by CJ Archer
***
Susanna managed to keep her distance from Holt in the garden the next morning. It was easy enough to do the weeding at one end while he did the other, her back to him most of the time. Some of the weeds and grass reached to her thighs, but the work was relaxing and satisfying if a little tiring. Unfortunately it also let her mind wander—straight to the intruder.
Holt had asked more questions as soon as they were alone in the garden but none that she hadn't already tried to answer herself as she lay awake beside a softly snoring Bessie. Who would break into Stoneleigh and why? It didn't make sense. They had nothing to steal except for their marmalades and succades, and they needed a cart and horse to move them. Besides, the jars were in the stables and any thief would search the outbuildings first before venturing into the house. So it had to be someone who didn't know the situation at Stoneleigh. A stranger. She'd told Holt so. He'd simply nodded and set to work.
Holt. Orlando. He'd woken something within her last night outside her bedchamber, something she'd thought dormant. His simple kiss of her hand made her skin feel like it was on fire. Her heart had never thumped so hard or so loud. Then later, after the intruder left, she'd wanted to sink into Holt's strength and feel it envelop her, keep her safe. To be held by such a man...to make love to him...
She shuddered despite the warmth of the sun on her back. The emotions he'd triggered alarmed her. She'd tried so hard to bury that side of herself. In the light of day, she thanked God she'd been strong enough to walk away from Holt despite every part of her body begging for him. He was not a man she wanted to know intimately.
He suddenly looked up as if he knew she was watching. He didn't smile, didn't wink or do any of those flirtatious things she'd come to expect from him, but simply looked, as if he was trying to see into her.
She wrenched a particularly tough weed out and threw it onto the growing pile of uprooted ones. She forced herself to think about something other than Holt or the intruder, and planned the formal garden directly in front of the house instead. Come spring, she could plant lavender and roses. They smelled divine when in bloom and their flowers were so pretty. The formal garden had been neglected since her father let the gardeners go but Susanna wanted to restore it to its former beauty. Hopefully she would soon secure a buyer for the succades and marmalades and there'd be money to spare for plants.
"Let me help you with that," said Holt.
At first Susanna thought he was speaking to her, but when she turned, she saw him approach Hendricks who struggled with a heavy chair.
"Mr. Farley wishes to sit in the sun and watch you work," Hendricks said to Susanna, ignoring Holt even as the gardener took the chair off him.
"Set it near the oranges," she said. "That's his favorite spot."
"How will he get out here?" Holt asked, setting the chair down.
"I'll help him walk," Hendricks said.
"Allow me."
"I can do it."
"You both can," Susanna said. Honestly, men were worse than children sometimes.
They left together, and she continued weeding until they brought her father into the garden. He limped heavily and had one arm around Holt while Hendricks carried a blanket and cushion. The servant looked unhappy and took great pains to plump the cushion and arrange it on the chair.
"Ah," her father said, sitting. "The fresh air pleases me."
"The air is certainly fresh out here," Susanna said, placing the blanket across his lap. "Tell me when you get cold, and Mr. Holt will take you back inside."
He waved off her concern. "The sun is out. The sky is blue. It's a perfect autumn day."
Susanna glanced first at Holt then at Hendricks. They'd all agreed not to trouble her father about the intruder. There was no point upsetting him.
He fingered one of the orange tree leaves hanging near his head. "I do look forward to spring, my dear. It's my favorite time to sit here with the scent of the blossoms in the air to remind me of your mother. She always smelled of orange blossom." Longing clouded his eyes. He missed her mother. Theirs had been a love match. Being the second son and not meant to inherit, he'd been allowed more freedom than his older brother and chosen his own bride.
"What do orange blossoms smell like?" The deep, velvety tones of Holt's voice drew her attention.
"Like Heaven," her father murmured.
Holt regarded him with a curious expression.
"My mother added dried blossoms to her bathing water," Susanna said. "The scent is not like anything you've smelled before, I can assure you."
"You have a jar of dried blossoms, don't you?" her father asked. "To use for special occasions."
"I have. Not that I attend many special occasions these days." She dipped her head and hoped they didn't see her blush. She'd added the blossoms to her bathing water the night before because she missed their lovely scent. It had nothing to do with wanting to smell nice for anyone.
"You would attend events if you accepted more invitations," Farley grumbled.
Holt forked an eyebrow at her. She ignored him and tried to walk off but her father caught her hand. "Why don't you accept Lynden's invitations to dine? He's a good man. Not at all like his cousin."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Holt's other eyebrow join its mate. He watched her intently, waiting. Beside him, Hendricks shifted awkwardly and glanced from her father to Holt to her. The poor man wasn't sure what to do or say.
"I have no desire to travel all the way to Sutton Hall in the middle of the day," she said. "I have too much to do here and I'd rather stay with you."
