by Jane Goodger
“St. Ives.”
Chapter 1
Clara Anderson, chin propped on one fist, gazed out the window of her room, a smile on her face. It was a gloriously sunny morning, unusually warm for late September, and she and Harriet, her younger sister, had planned to spend the day at Porthminster Beach. Mother had finally agreed to allow Clara and Harriet to go out on their own, without the benefit of a chaperone, and Clara could hardly stop the excited smile on her face.
Clara couldn’t really blame her mother for being a bit overprotective of her reputation; after all, looks and money would mean far less if her reputation wasn’t pristine. Mother had grand goals for her eldest daughter and no local man could even be considered as part of those plans.
When she was sixteen, Mother had sent her off to finishing school, determined that she should, if not be a lady, then at least act like one. There, she’d learned such brain-tasking matters as How to Write a Proper Letter of Thanks, and How to Speak to a Gentleman without Exposing One’s Intelligence. Because the Andersons lacked the social standing to gain entry into the more exclusive academies, both Clara and Harriet had gone to Mrs. Ellison’s Seminary for Young Ladies. Clara loathed every minute she’d spent there, but knowing how important it was to her mother that she marry well, Clara did her best to comport herself as a lady should. She learned to smile and nod at whatever great scheme her mother came up with because arguing upset Hedra and never worked at any rate.
Today was one of those glorious days in which her mother had nothing planned for Clara, which meant she could do as she pleased. And on this day, it was a trip to the beach with Harriet.
Below her, their new gardener was beginning the Herculean task of putting the garden to rights. The Andersons had been living in the home for years now, and while the interior had been completely redone and modernized, the outside was sadly lacking any sophistication.
Harriet, bonnet in hand, erupted into her room without knocking, as she usually did, with an exuberance she rarely showed. No doubt she’d learned Mother planned to allow them to go to the beach without her. Harriet might be two years younger, but she was far more serious and more mature than Clara could ever hope to be. Clara had disliked finishing school, but she’d gone along, learned her lessons, smiled through the monotony of comportment lessons. Harriet had wilted and become even more serious.
“What are you looking at?” Harriet asked, rushing to her side and looking out. She frowned when she realized it was nothing of interest.
“Just at this beautiful day,” Clara said. “Our gardener has begun work. I wonder what he’ll do? I fear we’ve started far too late in the season, with winter nearly upon us. I don’t know what Mother was thinking.”
Harriet peered out the window. “Look at all those holes,” Harriet said.
“Mother wants roses.” Clara wrinkled her nose. “I do love roses, but I fancy gardens that have a variety of horticulture.” She squinted down at him. From her vantage point, she could only see his broad back and the top of his cap. As she watched, he stopped digging and rested his chin atop a hand still clutching the top of the shovel. After a moment, he started up again with sure, strong movements, then bent to pick up what looked like a rock, which he flung into a growing pile of similar rocks. Perhaps he planned to build a wall?
“Let’s go down and see what he’s planning to put in our garden,” Harriet said, shoving her bonnet onto her head.
Clara agreed, even though she had little interest at all in the garden or in plants, for that matter, other than the ones that produced food. She secretly thought it a waste of resources to hire a gardener. But Mrs. Pittsfield, her mother’s dearest friend and Purveyor of Proper, as Clara secretly called the woman, had said every great home must have a garden. Mother had immediately put out an advertisement and within a week, she’d hired the gardener who was even now digging holes in preparation for planting things one could not eat.
They’d lived in their house fourteen years, since Clara was ten years old. She would never forget entering its halls and speaking in the hushed tones reserved for church on Sundays. It had seemed to Clara the largest, most opulent dwelling in all of England. Ceilings soared above her head, great chandeliers sparkled in the sun, the marble floor beneath her feet shone from vigorous polishing. For Clara and Harriet, who had not only shared a room but also a narrow bed crammed beneath the rafters, the idea they would not only have their own rooms, but rooms that one could dance and run about in without smashing into furniture every two feet, was a wonder.
