The Orchid Hunter

by Jill Marie Landis

  The girl made an awkward, bobbing motion, something between a curtsy and a bow. She moved no closer.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Mandeville. You have the eyes of a cobra.”

  “A what?”

  Sims, who had tucked himself inside the door, began to wheeze. Adelaide dismissed him with a cold nod. He hurried back to the foyer and closed the door behind him. The wheezing faded along with the sound of his footsteps.

  “I believe that is a good thing, Grandmama,” Janelle said quickly. “Isn’t it Joya?”

  “Oh, yes. They are cunning and wise and it’s very hard to trap one.”

  Adelaide was beginning to wonder whether the girl was as simple as she seemed, or whether perhaps she was playing them all for fools.

  “Where are you from again?”

  “I am from Matarenga, a small island off the coast of Africa. It’s a very beautiful place.”

  “And your father is the famous Dustin Penn. How did he come to raise you on an African isle?”

  “My mother, Clara, was a housekeeper who worked for the Oateses.” Joya smiled at Janelle. “She delivered us. My father says that when she saw there were two babies born that night, she decided to keep one for herself.”

  Adelaide’s heart stopped. Her head began to swim.

  Clara. A housekeeper who worked for the Oateses.

  Slowly, Adelaide turned to Trevor, terrified of what he might already know. Suddenly she wished she had forbidden his going to Africa. She wished she had feigned illness, begged him not to leave, anything to keep him from discovering the dark secret she had guarded all his life.

  There was nothing in his expression that told her anything had changed. She prayed he still knew nothing.

  “This woman, this Clara…” She fought to choose her words carefully. “Did you meet her, Trevor?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “She passed away a few years ago.”

  Safe. The secret was still safe. Or was it? And for how long?

  Adelaide began to breathe a bit easier. Her heart recovered. How in God’s name could this have happened? Out of all the islands in all the world, all the jungles where her grandson might have searched for an orchid worthy of Queen Victoria’s name, how had he found the very place to which the maid, Clara Hayworth had disappeared?

  She wanted to scream at the injustice of it.

  Instead, she held her piece and tried to decide how much the Penn chit knew about her “mother,” Clara Hayworth.

  Only two things were certain at this point; that Janelle, thrilled to have found her sister, would be of no help at all, and that Trevor was half smitten already.

  It would be up to her, Adelaide, to make certain Joya Penn was soon out of their home and out of Trevor’s life.

  * * *

  Joya let Janelle usher her to a chair. Mimicking her sister’s every move, she sat down carefully, folded her hands in her lap, and tried to make herself unobtrusive.

  Everything about London and Mandeville House was overwhelming. She knew nothing of London manners, but even she could sense when she was not welcome. She felt it each time she locked gazes with Adelaide Mandeville and the woman’s eyes would narrow. But then, what else could one expect from a woman who bit people?

  As Trevor and Janelle conversed with their grandmother, Joya settled back, thankful to be forgotten. She sipped the rich, dark tea and was content to look around. Even though it was the beginning of summer, a low fire burned in the fireplace. Long windows lined the room, but heavy draperies blocked much of the sunlight. The drawing room was shadowed and crowded, filled with tables and chairs and settees upholstered in lush, dark fabrics. The walls were covered with shimmering gold material. A multitude of paintings of horses and dogs and vases full of flowers vied for wall space with gilt-framed mirrors. There seemed to be something amazing everywhere she looked.

  When her gaze met Adelaide’s, she instantly realized the older woman had been watching her. Despite the fire, she shivered with a chill. There had been a change in Adelaide the moment that Trevor had mentioned Clara Penn, one that neither Janelle nor Trevor seemed to have noticed. Joya tried to convince herself that perhaps she was imagining Adelaide’s dislike. Perhaps the woman stared at every newcomer with such cold calculation.

