Diamond in the Rough

by Jane Goodger

  When Clara was younger, she’d relished the attention and took to her lessons with enthusiasm. Now, though, it all seemed like an exercise in futility. She would never be accepted into the aristocracy, would not marry a duke or an earl, as Hedra had fervently wished. What her mother had done was make her entirely unmarriageable—an overeducated, overpolished country miss. No local man would look at her and no man of the upper crust would consider marrying her. Unless, of course, he was desperate for money. For if there was one thing a desperate aristocrat could overlook, it was a low birth when it came with scads of money.

  Thus far, however, Clara had managed to steer clear of such men, much to her mother’s deep dismay. If she had found one such man who didn’t make her stomach twist in fear or revulsion, then perhaps Clara would have put in a small amount of effort. As it was, though, she had not—and was now beginning to believe she never would.

  She sat on the bench, with Mr. Smee’s book on her lap, looking like a Monet painting and the sort of distraction it was difficult for a man like him to ignore. But ignore her he did—or tried valiantly to. Every once in a while, she would let out a small sound, a hmm, when he assumed she’d read something interesting. To him, though, that hmm was the sound she might make when she was being touched by a man, a finger trailing up her thigh, a mouth on one breast, tongue on her lips. Swallowing heavily, he shoved the rich earth around the roots of a rose bush and patted it firmly.

  “Mr. Emory, do you believe there could be a treasure beneath our garden?”

  And just like that, his blood ran cold. “I hardly think so,” he said after a moment, a moment when his heart nearly exploded from his chest.

  “Our Mr. Smee discovered all sorts of Roman artifacts in his garden, as well as the remains of a Gothic chapel. Wouldn’t it be great fun if we discovered something in our garden?”

  Nathaniel nearly choked. “Yes, it would.” And then, under his breath, “I’m counting on it.”

  As the sun grew higher, the sounds of his spade against the rocky soil meshed with the sounds of insects, birds, and pages turning, along with an occasional hmm. Despite the fact he didn’t want her there, he found he rather liked seeing her sitting on that bench, the picture of femininity in her lemon-yellow dress. She wore a large straw hat, which kept her face in the shadows; a parasol lay unused on the bench beside her. He had a feeling should anyone from the household venture out to the garden, that parasol would be hastily unfurled.

  “Listen to this: ‘It is a common notion that gardens should be laid out for one general effect; but the result of such a plan is to produce a single view, and the whole can be seen at a glance. This is, however, monotonous, and my liking is to have many pictures; so that my visitors have to walk a long way before they can see the many beautiful views which my garden affords; and little spots of cultivated wildness, or of special cultivation, are found where they are least expected.’” She looked up expectantly. “Doesn’t that sound lovely? I do wish we could visit his garden.”

  Then she looked around the Andersons’ relatively small plot of land and frowned. To Nathaniel’s thinking, it was an enormous property, considering he was faced with digging up nearly the entire three acres. But as compared to many fine gardens in England, it was tiny.

  “Perhaps we could do a miniature version of Mr. Smee’s garden.” Her attention was brought back to the book that he had only opened once, and her lovely lips formed a frown. “Oh, he suggests planting carrots and other vegetables amongst the decorative plants. That seems impractical to me, does it not, Mr. Emory?”

  “Exceedingly so, particularly for the kitchen maids.” She frowned even more fiercely at that and darted a look toward the door that led to the kitchen before returning her attention to the book.

  “Goodness, Mr. Emory, this isn’t a book about a garden, it’s a book about a park. I fear our little patch of earth will never rival Mr. Smee’s creation. It’s no wonder he’s so full of himself.” She closed the book and set it aside. “Still, perhaps there is something noteworthy in it.”

  She stood and walked toward where he was working, touching the pointed rose leaves of the bush he’d just planted, a small smile on her lips. There he was again, staring. It was a dangerous thing to look at her too long, like staring at the sun. He would be blinded by her, and then someone would discover him gazing at her like some lovesick teenage boy. Or a randy young man. Nathaniel forcefully turned his head away and wondered what he could do to make her leave.

