by Becky Lower
“Is it used in the same manner as ginger, then? For seasoning, and medicine?” He touched a pod as well and noticed how Violet’s fingers trembled a bit when his hand got close. He backed off so she could set the heavy pot back on the table. In many ways, Violet appeared fragile, but her years of working in the greenhouse had made her physically strong, and she handled the pot as if it weighed next to nothing. She had no need of his help, so he didn’t offer to assist her. Maybe his lack of action could be construed as ungentlemanly, but his gut told him any offer would be summarily rejected, anyway, and probably with a barbed comment.
“Uh, no. I mean, yes.” Violet shook her head. “It can be used as a medicinal agent, especially for respiratory problems, but it’s mainly used for seasoning and tea.” She lifted her gaze from the plant to him. “It’s even been said to be an aphrodisiac, if you can put any store in what the Indian growers claim.” Tinges of pink appeared on Violet’s cheeks. She spun around to replace the plant on the table.
“If my cough reappears, perhaps a tea with cardamom would help, then.” Parker chose to ignore Violet’s last claim about the spice. But the way she scurried on ahead of him like a frightened mouse, out of his grasp, made him aware she had not. He grinned. Here he was, so congested he could barely breathe, and he’d been none too steady even before his illness, what with his bad leg. Yet she feared he’d run after her and have his way with her after drinking some of the herb. If he weren’t so ill, he’d laugh at the situation. He had no interest in Violet beyond what she could teach him. But the rustle of her skirts soothed him.
• • •
Why could she never control her mouth when she discussed plants? Usually, she could be quiet, and she preferred to fade into the background when she was forced from the confines of the greenhouse. But put her in her element, and her speech overrode her common sense. Why had she even taken him to the herb garden instead of shifting his focus to her roses and have him begin to make his selections, thereby fulfilling the purpose of his visit and having him one step closer to leaving? And then, why had she selected the blasted cardamom? To show him her superior intelligence? And then, why did she have to relay its aphrodisiac claims? He could have lived the rest of his life without that particular nugget of knowledge. Why did younger men fluster her so? She guessed she should be grateful the man in question could barely breathe and had a bum leg. If he ingested some cardamom and ran after her, she could easily get away.
Her cheeks burned and she dashed back to her office, leaving Mr. Sinclair on his own to explore the enclosed hothouse portion of her greenhouse, where her experiments were taking place. He’d unsettled her since their very first meeting when he’d held her hand too long, causing her stomach to quiver and her fingers to tremble. But then, most men had the ability to unsettle her. Day Three so far had become a nightmare, and they hadn't even broached the subject of hybridization he had come to England to learn. There would be no getting around talk of propagation with this man. First cardamom and then hybrid roses. Violet took a few calming breaths. She didn’t need to have any more talk of propagating or anything else that might stray into uncomfortable waters today. She would tell him because they’d gotten off to a slow start, it was now too late in the day to begin teaching him about the complicated process of hybridization. But she still had to sit through dinner tonight, with Mr. Sinclair as their esteemed guest. Well, she’d handle dinner just fine, too. She would control her mouth, perhaps keep it filled with food, and let her sisters carry the conversation.
The greenhouse door burst open, and Poppy barreled inside, carrying a stack of clothing and food for Violet and Parker. Violet rose to take some of the pile from her.
“Father told me to gather up all the spare clothing we had laying about for Mr. Sinclair to try on. Is he here?” Poppy scarcely took a breath.
Violet nodded. “Yes, he’s here. He’s in the hothouse.”
“Is he naked?” Poppy’s gaze ricocheted around the glass house.
Violet laughed. “No, you silly goose. He’s not naked. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on when he arrived. I’ll give him what you’ve found, but you need to hurry back home now.” She held out her hands to take the clothing.
“But I wish to meet him if he’s here and properly clothed,” Poppy exclaimed. Parker wandered into the office while they were talking. Poppy caught sight of him and dropped the clothes she still had in her hands. Her eyes grew wide and she dipped into a small curtsy. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Sinclair. So nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Poppy.”
