by Becky Lower
“Have no fear, dear Violet.” Parker’s eyes closed and he settled into the chair.
Violet’s hands shook as she hurried to the herb garden. She gathered together turmeric, cloves, and rosemary, and mashed them up with her mortar and pestle. She added a bit of water to bind it together and placed her concoction into a piece of cheesecloth, tying it tightly. She ran back to Parker, only to find him asleep in the chair. She held the poultice over his bruised eye and ran her fingers over his scalp. If he had suffered another severe blow to his head, she should waken him. Other than the eye, though, and a scrape on his cheek, a split lip, and a bleeding nose, his head appeared to be intact. Her breathing leveled off as she propped herself up on the desk and held the poultice in place. He would be all right. A bit battered, but in one piece.
Since she had to be in this position for at least a few minutes in order for the sweet-smelling poultice to work its magic, and since Parker slept, she took advantage of the opportunity to study him carefully. She brushed her fingers through his dark brown hair, its texture soft against her skin. Exposure to the sun had colored his skin darker on his face, neck, and arms. She wondered about the condition of the rest of his skin, and she could feel the heat in her cheeks at the outrageous thought. Her fingers skimmed the light hair on his forearms, and she decided to take the chance to find out. After all, the man had been in a fight. He might have an injury to his body.
Slowly, holding her breath, she undid a button on his shirt. He didn’t respond. The next one came undone easily, almost of its own accord, and she could see a tuft of dark hair on his chest. Her fingers itched to touch it, but she hesitated, holding her breath and drawing out the suspense. She’d had a golden opportunity when he’d first arrived in their lives to examine his chest by applying the salve she’d created for his cough, and had declined to do so, leaving it to him to take care of. But that had been when she had no interest in the man. Before he’d kissed her. Before he’d shaken her to her core with his touch. Violet undid the third and fourth button on his work shirt, and Parker’s entire chest became visible. A cursory medical examination revealed a bruised rib, but Violet drew her fingers over the bone and found it to be intact. She took a breath and wove her fingers into his chest hair.
Heaven, this is.
She could stay in her position all day. But he could waken at any time, and she needed both hands to button his shirt back up again. She set the poultice on the desk and straightened out his shirt, her fingers grazing his chest hair as she buttoned. What could have happened to him? The distance from the inn to her greenhouse spanned less than a mile. Although Parker’s clothing began each day neat and tidy, they were coarse work clothes. He gave no visible cues that he carried large amounts of money. He came across to all who passed him as a working-class gentleman, not some dandy. Had this been a random act, or had someone been lying in wait for him? And if the latter happened to be the case, who could it have been? Who could possibly feel the need to hurt Parker? Why had he asked if she were all right when he first arrived?
Violet finally pieced things together and gasped. In her gut, she already had the answer. Parker had taken a beating from Carson because he had been the one to out the man to her father, to make him lose his job. He had taken a beating because of her! Carson had been a mean man ever since his wife had left him, but this went beyond the pale. Parker’s sorry state could be laid only at her door. Stitches and biscuits!
Chapter Sixteen
Hands were poking at him, hurting him. Parker groaned and shifted, slowly opening his eyes. Violet knelt in front of him, dabbing a liquid on his various cuts and causing a stinging sensation in his knuckles. He could not control his gasp. If not for the pain she caused, this would be a most delightful setting. Parker tried to smile at her, to encourage her to continue, to bury his hand in her glorious dark brown curls, but instead, any movement only added to his agony, and he groaned again. But his biggest fear had been laid to rest. Violet had not suffered at the hands of Carson before Parker took him out.
“You’re back among the living, eh?” She grinned as she dabbed his damaged knuckles, not realizing the torment she caused. Or maybe she did and that’s what caused the grin. “You really must stop passing out at the sight of me, Parker.”
He wrenched his hand away from her cloth and her nasty, smelly ointment, whatever she had concocted. “I appreciate you taking care for my wounds, but I’ve been hurt enough for one day.” He tried to soften his words with a grin to match hers, but winced as pain sliced his cheek.
