14 14Dear Miss Babcock—
Please accept our apologies on behalf of Sir Kingsley. However, he has discovered a conflict and cannot attend your scheduled meeting on Saturday the 21st. We humbly ask your indulgence to postpone the engagement until the afternoon of Sunday the 22nd. Please forgive this imposition, and if you are amenable, we shall see you on Sunday.
Sincerely,
The Hortacultural Society of London
Margaret moved the pot with the rosemary cutting for the fifth time that day, trying to find the correct amount of light to let it thrive. So far, it was the only one of her herbs that was proving finicky, which was odd, since rosemary was usually heartier and able to grow in a variety of settings.
Her mother would say that the cutting just needed time. Well, Margaret didn’t have time.
Although she had more time than she had thought she would since she received the letter from the Horticultural Society.
The change of plans did not affect her much—at least beyond a vague sense of disappointment. She had gotten the conservatory and herself as ready as possible. After her talk with Rhys in the garden a few evenings ago, she had taken his advice and told Phoebe that she wanted a few days without social obligations so she could work. Phoebe was understanding, if a little harried, writing notes to all the hostesses they would be disappointing. Sylvia’s reaction was a bit more surprising.
“Of course you want to do your work! I’m terribly sorry if I have been monopolizing you!” she said. Then she eyed the piles of soil Margaret was busy turning. “Er . . . is there anything I can do to help?”
After assuring Sylvia that she was under no obligation to assist, the girl went off, saying something about spending the next few days entertaining her little sister. And Margaret was free to breathe in the joy of a hard day’s labor.
Couches were moved and stands arranged in the conservatory. Frederick himself washed the windows, with Margaret over his shoulder observing and making helpful suggestions the entire time. At least, she thought they were helpful. Frederick’s grumblings perhaps suggested otherwise.
She took a cutting of the vine that had grown wild along the garden wall, potted it, and hung it in the sun until it began to flower in perfect little bells of white. She turned the earth in the garden beds along the wall, giving air to the packed hard soil. Then she spread her fertilizer over everything, not just her roses.
And oh, the roses. After two days of coaxing and hoping and wishing, there were new buds beginning on their branches! She had a heart-stopping moment when the temperature dropped the night before, and feared the roses, still not fully used to London and their roots not twined as deep as they needed to be, would huddle back into themselves, forgoing another bloom until next spring.
But no—her hybrid China roses remained hearty. Not just hearty—they thrived.
And somehow, Margaret had always known they would. It was as if all the worry and all the preparation had been worth the risk. Because here they were, her roses and herself, in the middle of a London house’s garden, and completely fine.
She would have to thank Rhys, she thought, wiping her hands on the legs of her trousers. The planned trip to Greenwich had buoyed her while she worked to bring the conservatory and gardens up to her standards. It had been a secret ball of happiness, glowing just beneath her ribs, knowing that she would have such an event in the future. Indeed, the disappointment in knowing that her meeting with Sir Kingsley would be delayed was partially due to the fact that it meant the trip to Greenwich would be delayed too.
Suddenly, her mind stumbled back to the way Rhys had looked at her in the garden in the moonlight as he proposed his Greenwich scheme. There had been so much hope in his face. In the way he’d leaned into her. The way his hand had fallen on hers.
What’s the worst that could happen?
She had felt a shiver run down her spine when he’d said those words. And a reckless thought had come unbidden into her head. Nothing, it said. Absolutely nothing bad could happen. Not as long as she was with Rhys.
She’d hoped he’d received her letter. She’d sent it as soon as she received the note from the Horticultural Society. It was funny, but she assumed the missive would have been sent to him, not herself. And she assumed they would know how to spell the word Horticultural.
But these worries were far, far at the back of her mind, as she and Frederick endeavored to move a large tub Margaret had located in the cellar into the proper position under the garden wall.
“But, miss—this is a bathing tub!” Frederick had said, appalled.
“One with holes rusted into the bottom,” she’d replied. “Which means it will never bathe another person again, but makes it ideal for what, Frederick?”
“Drainage, miss?” Frederick said.