Parker executed a slight bow, grinned, and picked up the pants and shirts from the floor. He held up a pair of trousers, which stopped at his knees. “It’s nice to meet you, Poppy, and while I appreciate you finding spare clothing, these won’t fit.”
“Oh, I could tell you were tall, but you’re so much more so than most English fellows,” Poppy murmured as she craned her neck. “I’ll continue to search and will see you at dinner.”
Violet shooed her out of the greenhouse while Parker riffled through the pile of clothing.
“Poppy is delightful.” His mouth quirked up into a grin.
Violet brushed her curls back from her face, corralling them into a tight bun at the back of her head. “That’s one way of putting it. Poppy is a handful. As are my other sisters. You’re in for a treat at dinner.”
To his credit, Parker said nothing about cardamom for the remainder of the afternoon. He did appear to be gaining on his congestion and cough, since his eyes were no longer bleary. After the abbreviated tour of the greenhouse, they ended up back at the office area. She took her seat behind the desk and stared into the icy blue depths of Mr. Sinclair’s eyes for a long minute before she shook herself and cleared her throat. Parker Sinclair wouldn’t leave until he learned what his employer had sent him here to learn, so she’d better get started. She took a deep breath and motioned for him to take a seat as she spread the meal, which Poppy had delivered, on the table.
“What kind of name is Parker, anyway?” The question slid out of her mouth like a slippery eel before she could stop herself. Not the topic she should have led with, but the discussion of plants wasn’t the only thing befuddling her. The man standing in front of her upset her equilibrium more than she cared to admit. She really needed to get out of the greenhouse more, as her father mentioned time and again.
“Parker is my mother’s maiden name.” He finally removed his satchel, which was strapped to his body, placing it over the back of his chair. Violet followed his movements with her eyes, appreciating the play of his muscles as he rotated his arms and shoulders. His rough work shirt, which he’d worn for days, now at least appeared clean, since it had been laundered while he lay in his sickbed. She shook her head to shift her mind into an appropriate line of thought. Staring at a man’s shirt and appreciating his arm muscles had gotten her in trouble once before with Davey, whose strong shoulders and forearms had been forged by his work as a farrier and blacksmith. The result of that disaster had sent her scurrying back to her greenhouse. She would not let it happen again. Her teeth ground together as she gained control of herself. Her gaze drifted to his hands, now dwarfing a sandwich of ham, cheese, and two thick slices of bread.
She swallowed hard. She’d chosen the path of their conversation, so now she must follow through with it. What had been the question anyway? Ah, yes, his name. “I only ask because it’s rather unusual. Is your mother still pleased with her choice of names?”
Parker shrugged his rather impressive shoulders and glanced away from her. Stitches and biscuits, Violet. What is wrong with you? Stop it! She should not be referring to his shoulders as impressive, even in her head.
“I certainly hope so, but she’s been gone for a number of years now. As has my father.” He straightened and his gaze locked on hers. “America is still an untamed country and can be a very dangerous place to live. Not at all the lap of comfort you’re used to.”
“I'm sorry to hear of yo
ur losses.” He waved her comment away. Perhaps the time had come to progress to other, more neutral, topics. If only she could think of something.
“How did all the sisters come to be named for flowers?” Parker’s gaze rose to meet hers as he turned the line of questioning to her, deflecting the conversation away from himself.
Violet smiled. “That was Mother’s doing. Father had just begun his nursery business when the first daughter was born. Mother handed her over to Father with the offhand comment that she was yet another flower for his garden. So, she became Iris, thereby starting the trend.”
“How many years has it been since your mother passed on?” Parker’s simple question brought Violet to the verge of tears.
