SO HE WASN’T going to be making gold anytime soon. Their minds muddled by several more ales, Ford and Rand had concluded that didn’t mean he had to give up on marrying Violet. All he had to do was convince her he loved her, not her money, which shouldn’t be an impossible task.
First, they decided, he had to keep showing her how he felt. He’d made a good start there, Ford declared in a drunken boast. Enough stolen kisses ought to eventually wear her down. It was only a matter of time before he became part of her the same way she had become part of him.
Rand groaned at that sentimental slop and ordered another round.
Second, Ford would change his priorities, put managing the estate first and relegate his science to a hobby. He’d already decided he was willing to do that and told both Violet and her mother as much. And it was infinitely more palatable than the alternative, which was losing Violet.
Love changed a man.
Of course, it would be a good while before the estate earned an income sufficient to pay off all the debts, but in the meantime, Ford and Rand had reasoned, if he fixed up Lakefield, it wouldn’t keep reminding Violet of his temporary lack of finances.
Which was why he was now outside, hacking away at his garden.
Hilda approached, bearing a tankard of fresh lemonade.
“A gift from heaven.” He thunked his ax into the ground and held the cold drink against his forehead.
Hilda settled her hands on her wide hips. “Just what do you think you’re doing out here?”
“Cleaning up.” He gulped greedily. “Then I’ll plant.”
“Plant what?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll think about that when I get there.” He knew zero about plants, other than what some of them looked like extremely close up, thanks to Micrographia.
She eyed a ladder propped against the wall. “Are you planning to plant vines?”
“Excellent idea.” He sipped again, letting the sweet coolness flow down his throat. “That would save me from painting, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re going to paint, too?”
“That’s the plan. I sent Harry off for paint. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Since when does Harry tell me anything?” She took the empty tankard from his hand. “What was the ladder for, then?”
“I tried to fix the roof.” Turning away, he lifted the ax. “If you wouldn’t mind going into the laboratory—”
“Into your private domain?” She laid a hand on her pillowy bosom. “Be still my heart.”
“—you may find some foreign matter has fallen from above.” He whacked at an overgrown bush. Or vine. He wasn’t sure which, but he was fairly certain the thing wouldn’t be termed a tree. “I’m going to have to ask Harry to find a roofer.” He whacked again, then turned sharply when he heard a chortle. “Are you laughing at me, Hilda?”
“Of course not, milord. That would be terribly disrespectful, wouldn’t it?” She cleared her throat. “You know, some of that may be salvageable if you prune it instead of killing it.”
He ran a grubby hand back through his hair. “Is that so? I had no idea you were knowledgeable about vegetation. Perhaps you could—”
“I most certainly could not.” She drew herself up to her full height of five feet. “I’m a housekeeper, not a gardener. It’s dirty work, that is.”
It certainly was, if the state of his clothing was any indication. Deciding he’d done as much to destroy that plant as possible, he moved to the next one.
“Why are you limping?” Hilda’s eyes narrowed. “Your breeches are torn.”
He started to wave the ax in a dismissive gesture, then changed his mind and lowered it. He was reasonably proficient with a sword, but an ax was another matter. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just scratched myself a bit up on the roof.”
“Fell through, you mean, do you not?”
On second thought, if his housekeeper failed to curb her tongue, the ax could come in handy. His hand tightened on the hilt. Or the grip. Or whatever one called the wooden part of an ax. “Perhaps my foot did slip. I told you there might be foreign matter in the laboratory that needs to be cleared away.”
“Well, I hope your blood isn’t mixed with it. That’ll stain the floor.” Shaking her head, she walked away, leaving him in peace at last.
As soon as she disappeared around the corner, he plopped onto a stone bench, swiping a hand across his brow. He eyed his handiwork.
He’d been chopping away for nigh on four hours, and the job looked bigger than when he’d started.