"You don't dine with me," Farley said huffily, "you eat with the servants. Now that you have Holt to help, you can take some time away from the garden to pay your respects to Lynden. He's our neighbor and your kin by marriage, and we are dependent on his goodwill to a certain extent, and that of Cowdrey. Indeed I urge you most insistently to pay attention to Farmer Cowdrey. He may not be as witty as...other men, but he too is a good man and earnest."
At times like these, she thought there was nothing wrong with her father's mind. It could be as sharp as ever. He knew exactly how desperate their situation was or he would not be suggesting she encourage Walter Cowdrey in his attentions. He knew she didn't want to marry again, and he'd told her he respected her choice, but it was clear that he didn't like it. Just how much he was prepared to argue with her over it was not something she wanted to discover in front of the servants.
"Father, can we discuss this another time please. When we're alone."
He waved a hand at Holt and Hendricks. "Back to work, both of you."
Hendricks left and Holt returned to his pocket of garden but stole glances at Susanna. She knew because she faced him and couldn't stop looking up from her task of weeding. His mouth tilted in a lazy smile but she knew his mind was mulling over the conversation she'd had with her father. No doubt he was wondering why the mistress of Stoneleigh refused to court Cowdrey when she was still of childbearing age. Walter might be a step or two down in status for a baroness, but his wealth made up for his lack of position in the eyes of the world.
Let him wonder. It was none of Holt's business. And she hated talking about the past anyway. Her marriages in all their disastrous glory were buried along with her husbands, and that's how she wanted it to stay.
"There'll be a good crop this year," her father said some time later. Susanna thought he'd fallen asleep but he seemed lucid and alert. "Is everything in place for the shelter? If it stays this clear you'll need to secure the canvases over the trees tonight."
She smiled at him. He still loved the trees, still cared for them. He would until the day he died, if only because his wife had loved them so. "You're right," she said, coming to stand beside him. She pressed her hand to her aching back and stretched. "If you're here for supper, Mr. Holt, perhaps you can help me throw the canvases over the trees. It's not an easy job to do on my own."
"I'll be here," he said, carrying a box filled with w
eeds over to them. "I think I'll head into the village this afternoon, if that's all right with you, m'lady."
"Of course. I told you to take the afternoons off. Indeed, I feel guilty if you don't. We're not paying you enough to stay here and work all day."
"Why aren't we paying him?" her father asked, blinking up at her. He looked tired. It was time to return him inside for his dinner and a nap.
"We can't afford to," she said.
"Oh. Pity." He indicated the patch Holt had weeded. It was clean and much larger than her own. "I hope you can stay until the spring, Holt. There's so much to do in the spring, isn't there, my dear."
"Yes, Father. Now, I think it's time for you to go inside. Mr. Holt, do you mind?"
Holt put the box of weeds down and, instead of helping her father to stand, picked him up bodily and carried him out of the garden. Susanna tried to pick up the chair, but it was large and awkward and far too heavy for her to carry all the way back to the house. She packed away the gardening things and a few minutes later Holt returned and took the chair.
"Tell me more about Sir Francis Carew's orange trees," he said suddenly. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that was not one of them. "You said he builds a structure over them to protect them. How big is it? What's it made of?"
"It's like a small barn, I suppose, but it can be removed in the warmer months. Three of its walls are wooden and the fourth is the brick wall of the garden. The top is open except on cold nights and wintry days when he covers them with a wooden roof. He followed a design drawn up by our French supplier. I sent off for it too but haven't built it yet. You see, orange trees can go without sunlight for some time, so it doesn't matter if they are protected in this way for several days during particularly bad weather."
He nodded. "It sounds like a good method."
She sighed. "It's the best we have."
"Is it not good enough?"
"A milder climate would be better, particularly as we get more trees. That wall is the best spot for them, but I can't fit many more plants along it."
"I can't do anything about the weather," he said, chuckling.
"Or the wall."
"Where will you get more trees? Buy them?"
"I can't afford to buy more. I want to graft them. It's easy enough to do, according to the Frenchman who sold Mama and Sir Francis the saplings. But I have nowhere to shelter them. I need to build something out here to protect them. It's the bane of enterprise, Mr. Holt. You cannot be prosperous unless you have a lot of product to sell, but you won't get a lot of product if you can't afford to invest in them. Does that make sense?"
His smile set off his two boyish dimples. "I think my poor gardener's brain can wrap around the concept."
She winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you're dull-witted." He may be a servant and ignorant about orange trees, but she shouldn't have assumed he was stupid. Her other three servants certainly weren't.
He hefted the chair and she tried not to stare at the way his muscles in his arms bulged. "Why can't you build a moveable barn like Carew? You said you have the plans."
"We have no money for materials or labor."
"What about me? I can build it."
"You'll be leaving soon. A structure big enough to cover all the orange trees would take weeks to build."
"Hmm," he said, and together they went into the house.
