by Lower, Becky
Parker took a few steps forward and neared the desk. “If I may speak freely, you’ve underestimated your daughter, sir. She’s probably the strongest one you have. I witnessed her in the barn, standing up to two powerful men. She would not back down. Just as Iris and Lily would have behaved.”
Violet raised her head and stole a glance at Parker, amazed at his declaration. If this brash American thought of her as a strong person, then perhaps she didn’t fit the mold of the shrinking Violet she’d always considered herself to be. She stood again but placed her hands on the top of the desk for support. “I must get to work, Father. Thank you for sending Carson packing.”
“And I’ll have a talk with Davey next time he’s here.” Her father leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You don’t need to bear everything alone. You’re not the only one who’s ever made a stupid mistake when it comes to love. I wish your mother were here to give you advice. But please don’t hide your feelings from me ever again.”
Edgar took his leave after promising to fix the broken pane. Parker remained standing, staring at Violet. For a long moment, neither of them spoke or broke their stance.
“Thank you, Parker, for your words about my strength. I don’t appreciate how you maneuvered the meeting, but I do appreciate the outcome.” Violet smiled and rounded the table to his side.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “If I hadn’t acted on your behalf, you would have avoided a confrontation and found one reason after another to delay it until all the boxes pertaining to my visit were crossed off. I had to do something to help you before I take my leave. But I meant every word I said about your character. You’d make a good American, if you weren’t so British."
She laughed for the first time that day. The dreaded confrontation with her father had happened, and the heavy blanket of shame she’d been carrying around had finally been lifted. Parker had proven to be a man of his word, taking care of her. He may not have been able to do so with his wife and child, but he hadn’t wavered when he’d had the opportunity to take care of her. She sensed dispensing with the threat of Carson was as vital to him as it had been to her. However, her stomach couldn’t quite settle. Carson may no longer be a staple at the barn, but Violet had a feeling Mulberry Hill had not yet seen the last of him. She’d best keep her guard up. And continue to keep Poppy safe.
She cleared her throat and took a few steps away from Parker. Away from temptation. “I have a mess to clean up.” She gestured to the glass Carson had broken. “After I clear it away, we’ll get started on your lessons in cross-pollination, which is one of the items on your list.”
“So you’ve been paying attention to my list, have you?” Parker grinned.
“Hard not to when it’s right next to your drawing of Mr. Jefferson’s rose bed.” Violet gazed at him. “I noticed you’d checked almost half the things off your list, which means you should be able to get on the road back home in another week or so if we apply ourselves.” Violet refused to acknowledge the ache in her chest when she even thought about having the greenhouse to herself again. She couldn’t have shifted her attraction from Davey to Parker in the space of a couple of weeks, could she? He’d be leaving soon, as she’d reminded him. She’d have to keep her heart under lock and key instead of on her sleeve until he departed.
“I’ll be happy to help you pick up the glass.” Parker took a bucket and carefully plucked the tiny shards from the floor. “You don’t need to show me your hybridizing techniques today if you don’t feel up to it. The confrontation with Carson has to have shaken you somewhat.”
Violet nodded and knelt to assist Parker. “Yes, the meeting did upset me a bit, but the best way to put it behind me is to do something else, and hybridizing will take my mind off the unpleasant experience.”
Clearing away the mess from Carson didn’t take nearly as long as Violet had hoped. She needed more time to get her wayward thoughts under control. She shouldn’t discuss the pollination of her roses when her head was filled with thoughts of Parker. The similarity between what she did to her roses and what she wished to do with Parker was too unsettling. Out of stall tactics, she made her way to the hothouse portion of the greenhouse. Parker followed her to the area where she worked on her hybrid of the Lady Banks. The hothouse consisted of a separate little room shielded by glass walls and a door to ensure quality. Bees were not welcome, because this pollination had to be done by hand. Air temperature and humidity needed to be tightly controlled as well.
Violet clasped her hands in front of her. All her thoughts about Parker, Carson, Davey, and the rest needed to be tucked away so she could concentrate on explaining the meticulous method of hybridizing. So she could explain about male and female plants and taking pollen from the male and brushing it onto the female. Stiches and Biscuits! She searched her mind to find a non-sexual way of explaining her methods, but her thoughts got tangled as the sensation of Parker’s lips on her fingers kept slipping in.
She cleared her throat and took an apron from its peg near the door. Wrapping it around her faded cotton dress, she stole a glance at Parker, whose gaze ran from one table to the next, from one shrub to another.
He glanced in her direction with a quizzical expression on his face. “I have a feeling you’ll have to take me through the process more than a few times, from the looks of things.”
She smiled. “It’s not so difficult. Tedious, time-consuming, yes. But difficult? Not so much.”
Violet twisted her way around to the table where the roses she’d deemed as the pollen providers stood. “I’ve already taken the pollen from one of the male stock, and it’s drying. We’ll use that today to fertilize the female. But I’ll first show you how it’s removed, for your future reference.”