“Very good!” she said. Perhaps Frederick could be made into a decent gardener after all. Although the fact that she had to teach him about drainage at all was a worry she would not think too hard on. No, only positive, good, garden-type thoughts today.
They had positioned the tub in a corner of the garden, next to the wall where an old dead vine had recently been removed, leaving a horrid blank space. A bit of whimsy tucked into a nook of a grand and impressive house. She had the feeling Phoebe would appreciate it, and Lord Ashby would . . . likely never even notice. Margaret had grand plans for that tub, with a potted miniature orange tree that could be brought indoors in the less temperate months, but at that moment they were merely preparing the soil in the tub.
And so it was that Margaret was elbows deep in a mixture that was more manure than not when Phoebe ran out to her, the baby on her hip and Rhys on her heels.
“Margaret! Oh goodness! You are not ready?”
“Ready?” Margaret asked, standing up. “Ready for what?”
“Your meeting, of course!” Phoebe said, her eyes practically popping out of her head. “Sir Kingsley is here!”
“What?” Margaret looked from Phoebe to Rhys. “The Horticultural Society? Here? Now?”
“Did you forget the day?” Rhys asked, a look of concern furrowing his brow.
“No, I received a letter this morning postponing it,” Margaret replied. She fished in her pocket and brought out the letter in question. “See?”
Rhys eyed the letter briefly. “Perhaps there was some mix-up with the society?” he muttered to himself, flipping the page over, looking for more (sadly nonexistent) clues.
“That hardly matters now, Rhys,” Phoebe was saying. “Because you’ve left Sir Kingsley and his fellows in the drawing room admiring the tea cups, when they are chomping at the bit to admire the roses.”
“They said that?” Margaret asked, a thrill running through her chest.
“Yes,” Rhys said grimly. “Rather in the context of how they wanted to get this over with, but—”
“Rhys!” Phoebe exclaimed, swatting at his arm. This caused the baby to giggle and drool through his two teeth. “You cannot tell her that!”
“It’s best she know the truth,” he countered.
“Yes, it’s best that she does,” Margaret said dryly. “I have no illusions that I am a welcome addition to Sir Kingsley’s day.”
“Well, the truth is Sir Kingsley and two other Horticultural Society gentlemen are looking at the clock on the mantel in the drawing room, wondering just how long this will take,” Phoebe said. “And you are covered to your elbows in dirt from . . . is that a bathtub?”
“It’s not dirt,” Frederick piped up. “It’s a specific mixture of soil and minerals to promote the growth of citrus plants.”
“Very good, Frederick!” Margaret beamed at him, and Frederick grinned with pleasure.
“Yes, Frederick, your trade is improving immensely.” Rhys nodded at they boy. “However, I think Phoebe’s fears are that you will not be able to bathe, change your outfit, and clean up the garden before Sir Kingsley has to attend to his next appointment.”
“His appointment with his lunch,” Phoebe muttered.
“Margaret, what do you wish to do?” Rhys asked her, stepping forward and putting a hand on her arm. “We can ask Sir Kingsley if he would be willing to reschedule.”
Margaret looked at Rhys, then to Phoebe, and then Frederick. They were all watching her, waiting for a decision.
On the one hand, she felt completely taken aback. She was prepared, yes . . . but not as prepared as she could be. Not as prepared as she would have been had she not been misinformed about the day. Surely she should try to put her best foot forward, yes?
On the other hand, she had come to London to meet with the Horticultural Society. That was it. And considering all the trouble Rhys had gone to to make this happen . . . she could not ask any more of him.
“There is no need for all that,” Margaret said, taking a deep breath. “They are here to see the roses. And the roses, at least, are ready to be shown.”
“Are you certain?” Rhys asked.
“Of course,” she said with a shaky smile. “If the Horticultural Society cannot handle a little dirt, then they are hardly worthy of the name.”
Rhys nodded and returned her smile with one that gave her strength.
“In that case, I will be right back with our guests.”
As Rhys disappeared through the conservatory doors, Margaret darted to a pail of water and a rag, and began to wash her hands.
