by Lower, Becky
“I only hope we won’t have to play nursemaid to him for days on end, even though Father insists we make room for him at the house.” Violet applied the salve to the back of Mr. Sinclair’s head, biting her lip as she concentrated.
“We’ll take turns if need be.” Iris strode to the man’s side and spoke as he started to regain consciousness. “Hello, Mr. Sinclair. My name is Iris. Violet and I will assist you down to the house. Father insists you stay with us for a few days until you’re feeling better.”
“No, I must get on with my business. I cannot afford a few days in bed.” Mr. Sinclair attempted to stand but fell back into the chair.
“And I’d say, a few days in bed is exactly what you need.” Violet helped the man to his feet, and with assistance from Iris, got him upright and moving toward the house. At least he wouldn’t invade her greenhouse space for a few days. She had a fleeting vision of him in bed though, and it shook her to her core. Why did her mind insist on playing tricks on her when she should be grateful for the reprieve?
• • •
Violet sat at the noisy dinner table with her head bowed, not engaging in the lively conversation that flowed around her. Mr. Sinclair had been in their presence only one afternoon, yet he was the topic on the tip of each tongue among her sisters.
“Father’s put me in charge of finding more clothing for poor Mr. Sinclair.” Poppy grinned in delight.
Violet grimaced. “I caught you holding up his breeches this afternoon, once we got him back to the house and into the sickbed.”
“Well, how am I to do my job if I don’t have any idea of the man’s size?” Poppy pouted before her face broke out into another grin. “From the length of the breeches he had on, I’d say he’s quite tall. And ever so handsome.”
Lily barked out a laugh. “You could tell how handsome he was by the size of his breeches?”
Poppy shook her head. “No, silly. I caught a glimpse of him as Iris and Violet dragged him in from the greenhouse.”
“Enough, children,” Edgar Wilson’s voice boomed. “Mr. Sinclair is our guest, not our entertainment. Why don’t you bring me up to date, Lily, on what you’re doing over at the Weymouth estate? We don’t wish to have you spend too much time there, and I’m aware of how many hours you’re spending on your maze.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Not another maze, Lily.”
Lily cackled and rubbed her hands together. “Would you care to come and test it for me? It’s absolutely diabolical.”
“No thank you. I hope never to set foot in any maze of yours ever again.” Violet shivered, even though the air in the room was warm.
Lily detailed for their father what she had accomplished that day. Iris raised an eyebrow at Violet as they sat quietly, waiting their turns. Violet’s lips curved upward just a bit. Their father may harbor the notion that each part of his business was of equal importance, but Violet had no warm spot in her heart for Lily’s propensity for creating mazes out of perfectly good boxwoods. Violet had not been the only person to get lost in one for hours.
“Enough talk about mazes!” Poppy’s exclamation summed up what the others thought. “Let’s discuss something of interest instead.” She focused on Violet. “Tell me every word the American said to you before he passed out. Is his voice deep and like honey?”
“He didn’t say a whole lot before he collapsed. He has a cough and a fever, as well as a head wound, so his voice was low and gravelly, not at all like honey.” Violet snapped her napkin onto the table. If every dinner between now and when Mr. Sinclair left them would have him as the main topic of conversation, she’d go mad. “May we please get back to a more pleasant topic?”
“But you at least got to see him while he was standing. You got to put your arm around the poor unfortunate man as you helped him down the hill.” Poppy pouted. “Describe him for us. Is he dreamy?”
Violet clenched her hands together. “You’ve been reading too much out of the wrong books, Poppy. I’m going to have to talk to your governess about your choices from the library. Mr. Sinclair is tall, as you’ve determined, and has dark hair. He has a limp. If that’s your definition of a dreamy person, it only proves how young you are.”
Edgar glanced at Violet and then at Poppy. “That’s enough talk of Mr. Sinclair for now. I agree with Violet. It’s in poor taste for us to be discussing the man at our dinner table. Poppy, you’ll get to meet Mr. Sinclair officially tomorrow, if he’s better, and will be able to make your own assessment on his dreaminess.”
