A Trace of Roses

by Connolly, Lynne

  At his nod, her footmen stationed themselves outside the door. They took wide-legged stances, hands behind their backs. Baker reappeared with a silver tray loaded with silverware and a blue and white china plate containing bread and butter. Everyone knew the ladies lived on thinly sliced bread and butter.

  After helping Lady Dorcas to sit on the cushioned bench against the wall, and receiving a frosty nod of thanks for his pains, Grant took the silver coffee pot from Baker and poured it for her himself.

  When he gave Baker a nod of thanks, the man took the hint and left, closing the door behind him.

  “He speaks good English,” she commented.

  “Why shouldn’t he? He’s English born and bred.”

  A flush mantled her cheeks. “Oh! I’m sorry, I assumed too much. I thought he was a sailor, and you’ve come from China…” She tailed off.

  Grant rescued her. “That’s fine. People assume. When it suits him, Baker can act like a man who doesn’t understand the language, so his appearance even comes in useful sometimes. His father was a sailor, his mother was a Chinese lady fleeing an arranged marriage. Baker’s father set up business on the quayside as a belt maker. He probably knows this part of London better than you do.”

  “Oh,” she said, and picked up her coffee. At least she hadn’t shown any of the unthinking prejudice many people did. There were many like Baker around here. “You lived in London for a long time. Surely you’ve met people of different origins before.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I assumed too much.”

  “Don’t concern yourself. His cousin acts as my valet. The best I ever had.”

  “Oh. But I should not have made such assumptions.”

  She should not, but he didn’t think she’d make the same mistake again.

  “I’m not sure this is proper,” she said after her first sip of the scalding brew. “Sitting here with you, alone.”

  “Too late for that,” he answered cheerfully. He ignored his coffee for now. “You should not have come here in the first place.”

  She sighed, her gaze dropping to fix on the table. Carefully, she removed her gloves, revealing her hands. As if he had never seen them before, Grant stared, watched her pull the bow under her chin and remove her hat. She did everything with precision, as if every move mattered. “I couldn’t do anything else. I received word the plants had arrived days ago, but they haven’t arrived yet. If they’re not cared for, they won’t survive.” She lifted her eyes, her gaze bleak.

  That expression startled him. “Is this cargo more important to you than your own safety?” he asked her.

  She swallowed, unfolded her arms. Her pose became a little less rigid. “Yes,” she said, as if confessing a sin. “Yes, it is. There are some exotic seeds that I want to experiment with, but more than that, two rose trees.”

  “Rose trees?” he echoed. “Doesn’t Britain have enough roses?”

  “Not yellow ones.” Her eyes warmed, and a becoming flush mantled her cheekbones. “We have never seen a yellow rose. We have pink ones, red ones, white ones, but no yellow ones. Surely breeding that color isn’t impossible. And whoever can breed true will be remembered forever. I read in The Horticulturalist’s Companion that China has some species of the yellow rose. The flowers are small and unremarkable, but they are yellow, and the same genus as our roses. We’ve only just begun to see the possibilities of the rose, of other flowers, and we’re bringing the art of grafting to a peak. We have new methods of feeding and culturing. Glasshouses are wonderful resources.”

  “But—flowers?” Grant could not understand why so much passion should be expended on a plant. “I know you are in search of a yellow rose. And I support you in that quest. But something more useful, like a more disease-resilience wheat, or an apple that grew in March, that would be something to celebrate, but flowers, lovely though they are, don’t provide anything of true value.”

  She came straight back at him. “A crocus provides the most expensive spice in the world—saffron. Besides,” she went on when he would have spoken, “does everything have to be useful? Isn’t a lovely garden an aesthetic that will feed the soul, and lead to better lives, encourage people to do better, be better, be more than they are?”

  Goodness. What a speech. Her passion took him aback. But she still hadn’t persuaded him. Wisely, he chose not to continue the discussion, particularly here on the riverside. The broad, deep river sent a damp chill over everything. Despite his warm clothing and the sunny day, he shivered.

