual. She may as well try to push the coach over as move a man Oliver’s size.
He smirked. “Are you quite finished? Because we’ve miles ahead of us still, and you’re wasting our—”
Dinah was across the seat and out the other door before Oliver could finish his sentence. She just had time to scramble onto the box before he rounded the side of the carriage. “If you want me down, you’ll have to drag me off.”
“Do you suppose I won’t?” Oliver’s shoulders were rigid and his jaw tight with anger. He looked more than capable of dragging her off the box and tossing her into the coach.
Dinah gripped the rails and braced herself for a battle, but he only stood there, his arms at his sides, his hands clenching and unclenching. They stared at each other without speaking as the wind and rain swirled around them, until Oliver shook his head. “What’s this about, Dinah?”
“I just…I can’t…I don’t want you to be left out here alone.”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. Dear God, how had that slipped out? She waited in an agony of embarrassment for Oliver to laugh at her, but he didn’t. He simply stood beside the carriage gazing up at her, and despite the dark she saw his blue eyes soften, and the tension ease from his jaw.
He didn’t say another word, but went around the carriage, ascended the box and took up the reins. The horses started forward. Dinah and Oliver sat side by side, neither of them speaking as Rundell and Bridge picked their way over the rutted road. A half dozen miles had passed beneath the carriage wheels before Oliver asked, “Are you cold?”
She pulled her cloak tighter around her throat. “Yes.”
There was no sense lying about it. Any person of flesh and blood would be cold, given the circumstances. What Dinah didn’t say, however, was despite the rugs and the luxurious velvet seats, she was far more comfortable beside him on the box than she’d been in the carriage.
Oliver only nodded, and another long silence passed as Dinah wracked her brains for something to say. He’d begun, and it was only
fair she should do her part. “The music box for the baby…” she began, then fell silent again.
She wasn’t sure how to say she thought it was the loveliest gift she’d ever seen.
From your loving uncle…
“Yes?”
“It…I…you asked me if I thought the child would like it, and I never answered you. I think…I think your niece or nephew will treasure it.”
Oliver turned to her in surprise. “Thank you.”
After another mile of trying to keep silent, Dinah gave up the struggle. “What sort of gift did you mean to give Penelope? That is, you haven’t known her long, and I just wondered…”
I wondered if you take such exquisite care of all the people you love.
“Exotic pineapples,” Oliver said, without taking his attention off the road.
Pineapples? Dinah’s brows drew together. She’d never tasted a pineapple herself, but they were meant to be sweet and delicious. As far as she knew, Penelope wasn’t particularly fond of the fruit, but ladies did sometimes experience the strangest cravings when they were with child. “Has she developed a taste for pineapples?”
Oliver’s lips curved in a brief smile. “This one isn’t for eating. Well, not at once, anyway. It’s for planting.”
Ah, that made more sense. Penelope had a passion for plants and flowers. For as long as Dinah had known her, Penelope had spoken wistfully about how lovely it would be to have a garden. Cliff’s Edge had extensive grounds, and sometimes Dinah teased Penelope she’d married Lord Archer for his gardens alone.
“You can’t grow proper pineapples in England,” Oliver was saying. “It’s too wet and cold, but there’s an earl in Sittingbourne, a Lord Horace, who grows his own in his greenhouses. Penelope can grow them herself if she has a pineapple to start. You simply cut the top off the fruit, soak it in water for a time, then plant it.”
“But where will she plant it? You just said England is too cold to grow pineapples.”
“It is, but I happen to know Will’s Christmas gift to Penelope is a greenhouse. It’s ridiculously large—a monstrosity, really—but you know how Will is.” Oliver chuckled. “Nothing is too good for his wife. You mustn’t tell Penelope, though. It’s a surprise.”
“No, I won’t. How did you come to find out about Lord Horace’s pineapples?” Dinah’s voice was faint, because she was speaking around a lump in her throat. She’d known Penelope for much longer than Oliver had, but even she couldn’t think of anything her friend would love more than Oliver’s gift. He just seemed to know, instinctively, how to bring joy to those he loved.
Oliver shrugged. “I asked around a bit, and soon enough someone pointed me to Lord Horace. You can find anything in England if you’re willing to search it out. Indeed, it was much easier to get Lord Horace’s name than it was to secure an appointment with him. It took weeks to get him to agree to meet with me.”
Penelope swallowed. “Oh?”
“Yes. He’s a bit of a recluse, and protective of his plants. I sent him half a dozen letters before he agreed to see me, and even then, I had to promise Penelope would take exquisite care of his pineapple.”
Weeks of planning, a half-dozen letters…this wasn’t simply a whim of Oliver’s. He’d put a great deal of thought into Penelope’s gift, and in the space of one day, Dinah had spoiled it for him. “If you miss your appointment with Lord Horace, he’s isn’t likely to grant you another, is he?”
If Oliver had been waiting to take her to task for upsetting his plans, this would be the moment to do so, but not a word of recrimination passed his lips. He only shrugged. “No.”
Dinah said nothing, but she was busily adding up miles and hours in her head. Sittingbourne was south of Rochester, nearly a fifty miles drive from Canvey Island. It would take them all night to get there, but what was a single night when weighed against exotic pineapples?
“Let’s go.” Dinah lay her hand on Oliver’s arm. “To Sittingbourne. Let’s go and fetch Penelope’s pineapple.”
Oliver stared at her for a moment, then his lips curved in a wide, breath-stealing, heart-stopping smile. “Are you sure?”