Poppy’s eyes grew large. “The poor man, getting robbed just as he got off the ship. What kind of an introduction is that to our country?”
Violet’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Maybe he was being given a sign that he should wrap up his business quickly and return home. I should have planned a mishap for when he set foot in my greenhouse. Instead, the man collapses at the very sight of me.”
Edgar cleared his throat and cast a stormy glance at each of his unruly daughters. “I’m quite certain the sight of you had nothing to do with the man losing consciousness, Violet. Mr. Sinclair is our guest, and his employer, Mr. McMahon, purchases a considerable quantity of plants and seeds from us each year. Or at least his father did. Now that the son has taken over the business, we need to forge a new relationship, so his trusted employee, Mr. Sinclair, will be treated with the utmost respect while he’s here. Is that understood?” His eyes focused on Lily. “There will be no luring him into one of your maze monstrosities.” Then he cast his gaze on Poppy. “And you won’t talk him into buying anything more than the basics, because we’re to pick up the cost of replacing his stolen merchandise in a show of good faith.” He shifted his attention to Iris. “I’ll need you to give him a brief overview of how we handle our business’s bookkeeping, since Mr. McMahon requested it, but don’t give away all our secrets.” Iris bobbed her head. Last, he spoke to Violet. “But you’ll be in charge of Mr. Sinclair on a daily basis, so you need to be on your best behavior, regardless of how much of an interruption he’ll be. Figure out a way to use an extra pair of hands in your work.”
Violet stared at the table. She’d been pondering Mr. Sinclair’s tanned hands with their little scars ever since he’d held onto her hand for much longer than he should have. She shook her head, hoping the couple of extra days she was being given would allow her to refocus on what was important and not on the man’s hands. Losing focus was exactly why she should never poke her head outside her greenhouse. But now, danger had come calling among her roses and had set up shop in what had been her safe place. The bloody American. Her lips curled at the thought. He’d been bloody in more ways than one.
Chapter Three
Day Two
Parker woke with a splitting headache and a nose so clogged he could barely breathe. He took a moment before opening his eyes to get his bearings. He was in a real bed, not the swinging cot he’d used while aboard ship. But whose bed? And how could he be so hot and so cold at the same time? He threw the covers off his shoulders, then grabbed them back when the air caused his skin to prickle with goose bumps.
“Well, it looks as if you’ve decided to survive.” The voice sounded almost . . . gleeful? disappointed? And whose voice was it? He cracked open one eye to take in his surroundings, coming aware slowly and with a sudden need to empty his bladder.
He finally spied the woman who had uttered the words. The rose expert. What had Mr. Wilson called her? Some kind of flower name. Rose seemed appropriate but didn’t sound right. Daisy? Lilac? Pansy? He couldn’t remember. He struggled to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder prevented him from doing so.
“You’re to stay abed for at least one more day, Mr. Sinclair. You gave us quite a fright yesterday when you passed out.” Her tone brooked no argument.
He sunk back to the pillows, but his need to relieve himself grew. He gritted his teeth and tried to focus on her. “I, uh, I have need of a chamber pot.” His cheeks burned as he revealed his bodily functions to a tot
al stranger. He brushed his hand over his bulging bladder. “Where are my clothes?” He had nothing on except his underthings. How had he gotten in such a condition?
“All right, then. I’ll help you sit up. The chamber pot is beside the bed. You can use it while I go to the kitchen and get you some food.” She assisted him in sitting up, propped him with pillows, and brought the chamber pot to his side before she scurried away.
Parker’s head swam as he lowered the pot back to the floor. He sighed as he sank back into the bed. The soft mattress and the mountain of pillows beckoned him to stay put. But he’d already lost time on this trip. He could not loll about. His fuzzy brain tried to recollect what had happened, how he’d ended up here. Wherever here was. Had he been carried to the inn? If so, why was Miss Wilson tending to him? What had happened to his clothes? He glanced around the room in a wild search. Who had undressed him? Miss Wilson? Lord, he hoped not. When he’d met her at the greenhouse, he’d thought her quite fetching. Why could he not remember her name? He’d never been so befuddled.