It hadn’t taken more than a month, though, before Clara began to long for their old cottage, for that homey smell of her mother’s fine cooking and her father’s pipe. Mother no longer cooked, and even if she had, the kitchen was so far from their rooms they couldn’t smell it at any rate. And Hedra had forbidden any sort of smoking in the house.
“What’s your favorite flower, Clara?” Harriet asked as they pushed through the back door.
“Bluebells,” Clara said, just to be contrary even though the common flowers were her favorites.
Harriet laughed. “Wouldn’t it be fun to ask the gardener to plant rows and rows of them? Mother would be so cross.”
Clara shook her head, the wide brim of her hat flopping about. She never could understand why Harriet liked to make their mother cross. She found life was so much easier when Hedra was pleased and happy, which might explain why their mother was constantly frowning at Harriet.
As they approached their new gardener, he stopped what he was doing and straightened.
“Good morning, sir,” Clara called, and gave the man her friendliest smile. He stared at them, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his cap, before jerking his head in greeting. He thrust a hoe into the earth then stamped on its rim, shoving it deeper into the ground, dismissing them.
Clara frowned. In her experience, few people didn’t smile back when she smiled at them. Gamely, she said, “We’re very pleased to have our garden. What sorts of plants do you intend to use?” Another of her trademark smiles followed. One of the lessons she’d learned was that people loved to talk about whatever interested them. Ask an equestrian about horse breeds, and the conversation would be off and running, so she reasoned a gardener might like to discuss his garden.
Instead, their taciturn gardener, after another unsettling stare, nodded toward a large group of plants, roots balled up into burlap bags.
Bored by this point, Harriet gave Clara a look, then said, “Perhaps we should ask Cook to pack a lunch for our picnic.” She gave a subtle jerk of her head.
“Why don’t you do that while I look over the plants,” Clara said. Few people knew that Clara had a competitive nature, and having their gardener resist her friendly overtures was tantamount to throwing down the flag of challenge. She would get the man to smile or at least utter a syllable, before heading to the beach. Unless he was suffering from some malady that prevented him from smiling or speaking.
Harriet made a face but headed back into the house, calling back, “If you do not like what I choose, I cannot be blamed.”
“No beet salad,” Clara called.
“I adore beet salad,” Harriet responded, then giggled and rushed into the house as if Clara would give chase.
The moment she was alone with the gardener, Clara regretted her decision. He was gripping the shovel in his meaty fists, his eyes still in the shadow of his brimmed hat, and Clara felt the smallest niggling of fear. He seemed quite a fearsome creature.
“Would you mind telling me what you’re hoping to plant?” she asked cheerfully, looking about the garden at the neat lines of holes. “Knowing my mother, it’s likely all roses.”
The gardener glanced at the plants, then shook his head, but Clara swore she saw his lips turn up just the slightest bit before his expression changed to stone once again. Normally, Clara would have not counted that slight movement of his mouth as
a smile, but in this case, she decided to settle. Truthfully, their gardener was a bit frightening. He was a strapping man of indeterminate age, broad and tall, with a jaw that could have been carved from the good Cornish granite.
“I’ll leave you to your holes, then, shall I?”
Without a nod or even the slightest indication he’d heard her, he shoved the blade into the dirt. And winced.
That’s when Clara noticed the blood on the handle.
“You’ve injured yourself. Let me see,” Clara said, reaching for his great paws. He moved away quickly for a man so large. “Don’t be such a baby. I won’t hurt you, will I? Let me see what’s to be done so I may tell Cook. She’s our resident healer.” When he continued to stare at her stonily, Clara put her hands on her hips. “I demand you show me your hands,” she said kindly. “If you are injured, how will I get my garden?”
He let out a small huff of air, then held out his hands, torn and blistered from his labors.
“Oh.” She darted a look to his face, but it was still in the shadows of his cap. “I’ll send Cook out with a balm. And gloves.”
