The next day in the orchid house, Hyacinth kept her rubber bulb mister in her pocket, giving each plant a whisper of water and a compliment, encouraging them in their good work of profligate expansion.
Upon exploring the last of the air roots, Hyacinth peeled the gloves from her hands, chattering to the orchid she’d named Gladys, a Dendrobium with deep purple petals and a record number of swelling buds.
“Gladys,” Hyacinth said, “your blossoms are about to astonish all who see you.” She gave Gladys’s pot a quarter turn. “Today promises rain, and lucky for you, for you love the rain, don’t you? So much moisture in the air. Orchids love the rain as long as it does not come through the windows.”
Her voice took on a singsong lilt as she misted and turned and inspected the lower leaves, a melody forming from the silliness of the moment. “As long as it does not come through the windows. As long as it stays outside where it belongs, and you continue to enjoy a perfect balance of humidity and breeze for optimal growth and reduced chance of rot.”
A voice from behind joined Hyacinth’s. “I am quite sure that I love the rain,” Lucas said, speaking in a rhythmic lilt himself, “but I shall never love a storm as much as I adore”—he paused for a beat as he gently turned her to face him and looked deeply into her eyes, and then he continued—“this song.”
Hyacinth laughed, partly from her own silliness and partly from his jest, which left her cheeks reddening. No hint of shame stirred her. She warmed from his presence. She watched him as he gazed at her face, that soft smile lighting his handsome features. She wished he could stay in the hothouse all day. Every day. With her.
Only days ago, such a statement from him would have rendered her speechless, but now she found she was quite capable of making a joke in return.
“I am very grateful for your compliment, sir,” Hyacinth said with a bow. “Was it the clever subtleties of the lyrics that caught your attention? Or my exceptional performing voice?” She was under no delusions about her singing. She was capable of carrying a tune, but no more. Her voice might be described as pleasant, if the person doing the describing was already fond of her.
“I believe there are far too few songs that make use of the word rot, in fact,” he said. “It packs a great deal of power into a very small syllable, not to mention its visual imagery.”
“And there are so many useful rhymes, if rhyming songs are your preference,” Hyacinth added. “Words like trot and forgot.”
He nodded, giving her a serious look as though this might be a truly important discussion. “Blot. Fought. Caught.” He laughed and then stopped, his face growing serious. “Oh, speaking of caught. Will you please tell me if you see anyone in or near the manor house? I saw a man walking along the clifftop who ought not to have been there.”
Before she could comment on his accidental use of “ought not,” her feelings of delight at their playful conversation flew away as quickly as a leaf on the wind. “In or near the manor house? Do you mean inside the house?”
She thought of the person muttering and knocking in her bedroom while she stood on the other side of the locked door. She supposed her nervousness was written all over her face. She had not imagined any of it, as much as she’d tried to convince herself she was being dramatic.
Could a stranger simply walk into Ashthorne Hall? Without a full house staff to monitor the huge building, it seemed conceivable. A man walking along the cliff simply strolls into the manor. It wasn’t a leap in logic to assume he was the person making sounds in her room.
Was that the reason Mrs. Carter had warned her to bar her door at night?
Lucas glanced at her face and shook his head. “Oh, dear. I should not have said that. I meant within the property. Please don’t be afraid.” His face fell.
His response shook her out of her gloom. She gave a rueful chuckle. “You may not give me a shock like that and then demand I feel no fear. I believe such a command can only be ignored.”
Lucas lowered his brows, and she wondered if she had offended him. “Please accept my apology. I should never have mentioned it. I only wanted to keep you aware so you remain in perfect safety.” He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “In my imagination, I often gravitate toward the worst possible outcome. Hyacinth, I am sorry I let myself assume the worst and caused you to do the same.”
She only halfway heard his apology, her mind catching on the sound of her name on his lips. She felt she was floating, even as her nerves jangled from his news.
How could one person feel so many things all at once? A body could only take so much. She thought she might need to sit down.
With another look at Lucas, at his concern and attentiveness, she felt herself grow more relaxed. What a tremendous power, the ability to bestow calm. He had a talent to change her feelings rapidly, that was certain. Quite a remarkable man, this Lucas Harding. If he could work such magic, she could at least pretend not to be scared.
Hyacinth nodded. “I will be aware but unafraid. If you think such a thing is possible, I will do it.”
“I’m afraid I ruined our game,” he said, his voice still gloomy.