“It will be fine,” Phoebe was saying, shifting the baby from one shoulder to the other. “You will present the roses, and we will say the tub is there for . . . Frederick, because he needs to bathe. And of course they will be utterly charmed by you, how could they not be? And it—”
Suddenly, Phoebe stopped talking. Margaret glanced at her. She was looking down toward Margaret’s feet. Then, when she brought her head up, her face was stark white. “Good God, Margaret, I didn’t even think! You cannot receive Sir Kingsley!”
“Why not?” she asked, bewildered.
“Because . . . You’re wearing trousers!”
Margaret froze. She wore her trousers all the time when working; of course she put them on today. No one minded—Phoebe and Lord Ashby had blinked a few times but gotten used to it. Frederick had stopped blushing like a schoolboy. Even Rhys took no notice of it. But lord knew, Sir Kingsley was not likely to be so willfully blind.
And judging by the look on his face as he stood in the conservatory doorway, he most certainly had the gift of sight.
“Too late now,” Margaret whispered. “Come now, what’s the worst that could happen?”
She said it to herself, almost like a prayer. Then, pasting a nervous smile on her face, she took every lesson she had learned from the past few weeks of being in London and greeted their guests.
“Sir Kingsley,” she said. “Gentlemen. An honor to meet you all.”
There was no reason for the morning to go as well as it did. Considering the way Sir Kingsley’s eyes were about to pop out of his head upon seeing Margaret’s trousers, Rhys would not have been surprised if he turned around on his heel and ran as far as his feet would carry him. And perhaps he’d considered it. Perhaps he’d even tried. But Sir Kingsley was not particularly quick on his feet.
“Miss Babcock, I presume,” he said as he came forward. He was a large man, nearly as wide as he was tall—and he was rather tall indeed. An imposing presence in Horticultural Society meetings no doubt, but he leaned so heavily on his spindly cane it’s a wonder it didn’t snap in half. But Rhys knew the truth—as overwhelming as the man could be, he was as gregarious and open as Margaret’s own father. And possibly Margaret saw the resemblance, because she managed to extend her hand and dip to a curtsy without the least bit of nervousness.
The gentlemen with him, however, were less warm. The entire ride over to Ashby’s, the only thing they had remarked on was how they hoped this would be a visit of short duration. Now, of course, they both had their eyes popping out of their heads.
“Er, Miss Babcock,” ventured Mr. Coddington, who had a blinkered face that was eerily reminiscent of a codfish, and thus Rhys was able to keep him straight from the other gentleman, Mr. Swindon. “Do you perhaps wish to excuse yourself to . . . Erm, that is, your wardrobe . . .”
Coddington blushed profusely as Rhys’s blood shot to his ears. He was in the act of raising his foot to step into the fray when a hand landed gently on his arm.
Phoebe met his eyes, and she gave the slightest shake of her head.
“Thank you, Mr. Coddington, for stating the obvious,” Margaret said, one corner of her mouth coming up. “If you hadn’t, I was afraid you gentlemen would spend the morning with your eyes on the clouds above to avoid a chance sighting of my ankles.”
Now it was Rhys’s turn to have his eyes bulge out of his head. Margaret had always been direct—in his opinion delightfully so—but the sparkle in her eye made her almost cheeky.
Perhaps she didn’t need his intervention after all.
“My wardrobe is exactly what I wear when I’m working,” she continued with a small shrug. “If you are of a mind that I would somehow be able to dig in the dirt and plant trees and shrubs and build trellises in a skirt, I would recommend you try it sometime.”
Mr. Coddington turned purple. Now Rhys—as a medical professional—stepped forward and slapped Coddington on the back, hard enough so he had to inhale to steady himself. “That’s better,” Rhys said. “A nice normal color. I was afraid you had swallowed your tongue.”
And Sir Kingsley gave a great harrumph of a laugh. Mr. Swindon, seeing Sir Kingsley’s reaction, erred on the side of safety and laughed along with him.
“My darling girl, if you’ve ever built a trellis, I would eat my hat,” Sir Kingsley said, holding his arm out to her.