“Don’t be such a child. I’m trying to clean the wounds so they won’t get infected. You’ve managed to scrape a good portion of skin off.” But she set aside the cloth and stood. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”
“As I recall, I already told you before I passed out. A man decided to target me as I strode from the inn. And if I scraped off a good portion of skin, you should see the other guy.” This time Parker did grin, despite the pain it caused. “My time in the military came in handy for something, because that’s when I learned to fight in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Were you set upon by Carson?” Violet’s voice shook, and Parker glanced at her, unsure if the shakiness signified anger or if she were fearful. He’d prefer anger, but he supposed he then would have to sort out if it were directed at him or at Carson.
Parker sighed. He should have known Violet would figure things out quickly. He should have just crawled back to the inn and taken care of his wounds on his own. Yet, the only thing he could think to do after he’d disposed of Carson had been to run up the hill to the greenhouse and make certain Violet had not been harmed before him. And to let her tender touch comfort him.
“Yes, Carson attacked me. If Davey had been with him, it may have been a fair fight, but he approached me alone. Carson may be a formidable man, but I had the advantage of being fit and trained, despite my leg wound. I just don’t show it all the time. Carson is a bit of a limp biscuit.” Parker raised his gaze to meet hers.
“Hence the bully-trap moniker,” she mused. “Where is Carson now?”
“He’s been hauled off to jail. The innkeeper levied charges against him, since the inn needs to maintain a reputation of safety for travelers. He’ll probably be banished to Australia. At least that’s what the innkeeper said.” Parker tried to stand but sank back into the chair. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be good for much today.”
“That’s quite all right. I’d say you’ve done enough for one day anyway.” Violet wrung her hands together. “This has been my fault, and I’m so sorry.” Parker caught the shiny tears in her eyes.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Carson is a bully and he used you as his whipping post long enough. Don’t you see that?” Parker lifted his scraped hands and shrugged. “With him banished to another country, you can now live here in peace once again. Both you and Poppy will be safe.”
He brushed a hand over his eyes and closed them again. Violet had been silent for several minutes.
“I do see the logic in what you say. Now I can safely go to the barn for my manure. I can be calm again, not anxious. But I involved you in my mess when I would have preferred to deal with it on my own.” Violet let out a long breath, and Parker opened his eyes. “Otherwise, how can I ever prove to my father I’m as strong as Lily? As levelheaded as Iris? As enchanting as Poppy?”
Parker rose and took Violet’s hands in his. “The most important thing to your father is the safety of his daughters. His precious flowers. He exhibited his priorities by relieving Carson of his duties, something you said he’d never do. Your father has begun to see your inner strength, Violet. There is no need for you to put yourself in danger anymore, ever again.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them.
She didn’t back away, but she removed her hands from his grasp instead of encouraging him. Perhaps the incident in the hothouse had been the result of both of them being overheated, and the result of the subject matter they’d been
discussing. All the talk of males and females, pistils and stamens, stickiness, pollen. My Lord, who wouldn’t have been overcome with lust?
He shouldn’t have come here in his wounded state, because his appearance frightened her. But she was safe, had no clue Carson had been roaming around, making trouble. Parker could now rest easy, too. He blew out a long breath.
“I’m feeling better. I should accomplish something today.” Parker attempted to move into the main section of the greenhouse, but his steps faltered and he grew woozy.
“Perhaps you should stay where you are for now and sit again.” Violet replaced the rag she’d been using to tend to him into the bowl of water, which now had a pink tinge from his bloody wounds, and motioned with her chin to the chair. “We’re nearly done with your list, anyway. All we need to do now is to get the plants ready for transport. That will take a few days, but with both of us working, we shouldn’t be too long.”
“I feel I really need one more run-through of your pollination techniques before I leave, too.” Parker started to grin, but winced instead as his battered cheek protested.
“There will be time for another lesson tomorrow, if you’re feeling better. Right now, you need to sit, regain your strength, and drink some tea.” Violet set a hot cup of England’s sweet-smelling cure-all in front of him and strode from the office to empty out her basin of bloody water, leaving him with his thoughts.