“It’s been five years but seems so much longer. She contracted scarlet fever while helping a sick family in town when Poppy was still quite young. Iris, Lily, and I, along with nannies and governesses, have done our best to fill in for Mother after that. And, it’s quite sad that Mother isn’t able to see Poppy grow up.” Violet ran her hand over her eyes, searching her mind for a less emotional topic. “Since you're feeling better, perhaps I can show you the special roses we nurture here, and you can begin to pick what you need for Mr. Jefferson’s garden this afternoon. You have requested quite a few, and it will take some time to make your selections, so we’d best get started.”
Parker perked up like a parched plant freshly watered. He opened his bag and tugged out a sketchpad. “I visited briefly at Monticello before my trip and made some drawings of where the rose garden would be located. Let me show you what I have.” He stood and came around the desk, standing next to where she sat, so they could both view his drawings.
She tried hard to concentrate on the sketchpad, but could feel his body heat radiating against her cheek. If she pivoted her head ever so slightly, she’d be staring at his hip and what lay beyond. She took a deep breath and raised a shaky finger to the drawing.
“What a lovely location,” she squeaked and glanced over and quickly up to his face. He leaned over the sketches, his hip brushing her shoulder, and a wave of heat coursed through her body.
“Ah, I didn’t do the place justice with my simple sketches. Monticello sits on top of a mountain, and you can see for miles in each direction. The rose garden will flank the long circular drive and will be the first impression for Mr. Jefferson’s many important guests, so I must get this right.” He traced the proposed bed with his finger before he closed the pad and left her side to replace the all-important sketches in his bag.
“Well, let’s wander through the roses, and I’ll tell you a bit about each one. You can begin to whittle down your choices.” Violet picked up an order pad and pencil and stood. She needed to get her greenhouse back to herself, and soon. If she had to prod this man along, she’d happily do so. They could get started on his massive order yet today, and she’d be one step closer to shoving the man out her door. And to getting her life back. She’d put all thoughts of his clothing, his shoulders, and his large nicked hands out of her head and focus on what he’d come to this country, and to Mulberry Hill, for. She could do this.
Chapter Six
Violet managed to get through the rest of the day with no further mention of beds—except rose beds—aphrodisiacs, or propagation of any kind with Mr. Sinclair. They’d spent a couple of hours narrowing down his rose choices, although he would need hundreds of plants for the massive garden he had planned for Monticello. So far, he’d confirmed an order only for the Rose Campion, a magenta bloom with fuzzy, gray-green foliage. At this rate, he’d be here for months, not weeks. She really had to hurry him along, keep him focused, for her own peace of mind.
“Mr. Jefferson specifically requested the Rose Campion,” Parker had shared with her. “So I can put it on the list as a definite. The others I’ll need to ponder for a few days.”
“I really am quite surprised a prominent man such as Thomas Jefferson would give a care about what roses are in the bed.” Violet shook her head, imagining King George selecting roses for the grounds around Kensington Palace, of all things.
Parker glanced at her and puffed himself up. “Mr. Jefferson is a most unique individual, and I’ve had the pleasure of his company and of his knowledge when we first discussed the rose bed. He has a fond memory of the Rose Campion growing at his parents’ Shadwell home.”
“Oh, well, if memories are involved, it’s perfectly acceptable, but still . . . ” Violet tapered off her speech, her mind still conjuring up the image of King George strolling through her greenhouse picking out the perfect shrub. She giggled, just a bit, before she drew her attention back to Mr. Sinclair.
He stopped to inhale the scent of the Rose Campion, and glanced up at Violet. “I still can’t smell a whole lot, but a little of the scent is coming through to me. Can you describe the odor?”
Violet leaned over and sniffed. She really didn’t need to, since the scent had been engrained in her nasal passages long ago, but she wished to refresh her memory so she could paint the proper picture for him. “The darker the color of the bloom, the stronger the scent, in most cases. And the Rose Campion, in addition to having its gorgeous silver gray fuzzy petals, is one of the darker pinks, so the odor is a strong, musky scent.”
“What of the other rose colors? For instance,” Parker crossed the greenhouse and took hold of an orange-colored rose, “what does this one’s scent remind you of?”