“Sir Kingsley, I hope your hat is well salted, because I have in fact built a trellis,” she replied. “It’s in my greenhouse at my home in Lincolnshire, and I hammered my thumb more times than I can count in the construction.”
Rhys didn’t know where this confidence, this forthrightness, was coming from, but it was a sight to see. To his mind, Margaret should for all the world be monumentally uncomfortable appearing in her work trousers in front of these men. But then again, perhaps it was the trousers. She was comfortable. There was no hiding, so there could be no worrying about how she was presented. The only person she had to be was herself.
It was glorious.
She was glorious.
Sir Kingsley laughed again, and then he said, “Well, girl. Show me these roses I’ve heard so much about. Dr. Gray told me of them every time he came to visit for the last six months.”
“To visit?” Margaret said, turning her head to look back at Rhys. He put his hands behind his back, and suddenly became very interested in a lavender shrub by his feet. “I thought you met Dr. Gray when you were a visiting lecturer at Greenwich.”
“I did,” he said, looking up at her from under his lashes.
“And when he heard me speak, he knew I had spent the last several weeks with a cough that wouldn’t go away. He began to treat me after that—and treat me to tales of you and your roses.” He leaned in close. “He’s a very determined sort, for so quiet a fellow.”
“So I’ve observed,” she said, and gave a soft glance at Rhys.
Pride ran through him like a stampede, flooding his limbs. Then something else—something driven just by the look in her eyes.
“It’s a terribly far walk to the roses I’m afraid, all the way to the other side of the garden,” she said to Sir Kingsley, only babbling slightly. “But time flies when one is in good company, or so my father often says. And look, here we are!”
She steered him over to where the rose bushes had been planted, along the garden wall. There they stood, new buds willing their way forward. No rot. No caterpillars had taken so much as a nibble of the leaves. Rhys could practically hear her heart thudding in her chest. These plants represented the work of years. The work of both herself and her mother. And now they were being seen by someone who would finally recognize their worth.
Or perhaps not.
“Oh,” Sir Kingsley said, cocking his head to the side. “Er . . . Is that it, then?”
Margaret’s smile fell as she crossed her arms over her body, folding in on herself.
“Yes,” she said, her voice smaller than before. “These are my roses.”
“You’ll have to forgive me, my dear, but I assumed they’d be a bit more . . . impressive.”
“Yes,” said Coddington, stepping forward with his fish face and planting it mere inches from the closest rose bush. Margaret started when he took one leaf and rubbed it between his fingers, snapping it off. “It is a China rose, to be sure. But we have several of them in our hothouse.”
“But . . . you’ll notice these are not in a hothouse,” Margaret tried to reply.
“And the blooms are rather small,” Coddington continued, without paying heed.
“Quite right,” said Swindon, obviously feeling he had to contribute something to the conversation. “And this late in the year too.”
The looks on all three men’s faces—Coddington, bored; Kingsley, pitying; and Swindon, an amalgam of the two—did not bode well for the roses or for Margaret. Rhys almost stepped forward again, lent his support. But he remembered the hand that had landed on his arm before, and its meaning.
He had to let her do this.
Margaret took a deep breath and launched into a speech she had no doubt been practicing since the moment she decided to come to London.
“As . . . as you know, the benefit of the China rose is that they rebloom several times during the summer, giving one a flowering garden for months, not just the few weeks that our ordinary English roses give.”
“Our roses are not ordinary!” Coddington cried, his expression crashing down into a frown. “English roses are the staple of the garden! I have developed and bred almost a dozen varieties of English rose myself.”
“Yes,” Sir Kingsley agreed. “I brought Coddington along because he is the Horticultural Society’s leading authority on roses.”
“Of . . . of course,” Margaret said. “I did not mean to imply that English roses were in any way ordinary. But you have to admit, they are limited, having only one bloom.”
“What you call a limitation I call a natural survival instinct. Roses cannot flower in the edges of the season. They are not hearty enough.” Coddington veritably sneered. “And the fact that I have to explain this to you is a rather dull use of my time.”