Why did he drag his feet at the thought of leaving, add one more item to his to-do list? Especially another trip to the hothouse. He should be jumping with joy at the thought of getting back on board a ship bound for America. He feared the answer. He’d added an extra box to his list, one that had nothing to do with business, because he now admitted his feelings for Violet, at least to himself and hoped to convince her to come to America with him. Two boxes, actually, because he’d received the invitation from Lord Weymouth to join the man for a small get-together: dinner, reminiscing about Jefferson, dancing. Perhaps he could combine the two items and further his agenda with Violet at the formal dinner. He certainly had no wish to dance with Lord Weymouth’s other guests.
When Violet bustled back into the office, she took her seat behind the desk and glanced over at him. He noticed a twinkle in her eyes and wondered what she could possibly be planning, because he didn’t have the stamina for anything much. At least she’d lost her anxious look that she’d had since she’d pieced together who had pounded Parker’s face and body. The furrow between her eyebrows had once again smoothed out.
He took a breath. “After we returned from touring the Weymouth estate yesterday, your father and I received an invitation from Lord Weymouth to join him tomorrow night for dinner and dancing at that monstrosity he calls a home. So I’ll get to wear my fancy duds you and Poppy helped me select. And you can guess what that means . . . ”
Violet grinned at him. “You’ll need assistance with your cravat again?”
He bobbed his head. “Yes, that. But the invitation also included you, as the rose expert. Would you care to be my companion for dinner?”
Violet didn’t turn red this time. Instead, her face lost all color and she lost the twinkle in her eyes. “Dinner?” Her voice squeaked.
“Yes, dinner. And dancing. You can consider the evening training for when you get invited to talk to the Royal Horticultural Society.” Despite his wounded cheek, he grinned at her sharp inhalation of breath. “Your father told me of your stringent adherence to the rules of the Society. And how Lord Weymouth is already a member, thanks in part to your roses that dot his estate. Lord Weymouth might be very beneficial to your ambitions, if your father guessed correctly that your ultimate goal is to become its first female member. You have to eat, so it might as well be from Lord Weymouth’s kitchen,” Parker teased, well aware dinner was the least of her concerns, at least according to her father. Conversation for Violet would be problematic, if the talk encompassed anything other than her work. And maybe the dancing? Had she been given any training in ballroom dance? “Give it some thought. Now, what has caused your amused look?”
“I’ve decided what we can discuss today, since you’re in no condition to learn anything new.” She steepled her fingers together, elbows on the desktop, and leaned toward him. “Tell me more about America, about the town where you live.”
Parker rubbed his hands together. “Philadelphia is a very advanced city. It’s in Pennsylvania, which is close to the eastern seaboard. The streets are wide and cobbled, and there are public squares for greenery inside the city limits. The Declaration of Independence was signed in Philadelphia prior to the Revolutionary War, and the city served as our nation’s capital for a time.”
“Philadelphia sounds delightful. But I’m more interested in its cultural side rather than the political one. What does one do when not stirring up the nation against us Brits?” Violet gave him a cheeky grin.
Parker brushed a hand over his eyes. His body relaxed, and his various wounds stopped throbbing as he talked of his homeland, which was probably why Violet had introduced the topic. He had trouble keeping his eyes open. He raised a weary head to her. “The Walnut Street Theater is nice. We should go sometime.”
Her eyes sparked with moisture at his comment. Dammit. Parker kicked himself. He hadn’t meant to raise the subject of them parting ways in the next few days. But if she was interested in America and got tears in her eyes when she thought about them parting, perhaps she’d experienced some spark as well? He closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the chair. He had only a handful of days to sort it all out. He opened his eyes and smiled as he glanced up at the crude calendar hanging in Violet’s office. Day Fourteen had pretty much wound down. Not much more needed to be done here in England. Except a crucial decision needed to be made before he left this country. A country that had been far more accommodating than he’d first thought it would be. A country with a vast history, which he appreciated. A country he’d come to appreciate. Had Carson not been arrested, Parker could have used the man’s presence as a reason, an enticement for Violet to accompany him to America. Now, if he wished for that outcome, he’d have to offer himself to her, body and soul. And he had no idea where her thoughts lay, or if he even should ask.
