Amelia pushed open the conservatory’s glass door and inhaled the familiar humid air laced with the scent of sodden soil and damp vegetation. Over the past three days everywhere she looked—everything she touched—emphasized the magnitude of her loss. Here under the tutelage of Woodward, she’d learned how to grow tropical shrubs, luscious ferns, and colorful flowers—triumphs against the frigid Minnesota winter and the searing summer sun.
After filling her watering can with rain water from the outside barrel, she sprinkled the rows of terra-cotta pots holding the sorghum seedlings. Another week and they would be ready to plant out in a special plot reserved for testing different varieties of sorghum to see which had the shorter growing period and which were more resistant to pests, drought, and other adversities.
She’d spent years studying under Woodward, and then when he deemed she was ready, she began her own research of developing and breeding sorghum plants. If she left, what would happen to her research? Her plants?
As she watered, the seedlings blurred before her eyes, and soon her tears were sliding down her cheeks in accompaniment to the gently flowing water from her spout.
Perhaps the new heir would allow Woodward to continue her work after she left. Sniffling, she moved to the next row.
Years of selective plant breeding—which could benefit the whole Minnesota sorghum industry—were on the verge of being lost. Was there nothing she could do? No, that was the wrong attitude. There must be something she could do. But what? Who would be interested?
The crunch of footsteps on the walkway leading to the conservatory drew her attention. Through the condensation coating the window, she made out the form of the man she least wanted to see on this weepy morning. He said he’d be out in a couple of days. When those had passed without his presence, she prayed he’d gone back to Chicago. His visit could only mean more disappointment.
On impulse she hid behind some five-feet-high palm fronds.
He reached the door and entered without knocking, his eyes darting straight to her location as if he’d spotted her black clothing on his way up the walk. “Good morning, Miss Cord. Your butler said I would find you puttering out here.”
She bristled. Emerging from her sheltered spot, she reached for her watering can. “Please give me the courtesy of using Miss Robertson, the name my father introduced me as and one I’ve used my entire life. As for the puttering, I don’t consider botanical research puttering, but perhaps to someone who spends his day with books it may seem like that.”
“I see.” He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her. A few minutes later, he wandered off to explore her favorite place on earth.
She kept a wary eye on him, holding her breath every time he fondled a leaf or bent to get a closer look. He even whiffed two different orchids before completing the circuitous path and returning to her side.
“Do you have an affinity to plants, Mr. Moore?” Knowing his level of botanical experience would tell her how far she could plead her case concerning her eviction date.
“Only when they please one of the lovely recipients of my floral tributes.”
His what? She stood her watering can upright so she wouldn’t drown something while being distracted and took a really good look at Moore. He’d pushed his hat back so that two inches of wavy dark hair framed his forehead. The sunlight flowing through the glass panes showed soft brown eyes that reminded her of cattails in July.
His eyes widened as he grinned.
She tried to recall his last sentence and failed.
“Ladies, Miss Cord. I give flowers to ladies.”
Feeling as if her face was on fire, she turned back to the seedlings, thankful she had something to look at besides him.
“So you’re a botanist.” He gestured to her potting table with its special shelves for books and drawers for her botany laboratory instruments.
“Not officially, but Woodward, the estate’s groundskeeper, studied in England and I’ve studied under him. These sorghum seedlings, for instance”—she gestured to the seedlings—“they are the result of several years’ worth of research, records, and plant breeding.”
“It looks like grass.”
“Most grains start out looking that way and then they take on the characteristics of their variety as they grow. These stakes”—she pointed to the small pieces of wood at the beginning of each row—“are marked with the name of their parent strains. We plant out the seedlings, tend them, harvest them, and evaluate them. In the spring I’ll choose strains with particular superior traits and breed them with other strains. The resulting seedlings will be grown in our test plot next year.”
“I see.” He dropped his gaze to where his finger tapped the closest wooden stake.
What had she said that changed his features from interest to something indiscernible? Ah … there wouldn’t be a next year. A heavy feeling pushed against her chest. There probably wouldn’t even be a harvest. Would these seedlings even leave the conservatory?
She summoned her courage from a place deep inside. “What are your plans for the conservatory, Mr. Moore?”
In the silence that followed, she held her breath, trying to be ready for whatever action he announced.
Instead of answering, Jeremy sauntered over to where he’d seen a tray of funny-looking cactus plants, some with a huge red ball, and others with a yellow ball on top. If it hadn’t been for the pricks, he wouldn’t have recognized them as cactus. There wasn’t a lot he did recognize in the glass-enclosed structure where greenery and flowers hung from the ironworks and filled every bit of floor space that wasn’t taken by the walkway or the furniture.
He had seen engravings of tall palm trees, but these ones—like the one she had tried to hide behind—were perfect as a background feature for her wicker chairs and table. If his visit were purely social instead of for business reasons, he thought he would enjoy a moment to sit among the beautiful surroundings without having to think about who owned what.
Abruptly, he headed to the door. What had he been thinking? Wicker and tea among the flowers and trees? How Winston would laugh if he heard such a thing. Jeremy’s ears burned at the thought.
He paused at the door. “Tea will be served in the study, Miss Cord. Please join me there.”
He closed the door firmly behind him and then followed the walkway to the house. He didn’t need to see her face to imagine the shock she must have felt at his implicit request that she join him for tea in her own home. But it wasn’t her home any longer and she needed to get used to the idea.
