Bed of Flowers Page 4
“I should have expected something like that.” Cordelia sighed. “I’ll go with you from now on. That way I can step in before you’ve promised away the next decade of your life.”
“Because I’ve already promised it to you?”
“Precisely.” Cordelia grinned. “Marriage will take enough of your time.”
“I’m surprised you’re allowing it then.”
The humor faded from Cordelia’s expression. “If it were up to me, we’d have other options.”
“Did someone just reject another suitor?”
Cordelia shrugged, which meant yes. She’d refused every young man her mother introduced her to. The conflict had strained their relationship near to the breaking point.
“I’m on your side, whatever you do,” said Bonny. “You could turn down every duke in Christendom and I’d defend it. If you don’t like a man, you shouldn’t marry him.”
Cordelia smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Bonny took a peek at the book that Cordelia was in the middle of binding. “Where did this come from?”
Cordelia chuckled. “The mother of the young man I won’t be marrying. I finished it last night, and it’s delightful.”
“So you say.” Cordelia made no secret of her love for books, but Bonny had only actually caught her reading once—and Cordelia had put the book down immediately. It was the oddest thing. “What happens in chapter six?”
“Two good friends bicker over a topic one of them would rather not discuss,” said Cordelia.
Bonny stuck out her tongue. Then, because she was indeed a good friend, she changed the subject. “I paid a visit to Lord Loel on the way back.”
“Why would you do a thing like that?”
“For the library, of course. I asked if he had any books to donate.”
Cordelia raised one eyebrow. “I take it he didn’t impress you with his charitable spirit.”
“He was very rude.”
“I am shocked.” Cordelia’s flat tone suggested the opposite. “Shocked, I say.”
“I didn’t really expect any different,” Bonny admitted. “But he’d left the gates to Woodclose open and I was curious.”
“About what? The bodies he’s buried in his yard?” said Cordelia.
Bonny laughed. “There aren’t any bodies.”
“Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.”
“I did look,” said Bonny. “The estate’s deserted. It’s sad to see it so neglected.”
“Suspicious, you mean,” Cordelia corrected. “He doesn’t want anyone to find out what he’s doing with all those mysterious packages he collects from the Black Lion—”
“I think he’s growing orchids.”
Cordelia’s head snapped back. “Orchids?”
“He has a huge greenhouse full of orchids.”
“Bonny, orchids are expensive. Even the commonest breeds sell for twenty shillings or more, and we all know he’s poor as a church mouse. Where do you think he’s getting the money?”
“There could be a legitimate explanation. You shouldn’t rush to judgment.”
“What do you mean, ‘rush’? This is yet another piece of evidence that something odd is going on at Woodclose.” Cordelia paused. “Perhaps I should say something to my father.”
Her father, the judge.
A strange, unpleasant feeling blossomed in the pit of Bonny’s stomach: guilt. Lord Loel had startled her, and he’d been rude, yes, and she’d been eager to complain… but not to retaliate.
If she got him into trouble—potentially very serious trouble—because she’d gone snooping about his property, she would feel awful. She’d already knocked over his plant. However sick and ugly it appeared to her, he’d gone to great lengths to acquire it. Better not add insult to injury.
“I’ll thank you not to tell everyone in town that I visited Woodclose alone.” Bonny smoothed her skirts. “He refused to donate any books. Leave it at that.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
Cordelia slanted her lean figure into the desk, propping her head on her open palm. “How curious. You’re the last person I’d expect to defend Lord Loel.”
“I’m not defending him.”
“You just want to spare him a bit of unnecessary trouble.”
“Exactly.”
“If you’re standing between a man and the trouble headed his way, you’re defending him.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cordelia. Do all children of judges have an insatiable urge to knot conversational threads into nooses? Or is it just you?”
“All? No. That would be highly improbable.” Cordelia paused. “I’d believe half.”
“Well, you’re very clever. Now leave Lord Loel alone.”
“Bah.” Cordelia idly repositioned a few of her tools—moving a pot of ink a few inches to the right, tamping a needle into its pincushion.
Come to think of it, Bonny had made that pincushion and given it to Cordelia as a gift.
“How is Mr. Gavin?” Cordelia asked.
“Well, I’m sure. I’ll know more tomorrow. He’s taking me on a walk—all alone!”
Cordelia smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“It’s kind of you to say so.” Bonny smirked. “I, in turn, will be kind enough to spare you the details. I know you’ve no patience for sentimental ramblings.”
“Perhaps the highlights.”
“If there are any.” Bonny reached for the door. “I’ll see you on Monday?”
“Bright and early.”
On the way home though, Bonny felt sick to her stomach. Yes, Lord Loel had been rude—but hadn’t her behavior just now justified it? She’d violated his privacy and gossiped about what she’d seen, made scurrilous insinuations about him, and laughed at his impoverishment.
She had seen, over and over again, that one didn’t have to mean harm to do harm. Loel had blighted her whole town by accident.
The situation reminded her, uncomfortably, of the last time she’d seen Lord Loel. An encounter that she’d kept secret for years, because she felt so ashamed of herself.