  “Please pour more tea, Janelle,” Adelaide requested. Then she turned her attention to Trevor once more. “Now, tell me all about your trip. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

  While Trevor, Janelle and Adelaide talked on and on, Joya paid scant attention and let her thoughts wander. She longed to be outdoors, for she wanted to see more of London than she had during the exhilarating and frightening carriage ride through the crowded streets, but there would be plenty of time for that. She contented herself with finishing her tea. The chair was deep and comfortable. Soon she found it hard to keep her eyes open.

  “Joya?”

  She had no idea how long she had dozed before Trevor woke her. Through the lingering haze of sleep she thought his voice one of the finest sounds she had ever heard.

  “I must have fallen asleep.” She smiled over at him.

  As she attempted to straighten, the china cup and saucer began to slide off of her lap. When she made a grab for them, she accidentally clapped the two pieces together.

  Tea and china chips flew off both delicate floral pieces. A long crack neatly halved the saucer just as the cup broke into three pieces. Joya closed her hands over them and, in an effort to keep the china from hitting the floor, slid off the chair onto her knees.

  Kneeling on the stained carpeting, she looked up and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Adelaide gently set down her own cup and did nothing to hide her disgust. “That was my aunt’s china. It was very, very old.”

  “You’ve cut yourself,” Janelle exclaimed, ready to rush to Joya’s aid, but Trevor was already there.

  “Here,” he said softly, kneeling down before her. He took the broken pieces from her and passed the china fragments to Janelle, then gently took both of Joya’s hands in his, turned them up, and inspected her wounds. There was a shallow cut in her left palm, a bit of china stuck in her right.

  Joya bit her lips together as he carefully pulled out the sliver and handed it to Janelle. Then he took his linen napkin and gently daubed both her wounds. He pressed the napkin against the longest slice and helped Joya to her feet.

  “That is just the sort of thing I was talking about,” Adelaide said.

  Trevor’s hand tightened slightly, but not uncomfortably, on Joya’s arm. “Grandmother, I think we should discuss this later.”

  “It was just an accident, Grandmama.” Janelle carried the broken cup over to the tea tray and set the pieces down. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “I won’t have this family embarrassed in front of our closest friends and business associates. She is simply not ready.”

  “Not ready for what?” Joya looked to Janelle and then Trevor.

  “Grandmother was concerned that you might be uncomfortable in a formal situation,” he said.

  “What formal situation?”

  Adelaide set her cup down, occupied with very precise, careful movements. There was a great rustling of black silk whenever she moved, and afterward the scent of wilted flowers filled the air.

  Janelle stood beside the fireplace. “Knowing we were due back, Grandmother had already planned a gathering of friends, which is to take place in a fortnight. She is concerned that you might need more time to become accustomed to…well, everything. But I think it would be a wonderful way to introduce you.”

  “Trevor, please reason with your sister,” Adelaide said.

  He was already leading Joya across the room. “Right now, I’m going to take Joya upstairs. Janelle, please tell Mrs. Billingsley to have a look at these cuts. She may need to send for a doctor.”

  Joya tried to pull her arm free. “I do not need a doctor. My mother told me all about doctors. They bleed people to make them well. I do not w
ant a doctor to cut my throat.”

  He kept walking, and so she was forced to walk with him. “No one is going to cut your throat.”

  “I do not need you to drag me across the carpet, either.”

  Adelaide called sharply, “Trevor, we have yet to discuss your schedule. Everyone in the Orchid Society is quite excited about the search for the Victoria orchid. You will need to leave in the next few weeks if you are going to be the first to find it.”

  “After I have Joya settled, I’ll return and you can tell me everything that’s happened while we were away.” “I’m sure Janelle would be happy to see her sister upstairs. You needn’t—”

  Before Adelaide could finish, Trevor had already pulled Joya out of the drawing room and across the foyer toward the staircase.

  * * *

  It’s already started. Just as I feared.

  Trevor tended to agree with his grandmother that Joya was not ready to be formally introduced. She had barely set foot inside Mandeville House and she had already caused a disturbance.