She bustled back into the room with a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea, which she set on his lap. He stared at the unappetizing meal and then raised his gaze to her. “Are you trying to starve me to death?”
She grinned at him. “’Twas a passing thought, but no. It’s best not to give your stomach too much to handle right away, sir.” She opened a napkin and handed it to him.
“Where are my clothes, Miss Wilson? And my satchel?” His words were clipped. He didn’t care for the way things were going in England so far.
“Your clothes were filthy, so as soon as we got them off you, we sent them to the laundry. You’ll get them back later today.” She actually smirked. “But until they arrive, you will have to stay abed because we’ve yet to find any clothing large enough for you. Your satchel is here, though, on the table next to the bed.”
“Who removed my clothing from me?” Parker picked up a spoon and began to eat the disgusting oatmeal, which was devoid of any fruit or sugar. “Please tell me your father did the honors.”
He caught the grin before she swiveled her head. “No, not Father. My older sister, Iris, and I brought you down from my greenhouse and put you to bed here in our guest room. I’d prefer to make you uneasy by saying we wrestled the clothes from you and helped ourselves to a long gander of your body while we were at it, but I can’t play games with you, because you are our guest. We only divested you of your boots, but you managed the rest, under the safety of covers. Your modesty is intact.” She returned her gaze to him. “Do you recollect any of yesterday?”
What did he recall? This woman’s soft hand encircling his, her melodious voice, yes. But not her name. And certainly none of his removal from the greenhouse. “Umm. Not much, I’m afraid. We met each other, shook hands, and then I must have collapsed.”
She laughed. “In a most ungentlemanly fashion, I’ll admit. I blame Father for it, since he gave you ale, all the while knowing you’d taken a blow to the head.”
“But I have a room at the inn. I shouldn’t be here in your home.” Parker tried to get to his feet before he remembered he was only wearing his underthings. He didn’t need her hand on his shoulder to retreat back under the covers.
She nodded approvingly at his empty bowl of gruel. “Your clothes will be returned later today, and you can move to your room at the inn tomorrow. For now, you need to rest. We can start on your work tomorrow. Iris will be in later to check on you. Good day, Mr. Sinclair.”
• • •
Violet returned to the kitchen with the dirty dishes and then ran up to her greenhouse. Her safe place. She needed to put some space between herself and Mr. Sinclair. He had the ability to unsettle her even when he was weak as a newborn kitten. Picking up a black pen, she drew an “x” through Day One on her crude calendar with a shaky hand. That man, that infuriating man, had set her emotions spinning when he’d grasped her hand and held on yesterday, and he didn’t even remember their encounter! She supposed that was the way of it. American men were not that much different from the British men she’d encountered over the past few years, it seemed. She gave a passing thought to Davey and how he’d led her astray, all for the sake of winning a bet. Violet raised her gaze to survey her plants, putting aside thoughts of Davey and what might have been.
Grateful to have a day of solitude, she sat a moment longer, her thoughts still with the American. How would she make it through the next few weeks? She’d already become much more familiar with him than with any other man. Her arm had circled his waist as she and Iris had stumbled down the hill with him, and his hard, muscled body had invaded her senses. She’d practically undressed the man, despite what information she’d shared with him. Never before in her life had she straddled a man’s leg whilst trying to rid him of his boot. The mere remembrance of the scene brought a flush to her cheeks. Iris hadn’t seemed at all affected by the intimate nature of what they’d been doing. But then, Iris hadn’t been straddling him, either.
“A bloody fool, that’s what you are, Violet,” she muttered to her roses. “Stitches and biscuits. You’ve too much to do to give the man one more ounce of thought.”
