by Jane Goodger
“It doesn’t matter, now that you’re a countess.”
The sisters’ laughter came to an abrupt stop when Lord Berkley entered the room, a solemn expression on his handsome face. “It took some convincing, but your father agreed.”
Harriet stood. “You had to convince him to allow you to marry me?”
“That part was easy. The difficult part of the negotiations came when I insisted we marry posthaste. Wednesday.”
Harriet’s eyes widened. “This Wednesday?”
The earl looked a bit sheepish. “I have a chapel at Costille House, as you know. I took the initiative to have the banns read. Three times. And I obtained a license.” He gave Harriet a quick grin. “I was rather hoping you would say yes.”
Harriet narrowed her eyes and looked as if she might chastise him for his confidence before relenting and smiling. Smitten, indeed. “And Father agreed?”
“After some argument. And given our…celebration…” Harriet’s cheeks burned red and a small strangling sound came from her throat. “…I thought it prudent. So, Wednesday?”
“Mother will faint,” Harriet said. But Clara knew her sister would not argue the point. She turned to Clara, looking so happy, Clara felt her throat close. “You will be my maid of honor, and the girls shall be my bridesmaids. Except perhaps for Alice. It’s a bit too soon after the birth.” She put her hands on either side of her cheeks. “Oh, there is so much to think about.”
“Mother has been planning a wedding in her head for years now. I’m certain she can get it all together, even if it is less than a week,” Clara said on a laugh.
Clara was in her garden, a vast, beautiful place with wandering paths and fluttering butterflies and fat bumblebees lazily flying between impossibly enormous red roses. Dreams like these were her favorite, dreams from which she would slowly awaken, a smile on her face, until she remembered Nathaniel was gone. This dream was better than most, for she could see him there, his white shirt taut against his back, his thick brown hair peeking beneath his hat. He was digging, as he so often had, a soft rhythm, shh, shh, shh. For some reason, her garden had a bubbling brook going through it, and there was a boy fishing there, oblivious to his audience. Then, the boy was gone, the brook along with him, leaving Clara alone with Nathaniel in her garden, bathed in sunshine, a soft breeze making her flowers dance. Shh. Shh.
Clara opened her eyes, willing herself back into that perfect dream, and let out a sigh. And then she tensed. Shh. Shh. It wasn’t a dream, it was a real sound she heard, coming from below her window.
She flung off the covers and ran to the window, her heart pounding madly in her chest, hope making her feet fly across the thick carpet. But when she reached the window, still obscured by her curtains, she closed her eyes, afraid that what she was hearing was something else. Or someone else. Perhaps her mother had hired another gardener and had not told her. After all, she’d hired Nathaniel without saying a word.
With one quick movement, Clara pushed the curtains aside and opened her eyes, and let out a small sound.
He was back.
“Jeanine, I’m up!” she called out cheerfully, then pulled the cord that would let her maid know she was needed. “Calm down, you ninny,” she said to herself. “You don’t want Jeanine to know why you’re suddenly so happy.” Then again, Jeanine was still floating about on a cloud herself, planning her June wedding to her long-time beau. It seemed everyone she knew was either already married—Harriet was in Paris on her wedding trip—or getting married. And now, Nathaniel was back, just as he’d promised.
Clara ran to her wardrobe and pulled out one of the dresses she wore when she was planning to spend time in the garden, wrinkling her nose. Though she longed to put on something a bit prettier, it wouldn’t do to call attention to herself. She took the dress and flung it on the bed, then ran to her vanity and pulled out her brush. By the time Jeanine made it to her room, Clara was sedately brushing her hair as if nothing monumental had happened.
“Good morning, Jeanine,” Clara said, keeping her voice neutral.
“And good morning to you, miss. Guess what the cat dragged in last night? Our very own Casanova.”
Clara turned as if she hadn’t any idea what her maid could mean. “Who?”