As she was turning away, she heard a low, “Thank you.”
It seemed he could speak after all.
Nathaniel prayed the chit was dimwitted enough not to wonder why a gardener would have blistered hands from digging a few holes. When he’d taken the position, it was something he hadn’t given a thought to. He looked down at his hands, amazed at the damage that had been done in such a short time. Hard labor was something he was entirely unfamiliar with, but it appeared it was something he was going to have to get used to.
The bloody garden was massive, stretching more than three acres before ending at a small pond. His grandfather had been surprisingly theatrical. He’d managed to tell Nathaniel the name of the property where he’d buried the blue diamond, but gasped his last breath before he could tell him where in the garden he’d buried the blasted thing.
“I buried it the garden behind the house. It’s…” Then a gasp, then nothing. At the time, Nathaniel had been far more concerned about the fact his beloved granddad had died. He didn’t give a fig about a diamond nor truly believe it could be worth the extraordinary sum of a half million pounds. Since leaving Oxford, he’d quietly been making a respectable living as a solicitor. Not the thing for a man who would one day inherit a barony, but it allowed him to live in a decent neighborhood in near anonymity. As his father had been such an infamous wastrel, he’d decided he was far better off being a simple solicitor, rather than a man who was the son of the disgraced future Baron Alford. The chaps at Oxford were horrified by his embrace of middle class life, but then again, most of them had a substantial income from thriving properties. Nathaniel, though he had grown up in a sprawling ancestral home, had been poor nearly his entire life. His grandfather couldn’t even afford to buy him a commission and besides, no one he knew in his new life was aware he was in line for the barony. He was plain Nathaniel Emory to them.
All that changed when he’d met with his grandfather’s solicitor two days after the old baron’s funeral. He’d known things were bad, but he had not been prepared for the utter hopelessness of the situation. His grandfather had authorized his father to sell every bit of unentailed property in a desperate effort to avoid the very financial ruin that was now facing Nathaniel. He had two choices—allow the estate and the title to fall into total ruin or find the diamond.
As he stood in the Andersons’ garden watching the owner’s annoyingly cheerful daughter head to the kitchen for some balm for his hands, he realized how precarious his position was. No one who heard him speak would for an instant believe he was a gardener. Some might have the talent for accents, but Nathaniel did not. He’d tried and failed dismally, even to his own forgiving ears. Thankfully, the lady of the house hadn’t noticed his clipped, aristocratic manner of speaking. Perhaps because he was speaking so low, the poor woman likely hadn’t heard a word he’d uttered.
As a matter of fact, no one who saw him garden would believe him to be a gardener either. He knew next to nothing about the profession, though he’d been poring over books on the subject for the past week. The main reason he hadn’t shown Miss Anderson the plants was because, other than the roses—he knew those were the ones with the thorns—he had no idea what any of them were. Taking out his Pocket Guide of Flora and Fauna of England, he walked to the collection, grimacing when he noticed more than one seemed to be withering. No doubt the things needed watering; at least he knew that much. He flipped through, trying to identify a few of the other plants, to no avail.
He’d been in enough parks to know that ornamental gardens were not planted in neat little holes like the ones he’d dug looking for the diamond. When he’d begun his systematic search by spearing the soil with a draw hoe, he hadn’t realized just how rocky the earth was. His plan had been to spear the dirt, and if the hoe hit something, voila, he would have the diamond. Unfortunately, nearly every time he speared the blasted dirt, he struck something and was forced to dig a hole to determine just what it was he was hitting. During his search, he’d cursed his grandfather nearly as much as he’d cursed the rocks and roots he’d hit—both rather a waste of his breath.
If someone should come upon him looking as if he were trying to murder the garden with his hoe, he would simply tell them he was “cultivating” the earth to prepare it for the plants. He’d hoped he would find the diamond within a few days, but already it had been a full week and all he had to show for his labors was a grid of holes and bleeding hands. It was beginning to look as if he would actually have to start some gardening or be fired, and then where would he be? He’d have to sneak into the Andersons’ garden at night, not a pleasant prospect.