• • •
After she attended to Parker’s wounds and they agreed he would be worthless in the greenhouse that afternoon, he headed back to the inn and left her alone to water the remaining plants under her care. She normally enjoyed the watering process as she worked her way row by row around the greenhouse, providing life-giving nourishment to her roses. Her pulse would even out despite whatever stresses the day had provided, and calm would envelop her body as if she were wrapped in the finest silk.
This afternoon, however, the process frustrated her. She had run out of rain barrel water in the morning, so she had to trek water up the hill from the well, which made the chore much more time-consuming than usual. Sweat beads formed on her body and caused her skin to tingle. Instead of being calm when she finally did get to the plants, her watering can jerked in her hands, spilling more water on the floor than on the plants. Parker had described her as having strength of character, of being level-headed and enchanting. He’d taken body blows because of her. He’d been responsible, sort of, for Carson possibly being banished to another country thousands of miles away. She could love a man who did all those things. She did love a man who did all those things.
She stopped in front of the Lady Banks in the hothouse and put her hand to her head. Since the day he stood beside her in the barn, the two of them confronting Carson and Davey as a unified front, she’d thought of them as a couple. Her nights were filled with reliving their kiss in this very spot with Lady Banks eying their every groping moment, their every gasp and moan.
“Maybe you’ll get the idea now and latch onto the pollen I’ve provided you.” Violet brushed a finger gently over the soft yellow petals and sniffed the violet scent so peculiar to the Lady Banks. She provided a healthy dose of water t
o the plant and plucked off the dead leaves as she pondered revealing her feelings to Parker when she accompanied him to dinner at the Weymouth estate. And then accompanied him to America.
“Wouldn’t that be something, my Lady, to plant ourselves in American soil?” she murmured to the plant as she leaned over for one final whiff of the rose’s essence, caressed a bloom, and sauntered on down the row of shrubs.
What kind of experiences would she have should she join Parker? From what she had already gleaned from him, the country varied wildly in climate, being wide open and full of opportunity, if it could be left alone without another British invasion. Could she carve out a life for herself in America, in Philadelphia, as Parker had? Evidently, he’d been born in America, so not having experienced any other way of life made it far easier for him to fit in. Life in America would be far more difficult for her. Her manner, her speech, her English accent, her very timid soul, would work against her.
She’d be better off here in England. She had an occupation she enjoyed, her father’s trust in her meant a great deal, and every inch of Salisbury had been explored and become familiar to her in her nineteen years. She had attracted the interest of some of England’s finest rose growers with her hybridization efforts. She’d been quite comfortable here. She wondered if she could adjust to a wide-open country, filled with wild Indians and wilder Americans. To travel to a place where no one had any preconceived notions about her, where she could start over again and make a name for herself based on her own merits, might be exciting.
This is what it came down to: If she begged Parker to take her with him to America, she’d have to abandon her work on the Lady Banks. Turn her back on all her efforts over the past four years. She could never do that. Well, she could, but not without feeling as if she’d lost a part of her soul. She’d worked so hard, it would mean giving up and pitching all her efforts out the greenhouse window. Must it be that outcome? Her mind struggled for another answer. Parker had no family left in America. Perhaps she could convince him to make a return trip to England once he’d planted Jefferson’s roses. Or, if he insisted on them staying in America, she could take a few plants with her and begin again, thereby giving up her idea to make a name for herself in England. To have her roses planted in Kensington Gardens. Instead, they’d be planted at Monticello. Could she be brave enough? Would Parker laugh at her for even considering such an option? For even for a moment believing she had attracted him? What had he meant when he suggested they attend the Walnut Theater together? Had he already envisioned a future with her in America? Or had his comment been an offhand remark, a “you should add the theater to your ‘must-see’ list when and if you ever come to Philadelphia”? Her thoughts were careening down a dangerous path. Best she pack her thoughts of Parker away even as she packed the plants he’d take on the ship sailing back to America. She bit back a cry and hoped he’d reminisce about her and his time in England fondly as he planted the roses in Monticello.