  What disturbed him even more was the fact that he felt compelled to see to Joya himself, to get her away from his grandmother’s disapproving stare and see to her well-being.

  “I think we should go back,” Joya said. “Your grandmother sounded upset.”

  “She’ll recover.”

  They started up the staircase.

  “Where are we going?” She paused, looking dubiously up the long flight of stairs.

  “I’m taking you to your room. It’s right next to Janelle’s. You will feel more comfortable there.”

  “I am already comfortable.” She stopped every few steps to look down the steep stairwell. “This is very high.”

  “Mrs. Billingsley took care of all of our bumps and bruises when we were children. She’ll see to your cuts.”

  “Your grandmother did not tend you?”

  “No, definitely not Grandmother.” He smiled, unable to imagine his grandmother dispensing warm milk and medical aid. Her forte was business advice.

  “She doesn’t like me.” Joya stopped at the top of the stairs, looked back down again, and then followed him along the seemingly endless hallway.

  Joya’s observation was far more perceptive than he would have thought. He had noticed as much, too, and attributed his grandmother’s seeming dislike to a genuine concern for the repercussions and speculation that would come of Joya’s sudden appearance. He could have denied his grandmother’s behavior, but feared Joya would see through the lie.

  “The notion that Janelle has a twin is a bit of a shock for everyone. It will take Grandmother time to get used to your…ways.”

  Joya stopped again, this time to inspect the wall covering, which depicted a forest scene. She touched it lightly, reverently, with her fingertips. She was so uninhibited and spontaneous—traits that hardly seemed offenses when he thought about them. He shook his head. Heaven help him if he starting thinking like Janelle. They continued down the hall, turned a corner.

  “It’s very dark up here,” she whispered.

  It was dim inside, but the day itself was gray and dismal. Showers were imminent. Little light filtered through the layers of lace and velvet window coverings. Portraits of grim-faced Mandeville ancestors glared back at them as they passed by.

  “Who are all these old men?” She paused again, leaned close to one portrait, stood on tiptoe, and touched the nose of one especially dour-looking gentleman.

  “Those are my ancestors. Great-grandfathers and great-uncles. Great-great ones, I suppose. All Mandevilles through and through.”

  “Why are they so great?”

  “Do you plan on bleeding all over the carpet or will you please come along?”

  She held her hands up, inspecting them by the weak light.

  “I’m not bleeding at all.” She glanced over her shoulder. “How do you keep from getting lost?”

  “We drop bread crumbs.”

  “The entire Matarengi tribe could live here.”

  That pronouncement conjured up images best left alone, he decided. The sound of their footsteps echoed hollowly in the hall. When they reached the door to her room he opened it and ushered her in.

  At least here, with corner windows, the light was better. As she walked past him, Trevor caught the satin hair ribbon that had slipped off her shoulder.

  “Why, there is my trunk!” She turned to him, clearly amazed to find her little trunk waiting at the foot of the bed.

  “The footman brought it up.”

  “How did he know where I was going to sleep?”

  “Sims told him.”

  “How did Sims know?”

  “Because Janelle told him.” He handed her the ribbon.

  She set it on the nightstand. “My hair has fallen apart,” she said mournfully. “Perhaps that is why your grandmother doesn’t like me.”

  “I told you not to take offense. Grandmother can be difficult at times. I greatly admire her, for it is due primarily to her efforts that Mandeville Imports has grown and thrived—no small feat for a woman to succeed in business, which is still very much a man’s world. She has always put the family first, even though she married into the Mandevilles. Now, please, sit down and let me look at your hands again. Where is Mrs. Billingsley, I wonder?”

  Joya appeared thoughtful for a moment, then ignored his request and walked over to the window fronting the street. She pulled aside the heavy, gold drapery, lifted the edge of the material, and rubbed it against her cheek.

  “So soft.” She turned to him again. “What is the name of this cloth, Trevor?”

  “Velvet.”

  “I like it very much.”

