Page 5 of A Botanist and A Betrothal (Gentleman Scholars #4)

L incoln hunched over his work table, carefully pressing a delicate specimen between sheets of blotting paper. The late afternoon sun slanted through his laboratory's windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floorboards and illuminating motes of dust that danced in the golden light. The familiar scent of dried herbs and paper surrounded him, typically a comfort, but today it did little to ease his troubled mind.

His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the stem of a common foxglove specimen— Digitalis purpurea —its purple bells already beginning to fade. Beside it lay his prized discovery: the pure white variant he'd found on Caldwell's land, its pressed form a ghost of its living beauty. Even dried, there was something extraordinary about its structure, the way its throat bore distinctive markings he'd never seen in any other specimen.

"You're the key to everything," he murmured, reaching for his magnifying glass. The brass instrument felt cool against his palm as he leaned in closer, studying the distinctive patterns within the bell-shaped blooms. His notes lay scattered across the table, detailed sketches and observations in his precise hand covering nearly every inch of paper.

The laboratory itself was a reflection of his methodical nature gone slightly askew. Normally meticulously organized shelves of specimens lined the walls, each carefully labelled and categorized. But now several drawers hung half-open, their contents disturbed by his frantic comparisons over the past few days.

Books lay open on every surface, some balanced precariously on the edges of his work table, others stacked on his reading chair by the window. He'd been searching for any reference to a similar variation, any precedent for what he'd found.

Lincoln set down his magnifying glass and reached for the most recent letter from the Royal Botanical Society. The paper crinkled under his fingers as he unfolded it once again, though he'd memorized its contents days ago.

"Your preliminary findings are intriguing... potential medicinal properties... further study required..." The words that had once filled him with excitement now seemed to mock him, knowing that access to more specimens—to properly study this variant—hinged on Mr. Caldwell's impossible proposition.

His packed bags caught his eye from their place by the door, and his stomach churned. The weight of the decision pressed down on him like a physical thing, making the carefully controlled environment of his laboratory feel suddenly stifling. He tugged at his cravat, which had come slightly undone during his hours of work.

A breeze through the half-open window stirred his papers, and Lincoln quickly placed a brass weight on the corner of his sketches. As he did so, his elbow knocked against a tin of dried specimens, sending several pressed flowers fluttering to the floor.

Muttering under his breath, he knelt to gather them, his fingers brushing against a pressed violet—one he'd preserved from his mother's garden years ago. The memory of her encouragement of his scientific pursuits struck him suddenly, making his chest tight.

What would she have thought of this situation? Marrying for access to research? It seemed the antithesis of everything she'd taught him about following one's passion honestly and openly.

Lincoln stared at his packed bags, the weight of Mr. Caldwell's proposal pressing on his mind. The leather cases, neatly arranged with the minimum equipment he would need to begin exploring the possibilities, seemed to mock him with their readiness.

"Let me think about it.” Lincoln quoted aloud shaking his head

Let me think about it? Had he lost his mind?

How could he have admitted that he would even consider such a preposterous situation?

Marry a woman he didn’t know for access to a possible scientific breakthrough? It was tantalizing and ridiculous all at once.

She was a beautiful woman.

But he did not need such a distraction at this point in his life.

Lincoln’s fingers drummed nervously on the polished wood of his desk. The potential of the plant discovery tugged at him relentlessly, each heartbeat echoing with the promise of a scientific breakthrough. And the recognition that would accompany it.

Clearly, he was considering it, no matter how preposterous “it” was. His stomach churned with his conflicted feelings making him wonder if he would cast up his accounts.

He let out a long, shaky breath, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. The thought of marriage had always been a distant notion, a future concern far overshadowed by his passion for botany. And yet, here he was, contemplating an engagement to a woman he had barely met for the sake of his research.

How could he reconcile his ambitions with the moral implications of such a marriage? Would he be exploiting this young woman, Miss Vesta Lowell, for his own gain? The very idea made his chest tighten with guilt.

They had agreed that he could return to explore the lands further and speak with Mr. Caldwell’s stepdaughter. He hadn’t seen Vesta the day before when Mr. Caldwell had made his preposterous offer. Preposterous. Was it really?

How would the young woman feel about such an arrangement? Did she know about her stepfather’s proposal? Had it been her idea? Was she in on the offer, or was she being coerced into it as well? What was really in it for Mr. Caldwell? Why would he make such an offer? And did the young woman have anything to gain? Well, a husband, but Lincoln didn’t consider himself any sort of matrimonial prize.