With a sigh, she rose and tied on her apron. She needed to harvest some herbs, to make a chest salve that would help open his lungs. Thus far, the poor man had contracted a nasty cough and lung fever due to the harsh English weather that he obviously was not used to, been hit on the back of his head, passed out and been robbed, and then collapsed at her doorstep. All he’d come here for had been roses, but he’d gotten so much more than he’d ever bargained for before loading up even one plant. She could afford to show him an ounce of pity. Only not so much that he’d extend his stay. The first thing he needed was to get well. He couldn’t even begin to smell the roses he selected with a compromised nose. She had to be back in his sickroom by noon, and she needed to take these herbs with her. So, even though Mr. Sinclair may not have invaded her space in the greenhouse today, his presence still weighed on her. He’d tumbled into her life, quite literally. So it now was her responsibility to rid Mulberry Hill of him as quickly as possible. If that meant harvesting herbs, so be it. She cut some peppermint and eucalyptus, and mashed the herbs together with her mortar and pestle, using some pine oil to bind the solution into a spreadable substance. She’d create the healing ointment, but Mr. Sinclair could administer it to his chest by himself. She wanted no part of it. She could do without another embarrassing memory of the man.
He had no recollection of yesterday, so she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself when he’d held her hand, as she had before, with another handsome man with wide shoulders. She’d tuck away her thoughts about his muscles and his large hand engulfing hers, take care of his business with a simple no-nonsense attitude, and have him packed and on his way back to the States in a matter of days, hale and hearty.
• • •
Violet entered the guest room quietly. The shades had been drawn, and in the pale light, she spied Iris who sat quietly beside the American’s bed. “How is our patient?” Violet whispered as she sat the jar of salve on the night table.
“Impatient,” Iris grinned. “He keeps trying to get out of bed, but he tumbles back in before he can put one leg over the edge. It’s good that he’s finally sleeping.”
“Perhaps I’ll have a few quiet hours then.” Violet brushed back a curl from her forehead that had come loose from her bun during her trip down from the greenhouse.
“From your lips to God’s ear, Violet.” Iris gave the man one final glance before departing the room and stiffened. Violet cast her gaze in the same direction, to find the object of their conversation wide awake and staring at them with his ice blue eyes.
“You are aware I can hear everything you say? I didn’t lose my hearing, only my sense of smell.” He growled before dissolving into a coughing fit.
“I’ll wager you lost more than your sense of smell.” Iris stared at him. “Sense of humor, sense of comportment, sense o
f timing. But you’re Violet’s concern now, not mine.” She spun around and left the room quickly, before Violet could call her back.
Violet stood mutely beside the bed, staring at Mr. Sinclair, who struggled to sit up. She broke eye contact finally and helped him put some pillows behind his back.
“Violet. Of course,” he mumbled.
“Of course what, Mr. Sinclair?” Her tongue finally began to work.
He straightened, took a big gulp of air, and stared up at her. “Uh, it’s nothing. I’m feeling much better.”
“You most certainly are not, Mr. Sinclair. You’ve still got a horrible cough, and judging by the wadded-up handkerchiefs by your bed, I’ll wager you still have the sniffles. I’ve prepared a chest salve of peppermint and eucalyptus to help clear your lungs. I’ll leave you to apply it while I get you a fresh cup of tea. Would you care for anything else?” Violet nodded her head toward the empty cup by the bed.
“I’d love some real food for a change. Maybe some beef, or lamb with some potatoes. Can you see what the kitchen has to offer?” Parker raised his gaze to meet hers.
“I don’t think you’re ready for the kind of food you’re talking about, but I’ll see what I can find. Maybe some warm bread slathered with butter?” Violet taunted him.
His stomach growled and he snarled. Violet laughed as she left the room, leaving him alone with the pungent salve. She was grateful she had something to do, some place to be, so she wouldn’t be tempted to observe as he bared his chest and applied her treatment.
Chapter Four
Day Three
Parker let himself in to the warm, humid greenhouse. Even though he’d been encouraged by Mr. Wilson to take his time, he could not lie about in bed all day. There was important work to be done, starting with a tour of Violet Wilson’s greenhouse. The sooner he could begin marking items off his checklist, the better.