“Yes!” Margaret agreed. “I mean, no, you don’t need to explain it to me. Which is why I have spent years—as did my mother, before she passed—learning to hybridize roses. I collected the pollen from my China rose, and used it to seed an ordinary . . . I mean, a traditional hearty English rose. And voilà!”
“Voilà?” Coddington sniffed. “You obviously don’t know very much about hybridizing roses, if you think it ends with a ‘voilà.’ ”
“Yes, my dear,” Swindon said, an echo of condescension. “Surely you realize there is more to hybridizing than seeding a rose and hoping for the best.”
“Obviously she doesn’t,” Coddington muttered.
Rhys thought for the briefest moments that they were done for. And he wanted to run over to her and take her away. Make her safe and unscrutinized. The hardest thing he had ever done was stand still.
Then, he saw it. That spark in her eye that gave him a jolt down his spine.
Watch this, he thought.
“Actually, there is not much more than that,” she said, blinking innocently. “Oh, of course there is the collection of the pollen from the China rose, the preparing of the seed parent bloom on the English rose by removing all the petals and delicately removing all the pollen sacs lest there be cross-contamination. Then of course the pollination—I like to pollinate at least once a day for three days, but I’m sure you have your own methods. Then waiting four months for the rose hips to mature. Then collecting and storing and then shelling the rose hips—have you ever used a serrated blade for shelling? I found it worked quite well. Then there is the planting, done in Lincolnshire in March after the first thaw; you really can’t wait any longer. But after that I can only tend their soil and give them water. I cannot force them to grow, and I cannot choose which traits they will have gotten from their parents, any more than a father can choose the sex or hair color of his child. At that point, it’s simply not up to us.”
Coddington gaped in a rather fishy manner. Swindon grunted and looked at the ground. Off to the side, Margaret glanced at Rhys grinning and Phoebe smothering a laugh by rocking the baby to sleep in her arms.
“Well, ah. Quite,” Coddington said. “Er . . . Sir Kingsley? You were saying?”
Sir Kingsley seemed jarred back to the present. “Oh, er . . . well, it certainly has the size of a China rose,” he said. “Pray, what are the characteristics it inherited from the English?”
“If any,” Coddington was quick to add.
“As I’ve said, these roses do not live in a hothouse. And look, they are blooming.”
Sir Kingsley peered out from under his hat, truly looking at the roses for possibly the first time.
“Er, yes they are, dear. A little late in the season if I’m not mistaken, though.”
“Quite late in the season,” Coddington sniffed. “No doubt they started when they were brought down south to more hospitable climes.”
“Perhaps,” Rhys said, unable to stop himself. “This is not the first bloom, but the second.”
“Oh.” Kingsley’s eyebrows went up. “That would be interesting.”
“I’m afraid, however, that this isn’t their second bloom of the year,” Margaret said, her face falling and taking Rhys’s with it.
“Ha!” came from somewhere in the vicinity of Coddington and Swindon; it was impossible to tell which.
“This is their third,” she said, and waited patiently for Coddington’s head to explode.
“Third?” he said. “But that’s . . .”
“Amazing?” Rhys finished for him. “Simply remarkable? Utterly fantastic?”
“All of the above,” Margaret said. “The buds began so early this year I was shocked—especially considering they were grown in Lincolnshire soil. We had frosts as recently as six weeks ago!”
“We had a frost too, didn’t we, Margaret?” Phoebe prompted. “Just last week.”
“A very chilly night, if I recall correctly,” Sir Kingsley added. “Are you telling me, Miss Babcock, that these rose bushes not only bloomed three times already this summer, but can survive the temperamental English climate?”
“So far, they have,” Margaret said, unable to hide a glowing smile. “They are hearty plants, sir, and eager to be seen.”
This began a many-sided discussion among the gentlemen of the Horticultural Society and Margaret about how this could change the state of the English garden, how they should present this find to the rest of the Horticultural Society—either in a paper or by having their codes broken and allowing a woman to present her findings—and what Margaret would be naming her hybrid China rose.