“It mostly reminds me of an orange, the same tangy scent as the fruit. That, or cloves.” Violet crossed to where Parker held the flower in his hand. “And yellow roses always remind me of lemons.”
Parker raised his gaze from the flower to Violet. “Perhaps you take your scent cues from the flower’s color?”
“Let’s get back to Mr. Jefferson’s needs, if we may. Surely he has more on his list than the Rose Campion. How is it your nursery got selected for the honor of landscaping his grounds?” Violet tried to steer the conversation back to Parker Sinclair’s checklist. There could be no more dawdling.
“The nursery has a long history of working with Mr. Jefferson. He chose ours to be one of only two nurseries in America charged with the duty of cultivating the seeds Lewis and Clark sent back from their explorations in the western part of America.”
Violet tapped her pencil against the almost empty order pad. “What an honor for your company. No wonder you’re proud.” She strolled along to the next variety of rose. One down, ninety-nine to go. Despite her interest in the subject, she had to keep the man focused on the task at hand instead of rattling on about Thomas Jefferson.
And she’d better get her head out of the clouds, with her visions of the King strolling through her greenhouse, picking out his favorites, and concentrate on the matter at hand, if she were to ever get her solitude back. And to get her mind back on solid ground.
“What about a primrose variety?” She led him to a staple in most English rose gardens. “It is a most useful plant, flowering in various shades, ranging from almost black with a hint of red, to coral and every imaginable color in between.”
Parker strode alongside and fingered a leaf of the plant, deep in thought as he studied his drawing of the rose bed. “Perhaps as a border, because it doesn’t grow too tall. And with the Virginia climate, I bet it would bloom from spring right through the fall. Yes, I'll take some of your primroses.”
She followed the movement of his finger as he fondled the leaf, and her mouth dried up. She cleared her throat, added the order to her sheet, and then led him to her favorite of all the varieties. “Here is one of the roses I’m experimenting on with my hybridizing efforts. It smells heavenly when it blooms, but that only happens once a season. Granted, the blooms last a long time, but still, it would be nice if I could force it to share its beauty with the world more than once a year. And to make it hardier.”
Parker smiled. “I agree, plants and flowers should do more than be pretty. They either need to feed the body or the soul, and a mere bush of green leaves doesn
’t have the same impact as a flowering shrub. Can you describe the scent of this particular variety?” He searched for the tag with the name of the plant. “The Lady Banks, since you prefer it?”
She bit her bottom lip. How could she say the reason she preferred the scent was because it smelled of violets rather than roses? Would that not be the most self-centered of comments? Especially because she supposedly championed all rose varieties? She must find some other reason.
“Umm, it’s a bit different than most roses, which smell heavily of musk. I enjoy playing with different scents. The Lady Banks has a light, airy, feminine odor similar to another flower, the violet.” Her fingers caressed the leaves, and she closed her eyes as she inhaled, imagining the scent when the plant finally unfurled its blooms.
Parker took hold of a leaf and grazed her fingers in the process. A zing of excitement raced up her arm, and Violet’s eyes popped open. He stood ever so close. She dropped her hand from the plant and took a step back, staring at him and his enigmatic smile. Had he seen right through her reasoning?
“Violet scents for Miss Violet. How delightful. But I expect in a bed of a hundred or so roses, it would be hard to discern the violet smell. This plant would need to be in its own bed, be the star.” He stroked the leaves of the plant, and Violet stood mutely by his side, mesmerized by his movements.
She shook her head to clear her rampant thoughts and brushed her arms with her hands, changing the direction of both their conversation and their movements as she led him toward the door. “I can see since you’re tiring, we won’t get any more done today. Poppy said your belongings, meager as they are, have been moved over to the inn, so I’ll stop talking and let you get settled in there. You can rest up before you get bombarded with questions about America at dinner, when you get to meet my sisters. We’ve made a bit of headway today, at least.”