  She hunkered down next to him, heedless of her lemony confection of a dress, and studied the rose bush he’d just planted. “Do these little holes in the leaves mean we have some sort of pest eating my garden?” She pointed at one leaf that was, indeed, riddled with small holes. She turned the leaf over and there they found miniscule white insects. “How awful. We must find a way to get rid of them.”

  Nathaniel made the mistake at that moment of looking up directly into her eyes. The rush of desire he felt at that moment was stunning, and he stood abruptly, startling her so much, she lost her balance and ended up on her bottom. Instead of getting angry, as many women would, she laughed, then extended a hand to be lifted up.

  Now here was a conundrum. Should he grasp her pristine gloved hand with his dirty work glove, or take off the glove and grasp her hand with his ungloved one? What would a servant do? he wondered. To hell with it, he thought. He was a gentleman and a gentleman would never soil a lady’s glove. He stripped off his glove and grabbed her hand, hoisting her to her feet and stepping back, using so much force, she stumbled toward him a few steps before gaining her balance.

  “My, what a ride,” she said with a nervous laugh. As she brushed off the back of her dress, Nathaniel increased the distance between them and pulled out his small pocket gardener book to see what it said about leaf-eating insects, and was shocked to find that his hands were shaking.

  “Endelomyia aethiops Hymenoptera,” he said in perfect Latin born of ten years of private schooling. Miss Anderson looked at him blankly. “Rose slugs.”

  She wrinkled her nose prettily. “Does it say how to kill them? Besides crushing them with one’s fingers, that is.”

  He read briefly, then lifted his head and grinned. “Crushing it is. Or leave them be and let the birds have a nice meal. The holes are a bit unsightly, but don’t truly hurt the plant overall.”

  Miss Anderson worried her bottom lip for a moment, a small crease appearing between her eyes as she thought about the problem, and Nathaniel simply could not bring himself to look away from her. What was it about her that he found so entirely compelling? Perhaps it was knowing he could never act on his desire that made him want her so. No. It was simply that she was lovely and charming and held something extra he could not quite name, but that unnamed something was affecting him more than he would like.

  “I shall crush them,” she said like a ruler promising to crush his enemy, and Nathaniel laughed. “But not with these gloves. It appears I shall have to purchase something a bit more utilitarian.”

  “I could crush them, miss.”

  “Oh, no. I shan’t have you spending your time crushing tiny insects. That would take you away from building our garden. I don’t mind. I’m not a bit squeamish. Besides, those tiny slugs are eating my roses and that is something I cannot allow.”

  Nathaniel looked at the long row of rose bushes he’d already planted, all with tiny holes on their leaves. It would take hours to remove all the slugs from the leaves. Didn’t she have things to do other than murdering insects and torturing men? And what if he found the diamond when she was out in the garden? He supposed he could manage to keep it a secret, but having her out in the garden with him only made things all the more difficult.

  “Miss Clara, your mother has asked that you get ready for your visit to Mrs. Pittsfield.” The Anderson girls’ maid, Jeanine, stood ramrod straight at the edge of the garden. Charlie, who was the A
ndersons’ driver, was sweet on her and had already staked his claim on the maid, much to Nathaniel’s amusement. Jeanine was tall and thin, with dull blond hair, a narrow nose, and thin lips that seemed to rarely turn up into a smile—unless, that is, Charlie was teasing her about something or other. At this moment, those lips were pressed together in what Nathaniel could only guess was disapproval. When he’d first started at the Anderson estate, he hardly thought he’d need to endear himself to the staff, and he also feared discovery, given his inability to rid himself of his cultured accent. Now it was clear his taciturn nature had fostered suspicion and dislike. He gave a mental shrug. He’d be gone long before any of them knew who he was or what he was about.

  “You seem to have developed a sudden interest in gardening,” Jeanine said, and Clara could tell by her tone that she was more than merely curious.