“I’ll have to think on that,” she said as the men surrounded her.
Not even Coddington could hide his enthusiasm anymore. “Tell me, in your process, how did you clean the seeds? I have always found that a thoroughly cleaned seed yields—”
It went on like this for several minutes—and would have gone on like this for several hours, if Phoebe had not interceded.
“Gentlemen, I was given to understand that you had another appointment after this?” she asked softly in deference to her sleeping son, but with enough steel to let them know she would not brook any opposition.
Of course, they tried to brook some opposition. “Er, yes. That is, it’s nothing important,” Coddington was saying.
“Only my son’s engagement luncheon,” Sir Kingsley added. “Surely they will not mind.”
“Your son may not, but your new daughter-in-law will be in tears, I’ve no doubt,” Phoebe said, steering the gentlemen toward the conservatory doors. “Come, I’m sure Miss Babcock would be happy to receive you tomorrow if you have any further questions . . .”
The moment the conservatory doors closed behind Phoebe and the gentlemen, Margaret burst into a squeal of delight.
“Oh my goodness! I had no idea I could do that!” she said, pressing a hand to her breast.
“I did. I knew you would be absolutely brilliant!” Rhys replied, grinning like a loon as he lifted her off her feet and spun her in a circle.
He was so thrilled—so damned proud—that he didn’t care that lifting and spinning Margaret wasn’t proper. It was right.
But when her feet finally met the ground again, she still held fast to his shoulders. She looked up into his eyes, and before he could comprehend it, she had pressed her lips to his.
Perhaps she hadn’t intended it to be anything other than a friendly kiss. Perhaps she hadn’t intended anything at all. But it was happening, and it was more than friendly. That, he knew for damned certain.
He knew she should let go. That he should put air between them, space. Several feet, if possible. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t move. And slowly his hands went from holding her still to clasping the back of her head, twining his fingers in her hair, loosing her braid.
His mouth opened, ever so slightly, giving him a true taste of her. She opened in kind, and pressed herself even closer. Her belly against his, her back arching into him.
One of Rhys’s hands left her hair, and drifted lower. Down her spine, to the small of her back, to where her trousers met her shirt.
And that was what did it. Those damnable trousers. At once so delightful, but reminding him of where he was. Forcing him back to now, and the cold realities of his life.
They both opened their eyes, stopped. Slowly, breathlessly, they drew back.
Then Rhys pulled his hands off her quickly—as if keeping them on any longer would leave him singed.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she said immediately as he took an unsteady step back. “I was just . . . excited. About my roses.”
“No,” he replied, forcing himself to keep his bearings. “I’m the one who should apologize. I was caught up in the events as well.”
“We both were,” she reasoned. “Yes. We both were overly enthusiastic about the way the visit went and . . . got confused.”
“Confused,” he repeated. Confused was not the word he would have used. Because like it or not, he had known exactly what they were doing.
“Yes,” she said, nodding fervently. “I was excited and it is all my fault, and could you please stop pacing now?”
He looked down, somewhat shocked to discover he had practically paced a hole in the grass. As if he had too much in him to not be moving in some way.
And if he wasn’t going to move toward her, he had to do something with all his feelings. The grass could take the beating.
But he did stop. He took two great deep breaths, straightened his coat, and turned to face her.
“I am the one to blame,” he said. “I should not have reacted so . . . enthusiastically. It was wrong, especially considering my responsibilities and . . .”
His voice trailed off, but he didn’t have to say it. He didn’t have to say her name.
Sylvia. His family. And what this would do to them.
“We can . . . we can simply forget that it ever happened,” Margaret said. And instantly something in him felt horrifically sad. Could she really forget that easily? Just . . . voilà?
“Yes,” he agreed with a short nod. “That is for the best.”
He gave a bow and reached out to take her hand. But then he stopped himself—because if he touched her now, he might not be able to let go.
“It will be forgotten entirely,” he said. And then he turned away and stalked to the conservatory doors, his footfalls thumping in time with his heartbeat.
It will be forgotten, he thought, just as soon as I figure out how.