As the twin peaked turrets of the Robertson mansion caught his eye, his chest tightened. As Henry Robertson’s daughter, Miss Cord had led a life as sheltered as any royal princess. Without the social status that Robertson’s life afforded, she would be just another person on the street looking for work. Would she survive or succumb? When his swallow didn’t clear away the taste in his mouth, he increased his pace.
At the house he strode through the foyer as if he’d lived there for years, and yet his first entrance had only been minutes before when he had informed the butler of the change in ownership before being directed to the conservatory.
The butler followed him. “Mr. Moore, Miss Amelia hasn’t—”
Jeremy whipped around to face him. “No, she probably didn’t. Bring in the tea and I’ll see that she does.”
The butler puffed out his chest like a grouse trying to scare the competition off.
As Jeremy strode down the corridor, he realized that the home was probably the butler’s as well. Back in Chicago, most of the employees in the big houses were day staff who went to their own homes in the evenings. Out here in the backwoods though, where would they go unless they wanted to make the long trip to town each day and night?
Having to room and board the staff would explain the reasoning behind the huge three-story house Henry Robertson had built on his estate. Winston might even let them all stay once Miss Cord was gone.
Yet as he stood in the study before the multipaned glass door that led out to the side veranda, Jeremy suspected that Winston’s hatred for Robertson had deepened to such an extent over the years that even the staff would be ordered out because they had served to make his life comfortable.
He crossed his arms at thoughts of Winston. The man had taken him in because he’d wanted his mother, and then treated Jeremy as fair as any son. It used to rankle Jeremy that Winston hadn’t married his mother or legally adopted him, but the more Jeremy learned of the law, the more he understood how signatures placed on a poorly written document could be detrimental to a person’s financial status. Having lived on the street once, Jeremy wasn’t about to try it again and could well understand Winston’s reluctance to take that chance with him.
The bitterness returned to his mouth at the sound of a door closing. As footsteps approached, he told himself that putting Amelia Cord out onto the street had to be done for Winston’s sake. With her connections though, it wouldn’t be the same as what his mother had experienced.
Amelia Cord strode through the open study door with her eyes blazing. “Mr. Moore, you take unwelcome liberties with my staff.”
Jeremy tapped his chest pocket to locate his pen. His loyalty lay with Winston. No matter how Amelia affected him, he needed to remember that.
“Tea, Miss Cord?” He held the silver teapot over a dainty porcelain cup as if it were a natural occurrence that he should be pouring tea in her father’s study.
She stopped before a pair of leather-tufted wing chairs strategically placed in front of the large walnut desk.
Jeremy poured tea into a cup, aware of her fists hanging down the sides of her dress in his peripheral vision but choosing to ignore her display of emotions. With one cup filled he started on the next.
“Yes, with honey,” she huffed. She dropped into one of the chairs and crossed her arms. Within moments, she uncrossed them and placed her hands on the chair arms where her fingers curled over the edge until they stopped on worn spots on the leather—spots perfectly fitted to her fingertips as if she’d performed the same action a hundred times or more.
As Jeremy set the teapot down, the glint of his silver pen bolstered him. She may have sat here and spent time with Robertson, but he was the one in control of the teapot and they both knew it.
With his saucer in hand, he sat beside her in the matching chair. Although he would have felt more authoritative sitting across the desk from her, he wanted her guard down so they could discuss the unpleasant details of the case without emotions—and tears—getting in the way.
“Miss Cord, as I sit in this room and look at all the books, I can’t help but wonder if you’ve flipped through every one in the search for your father’s will.”
Her cup rattled as she set it on the saucer. “We’ve been over the entire house twice, shaking and checking behind and under everything movable. Short of tearing up the floor or pulling the walls down, I don’t know where else to look.”
“I see.” He sipped his tea. How was he supposed to evict her when she looked at him with sky-blue eyes filled with concern? Her eyes had been the first thing he thought of when he had woken during the night with the case on his mind, and that wasn’t going to work at all.
She looked around Robertson’s study as if allowing her memories free rein. “I don’t understand why Father didn’t leave a will.” Her deep chest-heaving sigh jumped the wall he was trying to build around his heart. He wanted to embrace her and reassure her that all would be fine.
Her sky-blue eyes found him. “You mentioned an heir. Please explain how that is possible.”
His dreamy state shattered. He rose and set his cup and saucer on the service tray. Deciding that he needed the security of a desk to play the part of an attorney, he sat in Henry Robertson’s large wooden chair where brass tacks held down the russet-colored leather and displayed the fine craftsmanship of the piece. Another item to add to his report and one more item for Winston to hate. He had a suspicion that Winston would rather burn everything than sell it, but that would mean a financial loss and Winston didn’t like losing money.
Amelia leaned forward in her seat. “Mr. Moore? Who inherits instead of me?”
He tapped his pen against the desk. “Since no will has been found, your father’s only legal heir, Mr. Winston Kent of Chicago, inherits everything.”
“And who is Mr. Kent?” She raised her chin.
“Your father’s heir,” he said, merely to test her mettle now that her pluck had returned.
It seemed she didn’t wish to be tested. She rose and put her cup and saucer down hard on the service tray so that the cup clinked with abandon as it settled.
He raised his finger. “Careful, that’s no longer yours.”
He almost ducked from the glare she threw him, thankful she hadn’t reached for a dish. Standing, he tugged his vest down. “If you’ve finished, I would like you to give me a tour.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s necessary for my report.”
“But we haven’t discussed why Mr. Kent is the heir.”
“I understand the mill is down the road. Why don’t I explain on the way over?”