  “I’ll tell Janelle. She can see that you have a gown fashioned out of it.”

  “Oh, but I would hate to have her cut up your window covering.” She dropped the drapery and turned to him again. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you ate—”

  “Another bad beetle?”

  “Yes.” She walked to the edge of the bed and sat down. The curls on the ribbonless side of her hair had fallen to her shoulder. He knew it was not the style, but he still liked her hair better that way; it seemed more like Joya.

  She held up her hands. “You see. No blood.”

  Trevor took a deep breath and crossed the room. He took both her hands in his and turned them toward the light. Her cuts were superficial and no longer bleeding. The deeper wound was only oozing a bit. A good washing and perhaps a small bandage was all she would need in the way of care.

  Her hands felt small and very fragile in his. They were not the delicate hands of a woman of leisure, but callused from wielding a machete. Her nails were short, but evenly trimmed and clean. Off her island, she had a fragility, an odd tenderness and vulnerability that he had not suspected when he first laid eyes on her, but he felt it now, saw it in the open, trusting way she looked up into his eyes.

  The room was incredibly quiet. In the stillness he became very aware of her nearness. The soft sigh of her breath, the warmth radiating from her, enticed him. He liked the way her hand felt in his.

  Suddenly he imagined himself bending close and pressing her back against the goldenrod bedspread—imagined covering her lush, tempting mouth with his. He could almost taste her and knew she would be innocent, exotic. She was too tempting.

  She was lovely and unattached, but no proper young miss would have ever allowed herself to be alone with him like this. Was it because Joya was so naive, or because he was Janelle’s brother, that she trusted him so?

  She did trust him and it did not matter why. She had put herself into his hands. If he were to kiss her or make any other improper advance, he would be taking advantage of an innocent.

  He found himself wondering whether she might be the least bit attracted to him. Surely looking into a man’s eyes as if she were about to drown in them was not a habit with her, but there was only one way to find out.

&nbs
p; Trevor reminded himself that he was a man of principle, a man of good conduct—a gentleman. He refused to cross that line.

  “Well?” Her voice, barely above a whisper, was as soft as a tender caress. “What do you think?”

  Confused, Trevor let go of her hands and straightened. He looked away from the bed, away from temptation, and cleared his throat. He took a deep breath and collected himself.

  “I think it’s time I went to see what’s keeping Mrs. Billingsley. I will send Janelle up, too.”

  Thankfully, he did not break into a cold sweat until he was in the hall.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joya had not been alone long when Mrs. Billingsley confidently bustled into the room, followed by a young maid who had barely left childhood behind. The girl, introduced to her as Betty, was dressed in a starched white apron. She carried a large pitcher and a roll of bandages, which she placed on a washstand before she quickly left again.

  “Oh, you poor, poor dear,” Mrs. Billingsley cooed. “Let me have a look at those cuts. Don’t worry about a thing, miss. I’ve a knack at putting things like this to right.”

  As Mrs. Billingsley fussed and clucked over nothing, Joya sat patiently, content to let her mind wander back to her conversation with Trevor. Almost the entire time he had been talking to her, her heart had fluttered so erratically that she had barely been able to concentrate on a single word.

  Whenever he was around, she noticed, her body had begun to do some very peculiar things. When her heart was not dancing to an erratic tune, she tingled all over. Her face felt flushed, her hands went cold, her knees weakened.

  Since the day they had left tropical waters, the only time she ever felt warm enough was whenever he was near.

  Could it be that she desired him? Could it be that she was falling in love?

  She stared at Mrs. Billingsley’s curly head of silver and white hair while the housekeeper bent over and gently dabbed a layer of fine white cloth against her palm.

  “Mrs. Billingsley, as you are one of the elders here, would you mind if I ask you something? I’m not certain it wouldn’t be more proper to ask Mr. Sims, since he might be older than either you or Mrs. Mandeville, but since you are here, and since I am very curious about something, I would like to ask you.”