“The gardener. Turned up last night as if he’d never left and Mr. Standard welcoming him back without even a question asked. Those two are thick as thieves,” Jeanine said with a sharp nod to her head. “Arrived just in time for supper, wouldn’t you know. You might think he was Cook’s long-lost son, coming home from war, the way she was carrying on. And the girls.” Jeanine let out a sound of disgust. “They were all over themselves trying to get his attention, asking him all sorts of questions about where he’d been and how long he was staying.”
Clara laughed. “I really do not understand your animosity for the poor man.”
Jeanine stopped what she was doing, a quizzical look on her face. “Wouldn’t you know it? I really don’t understand it either.” The two women laughed. Jeanine came up behind Clara and gently pushed her hands out of the way. Clara had been struggling to braid her hair but was making a muck of it. In no time, Jeanine had braided her hair and pinned it at the nape of her neck. “I imagine you’ll be going out to the garden today?”
“I need to instruct Mr. Emory on the changes I would like to make. I have quite a long list.”
“Hmph.”
Clara had no idea what that “hmph” meant, but she had a feeling Jeanine had a bit of an idea that her mistress rather liked their gardener. Perhaps too much.
Nathaniel glanced at her window for perhaps the hundredth time, wondering where she was, whether she still thought of him, whether someone else had swooped in and stolen her away. It would serve him right if someone had. He didn’t deserve her, but that didn’t stop him from wanting her.
All these weeks apart, every night, every morning, every time he saw a blasted woman with blond hair, he would think of her. A laugh, a soft feminine curve, a full bottom lip—he could not escape her no matter how he tried. He couldn’t even think of lying with another woman, not when he only wanted her. Last night, the staff was in such a tizzy about the younger daughter’s marriage to Lord Berkley, they hardly spared Clara a mention. It would have seemed strange for him to ask after her, so he’d remained silent and prayed she was still at home and not off somewhere. Returning to his role of gardener after being Baron Alford for weeks seemed even more disingenuous than before. These people knew him, liked him, and he felt strangely as if he were betraying their trust. Through all of this, he’d never considered their reaction when they discovered he was a baron—and they would discover it. How would Cook react when she realized she’d been serving a lord at the kitchen table all these months?
Nathaniel had always believed the ends of his deception justified the means, but as the days passed, he was becoming more and more uncertain.
A movement above him attracted his eyes and he looked up at the house—had the curtain fluttered? No, she was not there, looking down at him, smiling as she had so often done. He went back to the tedious job of looking for the diamond. After all this time, very little of the garden had not been searched, just a small patch near the edge of the property by the pond. He had little excuse to be digging so far from where the main garden was, but he would have to do so anyway.
“Have you seen the hothouse?”
He smiled and pressed down the surge of joy he felt just from hearing her voice. “I have,” he said, turning slowly around, bracing himself, trying not to make a fool of himself when he first saw her. But there she was, wearing her silly straw hat and an ugly brown dress, grinning at him, her cheeks blooming with good health, her eyes merry. He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
She pressed her lips together, and they stood there awkwardly, staring at one another for a long moment, too many feet apart. “I have to�
�go to my room to fetch…something,” he said, then stalked off, praying she followed him to the back of the shed.
He entered the cool, shadowed interior, feeling like a young boy about to experience his first kiss. He had missed her. Seeing her made him realize just how much, and he vowed they would never be apart again. He could hardly bear the thought of it.
Nathaniel half-ran through the shed, to his room, and out the back door, where the sun beat hard against the back of the building. Lifting his face to the warm rays, he smiled when he heard the rustle of skirts. When she turned the corner, he thrust out his hand and encircled her upper arm, then dragged her into his arms.
“Am I being presumptuous, Miss Anderson?”
“Not at all, Mr. Emory.”
And then he kissed her as he’d longed to since the night he’d left. Though it had been weeks and weeks since he’d held her in his arms, she melted against him, pressing her pretty body and her warm mouth against him, letting out those sounds that he’d tried to recall on his lonely nights in Keswick.