She ran her gaze over the male plant prospects, finally deciding on the Scotch roses. “These are ones with potential. The flowers are white, so they won’t dilute the color of the Lady Banks. They do have thorny canes, and the Lady Banks is practically without thorns, so that could be a problem. But I appreciate the fact these roses are so rugged and hardy. And the fact they only have a moderate fragrance is part of what makes them so attractive to my hybrid efforts.”
Parker’s hand caressed a bloom of the Scotch rose, the Rosa spinosissima and he nodded. “So you’re attempting to maintain what’s good about the Lady Banks but add in hardiness. I appreciate your line of reasoning that much, anyway.” He leaned over to take a whiff. “You’re right. Not much scent at all. Is it called a Scotch rose because it’s so thorny, as are most Scotsmen?”
She smiled. “What knowledge do you have of Scotsmen? Have you met some?”
“There were a few in the British military, and several were captured and held prisoner during the war.” He shrugged. “They were a bit rough around the edges. But I guess I shouldn’t judge the entire country based on a few.”
Violet locked her gaze on Parker for a moment. “You’re absolutely right. You shouldn’t base your feelings about a country based on only a few, be they Scottish, English, or American.” Surprised at her bold declaration, she shifted her gaze to the rose to cover her outburst and cleared her throat. “Back to my lesson. So what I do is find a bloom that is healthy and full. Then, I take hold of the base of the bloom and begin to strip away the petals.” She followed up her words with actions, denuding the bloom, leaving a center circled with pollen.
Parker leaned in to observe her technique, his head only inches from hers. She took a deep breath to calm herself before she took the next step in her hybridizing process. An unsteady hand could spell doom for the project, and this painstaking part usually caused her trouble, even without Parker by her side. She wished he would back off a bit. She wished he’d lean in closer and kiss her again. On the lips this time. Stitches and biscuits. She didn’t know what she wanted.
Violet closed her eyes for a moment, brushed a hand over her eyes, and shook her head. She then dipped her hand into her apron pocket for a pair of tweezers. “Next, I gently remove the p
ollen from the stamen one sac at a time and place it in a little bottle to dry. I am careful to mark each bottle with the name of the flower, so I don’t confuse myself.”
“I see how it could become confusing. Similar to creating a superb meal and not writing down the ingredients. So you’ll only have a hunch what made it so good, and you spend the rest of your life in an attempt to duplicate your efforts.” Parker nodded in agreement.
Violet stared at Parker instead of the flower in front of her. “It sounds as if you spend a great deal of time in the kitchen.”
“I’ve been on my own for a number of years, so I’ve either had to learn how to cook or starve. I enjoy puttering around, finding new ways to blend things together for a different, more unique taste.” His gaze met hers, and she lost herself in their blue depths for a moment.
“Well then, you should take to the art of hybridizing quite well. That’s what we’re doing—blending things together for a different, unique plant.” The image of other things blending together, say British and American, flitted through her mind. She focused on the plant, which she now had almost in a stranglehold.
“This is the first step of the process, removing the pollen from the male plant.” She stripped the pollen from the plant with a few deft motions of her tweezers, depositing it into the glass jar, labeling it, and setting it on a shelf next to other similarly labeled jars. Her finger ran over the labels until she found the one she searched for.
“Here. This pollen is from the same shrub, but I cultivated it a week ago. I’ll use it to fertilize the Lady Banks today.” Her lips formed a straight line as she tried to keep her thoughts about fertilization only on the roses. She pivoted toward the table where the Lady Banks sat, only to run straight into Parker. He had been beside her when she’d searched the shelf. How had he gotten in front of her? Or behind her? Whichever. And now she fell into his arms and the bottle of pollen crashed to the floor, breaking open. Violet cried out.
He set her on her feet and made certain she had her balance before releasing her arms, which he held at the elbows. She knelt to pick up the broken bottle and to gather what pollen she could.
Parker joined her, sitting on his haunches. “I’m so sorry I got in your way. How can I help?”
Violet couldn’t control the huge sob that overtook her body. The confrontation with Carson, the kind words Parker had spoken, her fears for Poppy, the lost pollen, were too much for one day, and she finally broke. She sat on the floor, unable to control her sobs. Parker put his arm around her and maneuvered her head onto his shoulder, where her hot tears fell. His breath on her cheek wafted over her like a caress. She could stay here all day, breathing in his earthy scent, but better sense finally prevailed, and she pulled back, out of the embrace.
“I’m so sorry, Parker, for my display of female emotions. The broken pollen bottle took me over the edge.” She wiped her eyes and picked up the remains of the bottle.
“It’s understandable. We have packed a lot into today. Let’s clean up the mess I created and call it a day, shall we?” Parker stood and assisted her to her feet.
Violet shook her head. “If you can grab the hand broom in the corner, I’ll take care of cleaning up this mess. But it appears as if our lesson is at an end.”
Parker’s lesson on hybridizing might be finished for the day, but Violet’s lesson, her admonishment to herself not to become enamored by him, fell by the wayside each time he touched her, however innocently. She must do a better job of shielding her heart against disaster. Because certainly disaster could be the only outcome.