Today she couldn’t stop thinking of Loel on his knees, scooping wood chips into the pot, shaping a skeleton of support out of wire. She hadn’t meant to hurt him but… perhaps she had?
Chapter 4
Bonny woke feeling as guilty as she had before she fell asleep. She brushed her hair and contemplated Bowl of Cherries. The cherries were all different: Irregular spheres shading from ruby to burgundy, stems pointing in different directions. Her eye kept returning, like steel to a magnet, to the one that had bruised and begun to brown.
Bonny sighed. She lingered on the rotten cherry because it reflected her mood. She’d have to do something to clear her conscience—pay a visit to find out if the plant had survived, offer another apology.
She put on a dressing gown, tidied her room, and went downstairs. Their maid-of-all-work, Emma, was clearing away the cups and plates from Mr. Reed’s breakfast. He worked as an insurance agent now, at the local branch of a Liverpool concern, and had to arrive at his office before the rest of the family had rubbed the sleep from their eyes.
“Good, you’re awake.” Her mother nudged a chair away from the table with her feet. “Emma’s doing laundry today, so I thought we would turn the mattresses. And Mrs. Gavin sent over a basket of oranges with a very kind note welcoming you into the family. I suggest you reply today with your thanks.”
Bonny, seated now and spooning baked beans onto her toast, paused to answer, “I’ll do it right away.”
“It was a very generous gift,” continued Mrs. Reed. “What do you think about making a marmalade?”
“It would stretch the treat out.”
“Just so.”
Margot piped up from the doorway. “It only needs to last until the wedding. After that, Bonny’s going to send us presents all the time, isn’t she?”
“Of course.”
Bonny opened her mouth to say something quelling, but the prospect of cake every day distracted her.
“She said something about having us over for dinner as well,” said Mrs. Reed. “But don’t mention that in your note. We’ll see if she brings it up again when we see her after church.”
“Mmm,” Bonny agreed. “I have an errand to run this afternoon, if that’s all right?”
“What sort of errand?”
“To do with the library.”
“That library takes a lot of your time.” Mrs. Reed sipped her tea. “I suppose Margot can help with the marmalade.”
Margot grinned. “Only if I get to lick the spoons.”
After breakfast, Bonny tied a kerchief over her hair and helped her mother turn the mattresses. It was a difficult, dusty chore but didn’t take too long. She dressed, wrote her thank-you note, and put it in the post on her way out the door.
And returned to Woodclose, feeling the tiniest twinge of guilt about her lie. But her parents couldn’t stand Lord Loel, and the mere mention of his name could send them into a dark mood that lasted hours. She’d visit, offer another apology, and put the encounter behind her. No need to start a family row over it.
A slow, rhythmic thunking sounded in her ears as she neared the great house. She reached the yard to find the baron himself chopping wood. He’d stripped down to the waist, suspenders hanging loose over his thighs, the hair on his chest matted with sweat.
He settled a log upright on a large wooden block and hefted his axe, lifting with both hands. Muscles in his arms flexed with supple strength as he raised the blade high, sunlight glittering along the wickedly sharp bit. He brought it down in a controlled arc, splitting the log in two.
Bonny squeaked. She wasn’t sure why—she didn’t feel sorry for the firewood, for heaven’s sake—but she couldn’t help it.
Loel looked up from his work and scowled. Setting the axe aside, he straightened to his full, intimidating height. “What are you doing here?”
Bonny looked away, blushing furiously. “I came to ask after your orchid. The one I knocked over.”
“It’s dying.”
“If I damaged your property, valuable property”—she paused, hoping that he’d contradict her, but no such luck—“then I owe you an apology, at the very least.”
“Accepted.” He picked up one half of the split log, set it on the block, and reached for his axe. “Is that all?”
“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
“No.”
“Because if there were anything—not money, I won’t insult you, and in any case, I haven’t any—but some assistance I could offer?”
His upper lip curled. “Do you have any experience with gardens?”
“No.”
“Do you think it likely that an absolute amateur could help me care for a temperamental specimen from a family of flowers that is famously difficult to cultivate?”
Bonny knotted her hands together. People usually tripped over themselves to accept her apologies, and she resented Loel’s stubbornness. She felt a revolting urge to bludgeon Loel with a smile, to make him admit that her presence alone compensated for any harm she might have done.
Not that she had wronged so very many people, but that was how they generally responded.
“I could try,” she said, ashamed to have found vanity hiding behind a seemingly benevolent impulse. “What exactly does the plant require, beyond a bit of watering?”
“A bit of watering.” Loel raked damp, dark hair away from his forehead and barked with laughter. The gesture set him off; he looked wild and vital and devastatingly handsome. “Come inside the orchid house. I have something to show you.”
He snatched up his shirt and drew it on, raising his naked arms high. His biceps bunched; his pectorals flattened. Muscles clad every inch of his bared form, all moving together like a glorious clockwork.