Dinah paused to take in his distracting dimples before she raised her gaze to his warm blue eyes. “I’m sure.”
And she was. She’d never been surer of anything in her life.
CHAPTER NINE
Sittingbourne, England
December 29th
It was a pity Shakespeare wasn’t still alive to pen the tale of Oliver’s courtship, because it would have made a wonderful play. It had been a comedy of errors from the start, and now it looked as if the final act would be as farcical as the first two.
Without the joyous wedding, that is.
Their journey to Cliff’s Edge was nearly over, and all he had to show for this courtship so far was a pocketful of dark blue sapphires to match the eyes of the lady who’d refused to become his wife.
Perhaps it wasn’t a comedy, after all. Perhaps it had been destined to be a tragedy from the start, and the only one who hadn’t realized it was him.
“Is this Lord Horace’s property?” Dinah asked, trying to hide the chattering of her teeth.
“Yes, since the turn half a mile back.” Despite Oliver’s entreaties, Dinah had remained beside him on the box for the entire journey, even when it dragged on into the early morning hours. Bad roads, uncertain weather, and the occasional equine rebellion had complicated the drive.
There wasn’t enough time for Oliver to take Dinah to an inn. Lord Horace’s estate, while it was in Sittingbourne was so remote as to be an hour’s drive from the town proper, and Lord Horace, who wasn’t a gentleman who troubled himself much about fashionable calling hours had set an early morning appointment.
So, Oliver had a half-frozen, bedraggled lady on his hands, and not the faintest idea what to do with her.
He should have put her back inside the coach hours ago, despite her protests. Her cloak was damp through, and she was shivering in her wet boots. A more generous man—a gentleman—would have taken better care of her, but Oliver hadn’t been able to bring himself to part with her. He was greedy when it came to Dinah Bishop—greedy for her conversation, her smile, her laugh—even her scowls and scolds.
Weren’t all gentlemen in love the same?
“I don’t suppose we can arrive at Lord Horace’s door looking like this.” Dinah waved a hand at her crumpled skirts, then turned to take in Oliver’s appearance. “I believe your hat is ruined, my lord.”
“My hat, my coat, my breeches, and very likely my boots,” Oliver agreed. “William’s pup is the only one of the three of us who’s presentable. I’d send him in to fetch Penelope’s pineapple if I wasn’t certain he’d chew it to bits.”
Dinah tried to tuck a few straggling dark locks of her hair under her hat, but soon gave it up with a sigh. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the coach.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow at that. He didn’t fancy the idea of greeting Lord Horace looking like a half-drowned street urchin any more than she did, but Dinah couldn’t remain in the coach. She needed a comfortable seat beside a roaring fire and a nip or two of brandy, followed by a pot of hot tea. “No, I can’t allow you to…”
His voice trailed off as he caught a glimpse of a building through the thick rows of trees lining the drive. He slowed the coach as they drew closer. The building was long and narrow, with a peaked roof and tall, arched windows arranged neatly across the south facing wall. The few beams of moonlight peeking through the clouds gleamed dully on pale, gray stone.
They were some distance from the main estate, and it was too big to be a folly. It looked like…yes, it was.
One of Lord Horace’s famed greenhouses.
William had made Oliver look at dozens of different plans for Penelope’s greenhouse—so many Oliver could build one himself by now. This one was in a slightly older style and lacked the fashionable glass roof, but if Lord Horace was wintering his exotic plants and fruits here, the building must be heated
by a system of stoves beneath the floor.
They might tidy and warm themselves inside, and perhaps snatch a few moments of rest before they met with Lord Horace. It would be dreadful indeed if they were caught out, but it was early yet, and none of Lord Horace’s gardeners seemed to be about. Oliver glanced at Dinah, and the blue tinge to her lips made up his mind.
She turned to him in surprise when he pointed the horses’ heads toward the building. “Where are we going? Don’t say you mean to break into Lord Horace’s greenhouse.”
“I mean to get inside, yes, but I’m hoping we don’t have to break anything.” Oliver brought the coach to a halt and jumped down off the box, wincing a bit as the blood rushed back into his stiff legs. Dinah offered him her hand to help her alight, but he ignored it and grasped her around the waist.
“Oliver! What are you—”
“Making certain you don’t fall.” He swung her down from the coach. “Your limbs will be numb by now.” He waited until he was certain she was steady on her feet, then he reluctantly released her and retrieved the puppy and the carriage rugs from the coach. He led Dinah toward the greenhouse door, and offered her an extravagant bow. “After you, Miss Bishop.”
Dinah hesitated. “Perhaps this isn’t a good idea. I daresay the door is locked, in any case.”
“It’s a perfectly wonderful idea, by virtue of it’s being our only idea. As for the door, there’s one way to know whether or not it’s locked.” Oliver grasped the latch and let out a sigh of relief as it turned easily in his hand. “See, Miss Bishop? It’s as good as an invitation.”
He pressed a hand to the small of her back to usher her inside. It wasn’t as warm as Oliver had hoped it would be, but it was certainly warmer than it was outside, and with a pleasing scent of soil and green, growing things.
Oliver set down the pup, who immediately went off to explore, tail wagging. He turned his back to give Dinah privacy, then tossed his hat aside, tore off the damp cravat that had been driving him mad for the past few hours, and removed his coat and waistcoat, hoping the damp linen shirt he wore underneath would dry before he was obliged to meet with Lord Horace.