  “It keeps me out of the house. And would you like to know something? I quite like it.” She shook her head, baffled by her new interest. She’d always appreciated a pretty garden, and they’d toured several in London during their visit, but she hadn’t had any burning desire to create something like what she saw in her own property.

  “I may like a garden, but I don’t much care for the gardener,” Jeanine said darkly.

  Clara looked at her friend as they walked down the long hall toward where her mother was waiting in the main parlor. “I don’t find him all that onerous. Then again, I’m sure you see him more clearly than I do.”

  “Well, Sara asked him where he was from. And would you like to know what he said?”

  “Certainly.” Clara pressed her lips together to stop from smiling.

  “Not here. That’s what he said. ‘Not here.’ Now what is that supposed to mean, do you think?” She let out a small snort. “Not here.”

  “Perhaps he simply likes his privacy. Or is shy and doesn’t like talking at all.” Or perhaps he has something to hide, more than his cultured accent.

  “’T’isn’t natural, is all.”

  “Jeanine, you are all from St. Ives. It only makes sense that someone not from here would arouse your suspicion.”

  “Not if they were friendly. Poor Sara was in tears last night because she asked if he might walk her home and would you like to know what he said?”

  This time Clara remained silent, knowing Jeanine would tell her whether she wanted to know or not.

  “He says, ‘No, thank you.’ Just like that. What sort of man says ‘no thank you’ when a pretty girl asks to be walked home?”

  “I suppose a man who doesn’t want to go for a walk,” Clara said, then let out a small laugh. Jeanine laughed with her, stifling her mirth when they saw the housekeeper, Mrs. Randall, walking toward them with her stern countenance. The older woman gave the two an assessing look as she passed but said nothing.

  “All the maids are making fools of themselves over him,” Jeanine said.

  “All of them but you,” Clara said, teasing the maid, who was quite taken with Charlie, their driver.

  When they reached the main stairs, Jeanine went up and Clara continued to the parlor, where she found her mother sitting impatiently.

  “Really, Clara, you know how Mrs. Pittsfield is about promptness.”

  “Yes, Mother. I do apologize. I was out in the garden. It’s coming along very nicely. Some of the roses are already beginning to bloom and there are so many buds. We’ll have a lovely rose garden in no time.”

  Hedra smiled. “I am so happy to hear you are finally showing enthusiasm for a ladylike occupation. When the gardener has completed it, we’ll have a garden tea. What do you think about that?”

  “That would be wonderful,” Clara said, wondering whom they could invite. Mrs. Pittsfield, of course, and perhaps the Smythes and the Chatsworths. They were landed gentry and had attended other functions the Andersons had put on, and Harriet would be thrilled to have her friends over.

  “The carriage is ready, Mrs. Anderson,” their footman said from the door. Clara spun about, ready to go out, but a shriek from her mother stopped her.

  “Your dress! What happened to it?”

  Clara craned her neck to see, but as the offending stain was on her backside, she could only make out the edge of the damage. “I fell in the garden. Is it that noticeable?”

  “Come here,” Hedra said, then proceeded to wipe at the dirt. “It’ll have to do. I’d rather not be late. Mr. Baker will be there today.”

  Clara stifled a groan. Mr. Baker was the third son of a local viscount and a more pompous fool Clara had never met. The only reason he was attending such a low event was because he wanted to get his skinny hooks on Clara’s dowry. He made no secret of his distaste for her family or her origins.

  “Mr. Baker is horrid, Mother. I do wish you would strike him off your list of possible suitors.”

  Hedra sniffed. “He is the son of a viscount.”

  “And I’m the daughter of a tin miner, something he likes to remind me of at every meeting. Besides, his hair has tiny flecks of white everywhere, as if he’s just been caught in a snow storm.”

  “You could do worse,” Hedra said cheerfully. “You aren’t getting any younger, you know. Why, most of my friends’ daughters have long since married.”

  This was true, but Clara did not plan to rectify the matter by marrying someone who made her want to gag each time she saw him.