She shook her head. “Of course not. We are poets. A little shock to our systems is exactly what will summon the muse. Don’t you know this is how all the best poets find inspiration?”
“Inspiration to find more rhyming words for rot?” he said, his smile proving how pleased he was at the return to their playfulness.
“Distraught. Fraught.” She raised her eyebrows at that one, as if it came as a surprise to her.
He played along at once, looking grateful. “Indeed. Well done. Sought. Plot. Dot. Yacht.”
“We are very good at this. Perhaps,” she said, “we ought to write a song together.”
He laughed, delighted. “What a wonderful idea. What shall we sing about?”
“I believe I have covered the benefits of keeping orchids out of the rain,” she said. “So that leaves us the three best ways to prepare a potato and the benefits of visiting the seaside at Brighton.”
“Well, I have vast experience with both of these topics,” he said. “So I shall be helpful.”
Hyacinth removed her gloves and brushed the front of her apron, removing most of the debris from the day’s work. “The best songs are written sitting down.”
“Truly?”
“Surely everyone knows this.” She led him to the chairs and pulled out her notebook. With a flourish of her pencil, she declared herself ready to declaim. “We need only agree on a topic,” she said.
He removed his jacket and folded it over the back of his chair. Hyacinth chose to concentrate on the pleasure of his comfort rather than the surprise of his casual removal of his outerwear. She reminded herself that city manners did not translate to country living.
“All the best songs are love songs,” Lucas said. “So perhaps we ought to attempt to write that.” He folded his arms across his chest, his sleeves pulling up and giving her a welcome view of his muscled forearms.
Hyacinth laughed to cover another blush. “I know more about potatoes.”
“Very well, we can write a love song to potatoes.”
How was it so easy for him to move between moods? Was it only a minute ago he was apologizing for his sullenness?
She wanted to help him stay in his cheerful, playful state. “That is a very specific genre,” she said.
Lucas nodded, his face all seriousness. “And do you think there is anyone who would not be able to relate to it?”
Hyacinth laughed again. She adored these stolen moments with Lucas, and was thrilled to discover that none of the fear brought about by his mentioning the stranger now remained in her heart. “We may just create the universal ballad. How shall we begin?”
Lucas put his hand to his chin in an attitude of deep consideration. “I believe the typical practice of songwriters is to make a list of all the ways in which the object embodies perfection. This should be easy with potatoes. They are warm, and soft, and tender.”
So was his glance at her. She felt herself warming in response.
He smiled at her. “Are you writing this down?”
Of course. She had a job to do. Hyacinth scratched the words onto her paper.
Lucas nodded. “Good. What else? Comforting. And comfortable. Even when they have been prepared in a new way, there is something familiar. That feeling we all desire to come back to.”
Hyacinth scribbled his words as fast as she could. “I rather like their shape,” she mused. “One could almost mistake them for a stone.”
“Oh, yes indeed,” Lucas said. “I believe the hallmark of a truly relatable love song is comparing the beloved to rocks. How else could we work in words like lumpen and boulder after all?”
Hyacinth looked down at the words she had written on the page. “I believe we may have aimed too high attempting to write the ode to a potato on our first try. Perhaps we would do better to write about ordinary humans and try our hands at the often-traveled flower metaphors.”
He nodded. “Bloom of youth. Lips like petals and the like.”
“Exactly,” she said.
Lucas smiled at her, and she was surprised to find how familiar his smile had become. After only days at Ashthorne together, he was known to her, and she to him.
He said, “I have always liked flower images, but I confess, I am not convinced anyone has a mouth that looks like a daisy. Or an iris.”
The image made her laugh again. “Indeed, if I saw someone with a mouth resembling a larkspur, I should deliver them to a doctor at once. But I’ve always believed the comparison was less in what they look like and more in their feel to the touch.”
“That’s silly. People don’t have skin that feels like flowers.”
She looked surprised. “I do,” she said, touching her finger to her lower lip.
“Your lips feel like petals?” he asked, squeezing his hands together as if attempting to keep them still.
She hoped it meant he wanted to reach over and touch her mouth as much as she wanted him to. The thought shocked her, but in a delicious way. She had never felt so attracted to anyone.
She forced herself to swallow, and she looked at the table in front of her. It was very difficult to hold his gaze under such conditions. She was not willing to leave such an opening unattended, however. She glanced back up at Lucas.