As he looked over the ruined landscape, he felt slightly ill. Though he’d never been a man who shirked his duty or avoided work, hard manual labor was not something he had a great deal of experience with; his damaged hands were proof of that.
A rustling sounded behind him and when he turned, he was surprised to see the older Miss Anderson and not one of the kitchen maids. Since he’d begun work, one maid in particular, Sara, had been making eyes at him and had come up with one excuse or another to visit him while he worked. She was a pretty thing, but such extracurricular activities were definitely not on his agenda. He might be acting the gardener, but he was a baron, and as such, it was important that he carry on with a certain amount of honor and dignity—if digging holes and disguising oneself as a laborer could be considered honorable or dignified. Still, he refused to entertain the idea of a dalliance.
“I’ve brought you some balm and some gloves.” She thrust out one hand and in her palm was a small red pot filled with a pungent substance that he could smell from several feet away. He took a step back and she let out a delighted laugh. “Cook says if the smell doesn’t nearly kill you, then a balm won’t do the job.”
In her other hand was a pair of slightly soiled white gloves. He took the items warily, then looked up and straight into the face of an angel. Nathaniel was not a whimsical nor a poetic man, and so he was unable to put into words the effect she had on him. It was a bit like jumping into an icy cold lake and having the very breath taken from you. Surprise. Astonishment.
Lust.
Yes, that was the word he was looking for. It coalesced inside of him as if it were some fast-moving, fatal illness. Hale and hearty one moment, then on death’s door the next. That was how quickly his body began to burn. He was struck dumb by it.
He hadn’t even realized he was staring until it was obvious his stillness was making her uncomfortable, and she cleared her throat. “The balm is for the blisters,” she said, looking from the pot to his hands, as if he were touched in the brain.
Before, he hadn’t truly looked at her, had wanted her to simply go away so he could continue his search. Now, though, here she was, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life—and he h
ad seen many beautiful girls in his day. Her eyes were the blue of a summer sky, her skin flawless, her lashes uncommonly long and curling, her hair burnished gold. He forced himself to look away.
“Thank you,” he said low, then turned away, feeling like some sort of ignorant buffoon. Here was a man who had won debates against the greatest minds at Oxford, had attended balls in London and charmed beautiful ladies, acting like a bumpkin who had never seen a pretty girl before. It occurred to him that perhaps it had been far too long since he’d kept company with a woman if he could be nearly paralyzed by one pretty, country miss.
“You’ll have to replace those gloves with something more utilitarian, I’m afraid,” she said to his back. “Those belonged to one of our footmen.”
Nathaniel blinked and looked stupidly down at the thin, white cotton gloves. “Yes,” he said.
“There is an emporium in the village.”
Go away.
“Thank you.” He dipped a finger into the balm and put it on the worst of his torn blisters, letting out a loud curse when the stuff seared his skin.
Instead of being insulted by his language, Nathaniel heard her laugh. “I promise you, once the stinging goes away, your hand will feel better.” It seemed that every time she spoke, there was laughter in her voice. It ought to be annoying, but he found it was not. He tugged on the gloves, wincing, then took up his hoe and plunged it into the earth.
“I do apologize—if my mother told me your name, I have forgotten it. I shouldn’t like to call you ‘hey, you there’ or ‘gardener.’”
He couldn’t stop the smile from forming and was grateful only that he was facing away from her. “Emory. Nathaniel Emory.” He had little cause to believe she would recognize the name, not in this tiny village so far from London.
“I’m pleased to have you as our gardener, Mr. Emory,” she said, without even a pause at hearing his name.
“Thank you,” he said, then thrust his tool into the ground. It made a satisfying clink and once again Nathaniel’s hopes were raised that he might find his grandfather’s treasure and remove himself permanently from St. Ives.