  Three hours later, Clara was home and back in her garden, happily murdering slugs and imagining they were Mr. Baker.

  “You seem to be taking unwarranted pleasure in killing our little friends,” Mr. Emory said, laughter in his voice.

  Clara tucked her head and smiled. “I’m imagining they are an awful man I was forced to keep company with this afternoon.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m twenty-four,” she said, then looked up at their gardener to see if he knew what she’d meant by that. He started whistling the Wedding March in answer as he thrust his spade into the ground, striking yet another rock; yes, he understood. Clara watched as he bent and fished around for the offending stone, picked it up, gave it a quick look, then thrust it into a growing pile at the edge of the garden.

  “Yes. Marriage.”

  “And you are opposed?”

  “Not at all. I’m opposed to marrying onerous men who have snow in their hair in October.”

  He let out a laugh, deep and masculine, and Clara’s stomach responded with the oddest flutter. She looked over to him and watched him work for a time. He really was a handsome man, tall and brawny but somehow refined. The day was growing old and casting a warm glow on the tanned skin of his forearms, and Clara noticed for the first time the corded muscle there. Broad shoulders tapered to a slim waist, and his workman’s thick trousers hugged his backside in an oddly appealing way. Swallowing, Clara quickly averted her gaze, horrified where her thoughts had gone. When she looked up, he was looking at her with the oddest expression on his face, one filled with amusement and something she prayed was not recognition. How mortifying to get caught admiring a servant’s form. She felt her cheeks flush as she ducked her head so that her hat hid her expression.

  “Do you plan to build a wall with those stones?” she asked, glad her voice sounded normal when she did not feel normal in the least.

  “I may, once the garden is in.” Clara relaxed when she heard the sound of the spade digging into the soil. “When I am done here, I thought I could build a foundation for a small hothouse. That way your mother would have flowers in the winter as well as the spring and summer.”

  “That would be lovely. Shall I ask her this evening? I shall,” Clara said, answering her own question. “Mr. Smee’s garden has quite a large hothouse. Ours shall be much smaller, of course, but perhaps I can get some ideas of what to plant.”

  “What is your favorite flower?”

  As Clara worked to remove the slugs, she decided tha
t roses were not her favorite, though they were the most common type of flower to be found in an English garden. “When I was a young girl, my favorite flower was the bluebell. There was a field near my grandfather’s farm that would turn blue in the spring. He used to say I had bluebells for eyes.” Her voice had grown wistful, for she hadn’t seen her grandfather in far too long, and she missed him terribly.

  “Let me see,” Mr. Emory said, straightening and coming over with the obvious intent of judging for himself whether her eyes were the color of bluebells. That’s how Clara found herself gazing up at him, noting things about his face that she hadn’t taken in before, simply because she hadn’t truly looked at him. Now she saw he had lines from the sun near his eyes and the tips of his eyebrows were slightly lighter, nearly blond, and that his lashes were thick and shadowed eyes she’d thought were brown but that were a deep, green-gray. Those eyes studied hers, unwavering, filled with mild amusement before suddenly flaring with some other emotion.

  “That’s a fair comparison,” he said blandly before turning back to the roses, leaving Clara feeling strangely disappointed, though she couldn’t say why.

  “And what is your favorite flower?”

  “I haven’t one,” he said curtly. “All the ones that don’t die are my favorites.”

  Clara felt suitably dismissed, and she could tell from his tone that he’d grown bored with the conversation. Why was she even talking to him at all? He was the gardener, nothing more. A man whom her mother had employed. She was done killing bugs for the day.

  “I’ll continue my bug-killing tomorrow. Good evening, Mr. Emory.” She started walking from the garden feeling unaccountably hurt, and confused that she should be hurt at all. Lifting her skirts, she made her way out of the torn-up ground toward the house. Just as she reached the edge, where the lush green grass began, she heard him say, “Orchids. They were my mother’s favorite, I was told, so I suppose they shall be mine.”