“I have spent quite some time with flowers,” she said with a measure of calm she did not feel. “In my training, you understand. Possibly more time than most people. In addition, I have had this mouth all my life. I feel it is safe to say that I am the expert here.”
“You mean,” he said, pointing to the nearest table of flowers, “if I were to touch this orchid, for instance, and your mouth, I should find them indistinguishable?”
She looked shocked. “Oh, heavens, no. You cannot touch them. Under no circumstances will you ever touch the petals of these orchids.” She realized she was using a rather forceful voice, and she laughed at herself. “I must protect them, you know. You may touch something less valuable, perhaps. A flower growing outside, already exposed to the elements. An aster, or a dahlia. Perhaps a rose in its second bloom. And I do not mean to suggest that you could not tell which one was the plant and which the person.”
She noticed he had not taken his eyes from her mouth. Goodness.
She continued her silly speech. “I believe that even without years of specific training as a botanist you ought to be able to find some differences.”
He stood and took her hand in his. “Are there roses in this greenhouse?” Lucas asked, his voice soft.
She shook her head, feeling a shift in the air around them. When she answered, her voice came out quiet as well. “There are roses in the rose garden,” she offered, as though he had never considered such a thing.
“If you do not object, I should like to put your idea to an experiment.”
“My idea?” she echoed in a whisper. Had breathing ever been such an effort?
“The comparison. One thing like another. How can I know if it is a fair assessment unless I study them myself?” He looked down at their clasped hands and then back at her face.
She was very aware of her own heartbeat. With a great deal of air in her voice, she said, “As a student of science, Mr. Harding, I approve of your suggestion.”
Holding hands, they walked out of the hothouse and toward the rose garden, their progress slowed by the fact that they stared into each other’s faces far more often than they watched the path.
A low stone wall separated the rose garden from another one bordered by a formal hedge. Lucas led Hyacinth down the rows of roses, the bushes running slightly wild without the constant care of the gardeners. She told him the names of the ones she knew, and he nodded as if it mattered. They passed blooms of white and red and coral, Lucas glancing from Hyacinth’s face to each bud and flower. He stopped her at a rosebush bursting with pink blooms.
Pointing, he asked, “What are these called?”
The ruffled edges of the open roses created a lovely shell effect. “I do not know this variety. Perhaps you should name it,” she said.
“The flower is exactly the same color as your mouth,” he said, reaching for a rose and plucking an outer petal.
It was simply a statement. An observable fact. Why, then, did it take her breath away?
“Is it?” she asked, surprised at the effort it took to make a sound. How did he so easily stir her?
He held the petal up to her face, placing the fingers of his other hand ever so lightly near her chin, tilting her head toward the light of the afternoon sun. “I believe it is a perfect match,” he said, drawing closer to her in his inspection. His voice grew even softer. “This rose should be named Hyacinth.”
She could feel his breath on her face.
“I think you will find there is already a flower with that name,” she said, her whisper carried to him on the light breeze.
“The best of them all,” he murmured. “But do not try to distract me from my experiment.”
He continued to hold the petal between his fingers, and without taking his eyes from her lips, he made a tiny circle with his thumb over the surface of the bloom. Slowly he raised his other hand, but instead of touching her mouth, he placed his fingers so lightly upon her neck that she wondered if it was perhaps a trick of the breeze. But as he moved his hand slowly, gently up the length of her neck, there was no question. Heat radiated from his tender touch as his fingers traveled the curve of her cheek.
Legs trembling, she wondered if she could continue to stand, but even as the thought occurred to her, she felt herself leaning into his touch like buttercups tilting into the path of the sun. His finger, light as a breath, arrived at her mouth. He looked a request into her eyes, and she nodded once.
As his thumb traced her lower lip, her eyes fluttered closed. Was she floating? Was she even breathing? She felt his heartbeat through his hand, blood pulsing beneath his skin, life touching life. The flower petal he held brushed against her cheek, and she opened her eyes to see him gazing at her, adoration filling his eyes.
She reached for the petal, gently taking it from his fingers and holding it between her own. Carrying it to his mouth, she drew it across his lip, tracing the curve of his warm smile. “Do you feel that?” she asked.
He nodded, his breath a shudder.
Lifting herself upon her toes, she closed the last of the distance between them. “Is this different?” she whispered, brushing her lips across his.
He made a humming sound. “I think I have insufficient evidence. Do you mind if we try that again?”
She whispered her answer against his lips. “In the name of scientific discovery?”
“For the edification of poets,” he said, and then they were not speaking any more.