“God, I missed you,” he said, not caring that he sounded like a man besotted. He was a man besotted and at the moment, he didn’t care. She felt so damn good in his arms, as if she belonged there. Forever. It was there, at the tip of his tongue, to ask her to marry him, but he found a small bit of sense before he did. He would not ask her to marry him until she knew exactly who he was, until she understood why he had lied, until she told him she loved him and none of his lies mattered. Ah, such a fantasy he was building in his head, but Nathaniel didn’t care. He loved her enough to make her understand. If it took days or weeks or years, he would convince her that he loved her.
It never occurred to him, until that very moment, that she might not feel quite the same. He wasn’t fool enough to believe he could make her love him…
“I love you,” he said, pulling back so he could see her expression. It was, he could see clearly, one of complete surprise, and a sick feeling tugged slightly at his gut. “I can see you were not expecting such a declaration.”
“No, I wasn’t. It is a lovely declaration.” She bit her lip, and damn if his groin didn’t tighten even more. When she stepped back, it felt a bit like she was stepping on his heart.
“It is not one I make lightly,” he said, and he knew he sounded more like a baron than a gardener. At that moment, he could hardly care.
“My sister has married an earl.”
“Yes, it was all the staff could talk about.”
“Now my mother is more convinced than ever that I should marry a title.”
He scowled. “One marries a man, not a title. Good God, Clara, you are not the same girl—”
He stopped abruptly when he realized she was trying not to laugh. “Of course I love you, you silly man.”
He pulled her in for a searing kiss, a punishment, a brand, that would show her she was his. Leave it to Clara to brand him right back with her own searing kiss, little vixen. “I haven’t asked you to marry me, you know,” he said, nibbling on her throat.
“It hardly matters, now that you’ve returned.”
“I’m not yet in a position to ask, but…” He kissed her jaw, her cheek, her lips. “…I will soon. I promise you. And your parents will approve.”
“No, they will not, but I don’t care. I don’t. You know I loathe the aristocracy. I’ll go with you to Gretna Green or wherever we need to go to be together. They’ll come around if we’re married. We can leave tonight and be married in just a few days. Oh, let’s do it, Nathaniel. Let’s go tonight.”
He pushed her gently away. “We can’t. We must do things properly. I must ask your father for permission—”
“He’ll never give it, especially not now with Harriet being a countess. I do not believe they would care for having an earl for one son-in-law and a gardener for the other. Please, Nathaniel, let’s go tonight.”
Nathaniel dropped his hands and stepped back. “No, Clara. I cannot. I just returned.”
A crease formed between her eyes. “Returned? For what? To labor away in this garden? To be a servant? I want us to have a life together, to raise children.”
She looked at him, confusion clear in her gaze, and Nathaniel nearly blurted out the truth. Not yet, you fool. “Yes. I do want that. Just…not quite yet. Please be patient, my love.”
“Why can you not tell me, Nathaniel?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand that she was asking for his secrets. “I will. I promise.”
“Soon?”
He thought of that small patch where the diamond must be. It must. “Soon.”
Chapter 14
“I simply cannot wait until next year,” Hedra said, coming into Clara’s room and clutching a thick volume against her chest. Since Harriet’s wedding, she had been incessantly happy and Clara knew that a great part of that happiness came from the realization that her sister’s advantageous marriage had opened the door for Clara to marry in kind. Despite her weariness of the subject, Clara smiled as Hedra entered, glad to see her mother content. Hedra had inserted one finger into the book as a place holder.
“This is where your sister’s name will appear.” She opened Debrett’s with a flourish and pointed to the listing under Earl of Berkley. “Can you imagine?”
Clara smiled, enjoying her mother’s giddiness, but feeling a bit melancholy. She missed Harriet, and the thought they would never gossip together late at night, would never laugh at their mother’s eccentricities, was disheartening. It had only been a week since Harriet had left and already Clara missed her sister terribly. She glanced at the odd paperweight her sister had given her just before the wedding, wishing she could see Harriet instead.
“I’ll leave this with you, shall I? Perhaps you’ll be inspired.” Hedra gave her an odd, hopeful smile, and Clara gave an internal sigh. How could she ever tell her mother she was in love with a lowly gardener? That it was only a matter of time before Nathaniel asked for her hand?