Bonny crossed her arms over her chest—to show that she was unmoved—and snuck little sidelong glances as he slid his arms through the sleeves of his coat and shrugged it on.
She had seen parts of a man that she shouldn’t, but it had always been horrible. Like the time a drunkard on his way back from the privy at the Black Lion had dropped his trousers and waggled his male parts at her.
But Lord Loel was putting his clothes on, not taking them off. And he was… lovely.
Bonny gestured to the axe. “Don’t you have anyone to do that for you?”
“Obviously not.”
He opened the door for her to precede him into the greenhouse. She had to pass close by him, breathe in the scent of sweat and sap, and it lingered in her nostrils as the warm, thick air surrounded her.
A breeze brushed her cheek, the air stirred by the fan perched by the nearest fountain. “What an ingenious system.”
“My own invention.” Loel strode past a hundred softly swaying flowers to the table where the ugly weed sat in solitary splendor, much as it had the day before. A cotton-wrapped wire skeleton held the stalk upright.
“You said this is an orchid?”
“Odontoglossum crispum Cooksoniae.” His jaw tensed. “The only one of its kind in England, perhaps all of Europe. At least until I make mulch out of it.”
Bonny winced.
“Many orchids are rare by design.” Loel pulled the plant closer, his keen green eyes narrowing in concentration. He had a low, rich voice and a peculiar accent, the aristocratic tones of his youth twisted by years at sea. “The flower might be common as a weed in its native land—even in England we have wild orchids—but if collectors cannot find it, harvest it, and keep a specimen healthy during the long voyage across the Atlantic, it will be a novelty here—and, therefore, valuable.”
He fiddled with the wire skeleton, tweaking it minutely. “Orchid collectors sabotage their competition as best as they can. They hide the exact location where they discovered a specimen. Most try to harvest every flower they can find, every single one, to ensure that any collectors who come after leave empty-handed. In some cases they travel with crews of workmen who cut down the trees on which the orchids grow; they devastate whole forests.”
“But that’s awful!” Bonny cried.
Loel shrugged. “So? It’s faster, safer, and frustrates the competition. My crispum hails from the Andes and grows on trees. That’s all I know—and even that much information comes grudgingly.”
“On trees?” Bonny asked.
“It’s an epiphyte, as many orchids are.” Loel gestured overhead, where flowers spilled from myriad dangling perches. “And now you know why it would be so hard to replace, were you to make the attempt.”
Bonny cringed. She had been caught up in the lecture—these were fascinating, exotic plants—but Lord Loel wasn’t educating her. He wanted her to know exactly how precious and irreplaceable this Odontoglossum crispum was so that she’d feel bad.
A great deal of Bonny’s guilt evaporated on the spot. She had apologized. Several times. She’d returned to Woodclose for the express purpose of expressing regret… which, come to think of it, probably explained why he’d responded so nastily.
Lord Loel had set the whole town on fire, and no one had cared to hear his apologies. Now it was time to give the people of New Quay—and probably, Bonny acknowledged, herself in particular—a taste of their own medicine.
Very well. If that was what he wanted, she would oblige. Sometimes the bitter pill did the most good.
“I didn’t know,” said Bonny. “I understand better now, and I’m very sorry.”
He squinted at her and pushed the Odontoglossum crispum into the center of the table so it sat equidistant between them. “Tell me, is it healthy?”
Bonny guessed. “No?”
“How can you tell?”
“I assumed, since you’re so upset—”
“I didn’t ask you to diagnose me. I asked you to diagnose the orchid.”
“How do I do that?”
“If the leaves are too dark a green, the plant isn’t getting enough light. Spotting might indicate rot, disease, or burning. A slight bronzing of the leaves can be a good sign—it means the orchid is ready to flower—but too much means it’s suffering from overexposure to the sun.”
“How would I know any of that?”
“It takes time. But—you asked about watering, didn’t you? That usually comes next. Why don’t you pick it up?”
Bonny hesitated. “Are you sure you want me handling the thing?”
Instead of answering, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her.
Bonny did not want to pick up the orchid. It seemed an invitation to disaster. But he’d asked, and as a sincere penitent, she couldn’t refuse. She leaned over the table, arms fully extended, and lifted the pot a bare inch or two into the air.
It was surprisingly light.
“Good.” Loel propped his hip against the thick slate tabletop. “How much does it weigh?”
“I couldn’t tell you exactly.”
“Is it wet or dry?”
“I don’t know.”
“So we’ve run into more trouble. You should be able to tell by feel alone.”
“Which is it?”
Loel smiled wickedly. “Wet.”
Bonny put the Odontoglossum crispum down and took a nervous step away. That smile was not proper. “So you’ve already watered it?”
Loel nodded.
“But—when we were outside—I thought it needed water!”
The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “Watering the orchid at this time of day would kill it.”
“What plant can’t survive an afternoon shower?”
“The Odontoglossum crispum grows on a tree, Miss Reed. In a forest, in the shade. It doesn’t like direct sunlight. And drops of water might as well be magnifying lenses. They focus the light into deadly beams that burn right through tender leaves.”