• • •
All their talk about male and female plant parts and fertilization scrambled Parker’s brain. He should have brought his notebook and pencil into this small space and been taking notes. That way, his hands would be filled and they wouldn’t itch with the need to stroke Violet’s cheek or to kiss her fingers. Or her lips. Those lips had been so close to his when she’d cried on his shoulder. He could write a sonnet about her lips. Soft as a rose petal, pink as an Old Blush rose. He shook his head to clear his mind of his wayward thoughts. Sonnets, indeed. He reacted this way only because he happened to be in England, land of the sonnet-makers. And the land of the life-takers. When he found himself softening even a little toward the British, toward the Wilson family, he’d recall the devastation their country had caused his family, starting with the Revolutionary War in which his father had fought. No more sonnets!
He should have been paying attention instead of crashing into her, causing her to spill the pollen. Causing her to finally let go of her tightly held emotions and cry.
“Again, I apologize for causing such disruption in this small space.” Parker rolled his shoulders. “I sometimes remind myself of a bull in a china shop.”
“No real harm done except for a broken bottle. We’ll pick up the lesson tomorrow. But next time, you should have your writing pad with you and take notes.” Violet smiled and patted her hair, attempting to put her breakdown behind them. Parker’s shirt was still damp from her tears, though. He could not so easily cast her feelings aside.
He should be doing a whole lot more than taking notes. He should be selecting roses and getting his order together so he could depart Mulberry Hill and England before he got hopelessly entrenched here. Before his employer forgot about him. Sonnets, lips, and tingling sensations whenever he brushed up against Violet needed to come to a halt. He should not have offered a shoulder for her to cry on. Instead, he should have been taking steps forward so he could mark off another box on his list of items to accomplish before leaving for America. He had successfully gotten rid of Carson, so he could check that box off his list. Now, if he could only get through the hybridizing lessons with his passions held firmly in check, he’d consider this trip a success.
“Good idea to split the lesson into parts. This space is cramped with both of us in here, and exceedingly warm. Shall we adjourn to the big room and start creating tags for the roses I’ll need to take home?” Parker opened the door and escaped. Not only the air in the hothouse had become warm. His body temperature had also heated by merely standing next to Violet. When had he started responding so? And why?
The best thing for him to do would be to work nonstop over the next few days and complete what he’d come to England for, while keeping a tight rein on his emotions. Then, he could successfully escape with his heart intact, before he did something stupid. He grabbed his sketchpad and wrote down the names of the plants he’d determined to purchase. He desperately needed to shift his focus from Violet to her roses. He’d already opened his soul to her by relaying the story of how his family had perished. He didn’t need to lay open his heart to her as well. Violet’s feelings had been trampled upon once already, by Davey. Parker didn’t need to add to her torment by toying with her and then tossing her aside. Which would be the only outcome. He couldn’t envision anything else.
Chapter Thirteen
Day Twelve
Parker wrestled with his mounting feelings toward Violet all night, but a lack of sleep was all he’d managed to accomplish for his efforts. He entered the hothouse with her the next morning with a sense of dread. Or excitement. She wished to continue her teaching. His only thought as they entered the confined space was what he could possibly teach her. But, if he could get through this session, he could put a check mark next to another item on his list and be one step closer to leaving. Unscathed and alone.
Violet snapped her fingers to gain his attention. “We do the same thing to the Lady Banks as we did for the male plant. Find a nice, healthy bloom, hold it by the base, strip away the petals carefully, and remove the pollen, which goes into its own jar.” She worked through the motions with the agility of someone competent with the process, and had the bloom denuded in a matter of minutes. She stopped to wipe the damp from her brow, and Parker took the opportunity to do the same. He couldn’t tell if the cloistered environment of the hybrid house or the nearness to Violet had been the culprit in making
him sweat. The fact Violet experienced the same made him deduce the environment held the blame. She hadn’t shown any outward interest in him beyond what her father expected of her. Beyond a tentative friendship he had forged with her. Which had almost been blown apart by him taking action against Carson. Now, today, after her display of tears in front of him yesterday, she appeared awkward, as if embarrassed by her outburst.
“Now comes the fun part.” Violet picked a small brush from her apron, carefully wiping it free of any lingering pollen. A blush crept into her cheeks as she explained the next step. “I load my brush with pollen from the Scotch rose and brush it over the sticky surface of the pistil. The sticky part is called the stigma.” With a few deft strokes, she brushed a small amount of pollen onto the plant.
Parker observed her carefully. “I should be writing this all down. Although it’s very similar to humans and how they reproduce, so I get the gist of it.” Her cheeks bloomed even pinker, as he suspected they would. Time to change the subject. “Is that all? One time and done?”
The tinge in her cheeks grew deeper, almost a reddish hue. “Oh no. Once is never enough. I have to stroke on the pollen at least three or four times to assure it’s taken hold.”
“I see.” Parker stroked the leaves of the Lady Banks as his mind conjured up images best left alone. “How soon after this process do you see a result?”
She replaced the jar of pollen back on the shelf and wrote on a stick, which she placed in the dirt of the container where the Lady Banks resided. “It takes several months for the rose hips to form. Then, I break them open, remove the seeds, and plant them. But they have to grow for a number of years before I can tell if my experiment has been successful. Which is why it’s so important to keep good notes.”