  This lady felt passionately about developing yellow roses, for a reason that went beyond his understanding. To make an effort was good, though, and he enjoyed the heat in her eyes when she argued her case. But finding her here still concerned him the most.

  He had the manifest in his hands, and that was what he’d come for after his came up missing when he was attacked earlier. There was no need for him to stay, except that he wanted to. But the harridan facing him was nothing like the sweet, compliant woman of yesterday, who had shown him a shocking degree of passion in the kisses they’d shared. Shocking in the best way possible.

  This must be why. In his experience, there was never a benefit without cost.

  And yet he still wanted her. He also wanted a quiet life. If he did what she wanted, found her precious plants, then that peace could still be possible. After all, gardeners were tranquil people, pottering about, clipping a plant or two. And he liked gardens.

  “Those roses are what I need to make the yellow rose. After I get the first blossoms, and they breed true, then I can refine them, perhaps combine them with a white rose, or even a red one to make soft peach.” Her voice warmed. “That will take years, but can you imagine being the first person to create it? Do you recall the tulip craze of the last century in Holland?”

  He frowned, searching his memory. “A little. They went insane for them, didn’t they?”

  She nodded. “Bulbs changed prices for enormous amounts. They floated the companies on the stock market, traded them for houses, ships. Then the market collapsed. But when the dust had settled, we had many varieties of tulips. People went bankrupt, ruined. And the ultimate quest was for the black tulip. They developed dark blue, dark red, but nothing that was pitch black.”

  He shook his head and finally picked up his coffee. “Why would anyone want such a thing, anyway?”

  She huffed. “Because it didn’t exist, and the black tulip was so hard to achieve. The botanists made discoveries along the way when they developed the varieties. We still use many of them today.”

  He took a leap of faith. “And the yellow rose is like that? The one that nobody has invented?”

  She nodded. “In a way. I doubt the fever will rise so high, but yes. There is a race to develop the first yellow rose, and there are financial gains to be made. But I don’t care about that.”

  “Why a yellow rose? Why not something else?” And would people really pay so much? He would have to refresh his memory about the black tulip. Grant liked a profit, especially when it benefited more than the man making the money. He imagined what one of the soft, velvety blossoms in his mother’s garden would look like as a yellow blossom. Cheery, he decided. Like the sun.

  “Why not? There aren’t any in the Western world, so we should make them. I’ll graft the roses onto another kind—make a hybrid. Then develop it further, until I have the blossom I want. Then I can ensure it breeds true. Nobody yet has managed to do it, but I will.”

  “You’re a woman of intelligence, I’ll give you that,” he said gloomily. “But you’re to be a wife and mother. Won’t that take all your time?”

  She laughed, and it sounded like genuine amusement with an echo of derision. “Spend all my time thinking of them and none for myself? No sir, I will not. Do you imagine that a woman who sacrifices all her interests for her children will convey anything but foolish obedience? My husband will not seek to confine me in the house.”

  That was a warning. Wisely, Grant backed off. “Gar
dening is an admirable pursuit.”

  Her mouth flattened. “It is, but that’s not my main interest. I want to help develop new species, and study them.” She finished her coffee, and set the cup in the deep saucer. After studying it, she gave it a half-turn, so the blue-printed cartouche was set precisely in the middle, front and back. “This is a fine piece of porcelain.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Is it yours?”

  Startled, he met her gaze. “The porcelain?”

  She lifted her chin, waved a hand to indicate their surroundings. “All of it. This ship.”

  “Ah.” He shook his head. “Yes, but not all the cargo is mine.”

  “Where are the other investors?”

  In other words, why was he here and not them? He saw no reason not to tell her. “The cargo is tea and porcelain.”

  “And plants.”