“I’ll memorize every page,” Clara said, crossing her heart.
“The good Lord tallies our lies, you know,” Hedra said, smiling.
Clara made a show of opening the book to study its pages and her mother let her be. Sighing, Clara closed the book and set it aside. She walked to the window, looked out and stared for a long moment at the soft light coming from Nathaniel’s quarters. Would they ever be together as they hoped? Proclamations of love were all well and good, but she wanted to begin their life together. Still, she understood Nathaniel’s reticence; he could hardly create a life for them on his meager gardener’s salary. He needed to find another position, for it would be untenable for the two of them to live here, in the main house with her parents, and just as untenable for her to move into his tiny quarters.
It was late and she should probably be sleeping, not dwelling on her troubles. Reading Debrett’s was one sure way to put her to sleep, she thought, pulling back the covers and taking up the book. She began flipping through the pages, recognizing some names from reading the Tattler. To think Harriet would one day be listed in this book was remarkable. She’d reached the section on barons and wrinkled her nose, remembering the one baron she’d ever met: Lord Longley. What a horrible man he was. She fully believed that Harriet had married the last handsome, noble member of the peerage. All the rest were vacant, dull creatures with pasty faces and soft limbs. So unlike her handsome, strong gardener. Clara giggled aloud. How delicious it was just thinking about touching the hard planes of his stomach, the strength of him as he held her. No nobleman’s physique could ever match Nathaniel’s.
First on the list of baronies was Baron Alford, Daniel Emory, one she’d never heard of. It was the surname, of course, that caught her eye and made her smile. She would have to joke with Nathaniel that he might be a descendant of a baron. They would have a good laugh about that. Perhaps she could call him Lord Alford and give him a cur
tsy. She giggled aloud and was about to set the book aside, when another name stopped her: Nathaniel.
Her gaze flew back to the beginning of the listing: George Emory, 5th Baron Alford, M.P. Cumbria, m. 7 June, 1821 (d. 4 Jan. 1877), Lady Mary Capel (d. 12 Nov. 1839), yst. dau. of Hon. Thomas Capel, and had issue: 1. Ann (d. 15 Feb. 1822) 2. Charles (d. 24 Nov. 1866), m. Laura Peterson (d. 28 Oct. 1851) who had issue, one son:
Nathaniel, 6th Baron.
She stared at the entry, brows furrowed, for several long minutes, going through her mind the things that Nathaniel had told her, small pieces she’d learned about his past. He was from Cumbria. He was twenty-six years old. His father, Charles, had been a wastrel. His mother, Laura, had died in childbirth. Nathaniel’s birthday was October twenty-eighth. Laura Peterson died October twenty-eighth.
“It can’t be,” she whispered, shaking her head and smiling. She laughed aloud. Nathaniel, a baron? Yes, of course, barons always worked as gardeners on a lark. A lark that lasted months. She could picture it: “Yes, old chap, I daresay I feel like rusticating in St. Ives. On holiday? Goodness no! I’ve decided to become a gardener.” She giggled again and nearly put the book aside.
Still…
She glanced at the entry again and a feeling she didn’t like filled her slowly, like some black, thick poison that made her stomach wrench. All the details, all these facts, seemed to agree with what Nathaniel had told her about his life. His very birthday, his father’s name, his mother’s. The fact of her death the day he was born. “It can’t be,” she repeated, but this time those words sounded like lies.
Suddenly, it felt as though a heavy weight were pressing against her chest and she found it difficult to breathe. She knew he had a secret, a terrible one he could not tell her… “It cannot be.”
It was all silliness; it had to be. Certainly, one way to find out was simply to ask. He would laugh when she suggested he might be a baron, and they would laugh together that she had come to such a conclusion. Throwing on a wrap, she walked with determined steps down the stairs, through the long hall that led to the back of the house and the garden. She hesitated only a second before opening the door and walking outdoors, barefoot, onto the cold, dew-covered grass. His light was still on.