  He nodded. “And plants. Some porcelain is a complete dinner service for me. I ordered one. It has our coat of arms, and depictions of the estate. But I’ve seen other services completely botched because the makers don’t understand the words on the coats of arms, or they have accidentally reversed it. I’m keen that doesn’t happen. If it does, I’ll reject the lot.”

  “Won’t you have paid for it already?”

  He picked up the coffee pot. She nodded her permission for him to refill her cup. After he’d done so, she added some cream from the jug in the set, not spilling a drop, even though her hand shook a little. “I did, but I would put it in a secondary house, one my mother never visits. I’ll tell her the service didn’t arrive. She’ll be disappointed, but she doesn’t dwell on failures. The service was packed in the tea. I’ll see it soon.”

  “So we’re both here to collect something precious to us.”

  He didn’t like her thoughtful expression, as if she were adding up far too much about his mother. He wouldn’t explain the situation today. She’d met his mother, and that was enough for now. He was already making plans for his mother and brother, after his marriage.

  So he changed the subject, turned her back to botany. “What made you interested in flowers?”

  “In all plants,” she corrected him, but without rancor. “When I was a child, Gerald brought us to town. He was older, and he said we would live here instead of in the country.”

  Why had he done that? Why had they not come to Mayfair, or lived somewhere more fashionable, more accessible? They were gentry rather than nobility, that was true, but plenty of people like that came to town and moved in society, especially at the larger, less exclusive events.

  And they lived in Bunhill Row, with the Quakers and the merchants. Not even further into the City, near Covent Garden, where a few relics still lived. Why?

  He opened his mouth to ask her. After all, she could always rebuff him, and he’d play the gentleman and ask no further.

  But she continued, as if she hadn’t noticed his attempt to speak. “As a result, Damaris, Delphi and I took up different interests. After all, we had to keep busy. Delphi set about perfecting her Latin and Greek, so she could read the ancient texts, and studied the statues and relics people brought to London. She even owned a marble hand, probably still does.”

  “A hand?” Fascinating.

  “From an old statue. It’s a remarkable piece. All the tendons and bones are visible under the skin. A marvel. I admired it, but it didn’t fire my imagination as the garden did. We were fortunate enough to have a large garden at our house.” She grinned ruefully. “It’s Annie’s smelting yard now, but before we moved, I transported every plant I wanted to our new London house. And some cuttings, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She didn’t notice the edge of sarcasm in his voice, but continued, staring at the table again as if she could see visions of flowers.

  “Gerald had a small glasshouse built for me. Nowhere near the size I need, but it serves. Our interests became extremely important to us. Gerald told us we might have to give them up once we marry, but none of us wish to. Why would we? Now that we have enough to survive on our own, nobody can tell us that.”

  The streak of independence could be useful, but not when taken to extremes. That worried Grant. Would she abandon her duties to create her yellow rose? Was it even something that could be achieved? He would be the first to admit that he knew very little about gardening and botany, but surely the subject couldn’t be so consuming? The example of the black tulip showed how foolish pursuing something single-mindedly could become.

  He didn’t want that for her. Not to see her as an old woman, life passing her by while she pursued a goal that might not be achievable. She might become famous after her death, but who cared about that? No, a woman so vibrant, so lovely, deserved more than that. A full life.

  But he feared he wasn’t the man to give it to her. His life was too complicated to accommodate anything more. One part of his life needed to be tranquil, and his bedroom seemed like a good place to start. Had he been too hasty in asking her to marry him? Had his little brain overwhelmed the big one?

  Baker returned, bearing several items. Bags of canvas, with unreadable print on the outside. A couple of boxes with what looked to him like a collection of twigs.

  These were the precious plants?

  When Dorcas leaped to her feet with a cry of horror and raced across the room, Grant closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what came next, but he had no choice.

  Chapter Eight

  “What have you done?” Seizing a box from the quartermaster, Dorcas stared at the contents. Horror twisted her insides, and the dull ache in her head that had bothered her most of the morning intensified. Most of the soil had gone, and from the grains that clung to the roots, she doubted they’d ever seen compost. “I sent precise instructions with the order.”

  Tears blurring her vision, she raised her head and met a pair of apologetic brown ones. “Your seeds are intact.” He waved one of the bags.

  “But who knows if they will take? They could be dead, too. As dead as the tea you carried.”

  The silence behind her told her Blackridge had decided to retreat from the conversation. She knew him well enough to sense that.

  “These are valuable. Or were.” Dropping the first box, she reached for the second. It was in the same state. Barely any soil. The roses had been reduced to a collection of brown twigs. She couldn’t see any signs of life. No tiny shoots or nodes she could work with. Nothing.

  Her dreams died with the twigs. She couldn’t afford to keep investing in roses that were treated like this.

  “I’m sorry,” Baker said. “My men aren’t used to dealing with live plants. Only dead leaves.”

  “So they reduced my plants to the state they understood. Is that what you mean? Are they illiterate, too? Can’t they read the instructions I sent?”

  “They must have been lost somewhere.” He let out a heavy breath. “I can only apologize.”

  The seeds were the least of it. They were interesting curiosities, added on to make up the order.

  There they were, her yellow roses. Dead, along with her plans.

  “We will, of course, refund your investment,” Baker said, and he glanced over her head, presumably for confirmation.

  So the duke was making a contribution, was he?

  She turned around, box in hand, the twigs poking into her clothes. “I want replacements,” she said. “Returning what I spent isn’t enough. Not nearly enough. What about the time I spent studying, experimenting, preparing? Will you compensate me for that as well?”

  His mouth was flat. “If you wish. We do have a certain percentage of spoiled and shrunk cargo. We can cover your losses.”

  His words turned her temper incandescent. “How dare you? I know you were trying to indulge me. You didn’t listen when I tried to tell you, did you? You were only trying—” Recalling what she was about to say, she broke off hurriedly, heat rising to bathe her with embarrassment. But that only added to her temper. How dare he provoke
her so?

  What did it matter anyway? These men weren’t about to take her seriously. Nobody did. Shrieking and crying wouldn’t help that. In fact, that would confirm them in their assumptions that women were unreasonable, hysterical creatures. She’d caught his inattention, the way his gaze froze, as if he’d gone within himself when she’d been talking to him.

  With a tremendous effort, she swallowed her temper. Drawing on all her dignity, or what she had left, she thrust the useless box of twigs into the hands of the quartermaster, gaining a little satisfaction from watching the way he juggled it. “I’m wasting my time here.”

  She groped for words to express how deeply disappointed she was, how angry she was that her orders had been disregarded. Seeing her dreams turn to ash, or rather a bunch of twigs, had sent her into the pit of despair. What was worse, her headache throbbed behind one temple. Those one-sided headaches meant only one thing. She had to get out of here before the attack struck her badly.

  Lights streaked her vision when she turned her head to leave the room. The door was open. She only had to reach her servants.

  “Come, Gorman, Trace. I’ve finished my business here.”

  Turning her head to cast a scornful glare at the duke was her undoing. The world spun, her stomach revolted against her fight to keep her breakfast down, and either she tripped on her skirts or her internal sense of balance gave way.

  Strong arms supported her and stopped her tumbling to the floor. At least she was spared that humiliation, but not the one of casting up her accounts.

  He only just caught her in time. In less than a minute, Lady Dorcas had turned from a rampaging, achingly attractive virago to a helpless heap of humanity. He’d been admiring her flash of temper, while regretting he wouldn’t see much more of it, when she’d keeled over.

  He knew it wasn’t the gentle rocking of the ship because he’d seen her like this once before.

  Lady Dorcas suffered from headaches so severe that they affected her whole body. On a visit to Greenwich, she’d been taken so suddenly that the hasty change of plans had meant them spending the night at his house there. A shame they were so far from the house, otherwise he’d give her the peace and quiet she needed. His own house was the same distance as hers. He had to take her home.