All Lincoln had was more questions, no answers. The other man’s motivations seemed shrouded in mystery, adding another layer of uncertainty to Lincoln’s dilemma.

The questions circled in Lincoln’s mind like vultures, and he was no closer to any answers nor to a decision.

Lincoln closed his eyes, the memory of discovering the white foxglove washing over him with startling clarity.

He'd been stomping down a barely-visible path through Caldwell's lands, sweat trickling down his back in the summer heat, when movement had caught his eye—a flash of white among the deeper shadows of the forest understory. At first, he'd thought it was just another patch of Queen Anne's Lace, but something about the shape had made him pause.

The moment he'd realized what he was seeing, his heart had nearly stopped.

There, in a shaft of dappled sunlight, stood three perfect specimens of pure white foxglove, their bells nodding gently in the breeze. Not the pale pink variety he'd documented before, but a true white, with distinctive markings unlike anything he'd ever encountered in his years of research.

He'd dropped to his knees right there in the dirt, hands shaking as he'd opened his specimen case. The excitement had made him clumsy—he'd nearly dropped his notebook twice while sketching their location and appearance.

Every detail had seemed crucial: the height of the stalks, the precise pattern of spots in the flowers' throats, the unusual robustness of the leaves.

"This could change everything," he'd whispered to himself then, voice hoarse with excitement. "Everything we know about Digitalis variation."

Now, sitting in his laboratory, that same whisper seemed to mock him.

Yes, it could change everything—if he were willing to change everything else about his life to obtain it.

The memory of those perfect white bells blurred with the image of Miss Lowell's face: her intelligent eyes, the way she'd glanced at his specimen case with poorly concealed curiosity when they'd briefly met in town last month.

He'd been so focused on his discovery that day in the woods, he hadn't stopped to consider the complexity of dealing with landowners and access rights. He'd naively assumed that scientific pursuit would be enough—that the importance of his research would open any doors he needed.

Instead, it had led him here: contemplating marriage to a woman he barely knew, all for the chance to study a plant. When he put it that way, it sounded absolutely mad. And yet...

Lincoln reached for one of his preliminary sketches, fingers tracing the delicate lines of the white foxglove he'd drawn. The potential medicinal applications alone could help countless people. If the variety proved stable, if it could be cultivated. The implications for cardiac medicine could be revolutionary.

But was he willing to revolutionize his own life in the process? To bind himself—and more importantly, to bind Miss Lowell—to a marriage founded on botanical research rather than affection?

The memory of her quiet intelligence tugged at him again. She hadn't seemed repulsed by his scientific interests, unlike so many young ladies of his acquaintance who found his profession peculiar at best. But was that enough to build a life upon?

He glanced again at his packed bags. Well, obviously he was closer to a decision; he had packed his bags to go exploring.

The thought of Lucy and Roderick crossed his mind. Ought he to talk to them? What would they say? Roderick had married Lucy for her money—or rather, he had intended to do so, but it turned out to be a love match. They would surely understand.

The thought of Lucy and Roderick crossed his mind again, more insistent this time. They, of all people, would understand his predicament. Hadn't Roderick initially considered Lucy for her dowry, only to find true happiness? Roderick had been as surprised as everyone when Lucy had taken such an interest in supporting scholars along with her husband.

Lincoln drummed his fingers against his desk, remembering the way Lucy's eyes had sparkled at their wedding as she'd whispered something about prime numbers to her new husband. He had thought it a jest at the time, but Lucy really had come to love at least the basics of the sciences.

But their situation had been different, hadn't it? They'd had time to discover their compatibility, to build something real from what had started as a mercenary arrangement. Lucy had known exactly what she was getting into—had practically orchestrated the whole thing herself, if he remembered correctly.

Would they judge him for even considering Mr. Caldwell's proposal? No, probably not. Lucy would likely approach it as she did everything else: with calculated disregard for anything but her enthusiastic energy and intentions. It was one of the things Lincoln most admired about his friend’s wife.

And Roderick... Lincoln could almost hear his friend's wry voice: "Well, old chap, at least you're being honest about your mercenary intentions. That's more than I managed at first."

But their happiness made his current situation even more troubling. They'd found love through their shared intellectual pursuits. What if he and Miss Lowell proved completely incompatible? What if she resented him for using her as a means to access her stepfather's land?

The thought of trapping them both in a loveless marriage made his chest tight with anxiety.

Still, he couldn't shake the memory of seeing Miss Lowell in the village bookshop last month, hovering near the scientific texts when she thought no one was watching. There had been such longing in her expression as she'd reached out to touch the spine of Thornton's Temple of Flora, only to snatch her hand back when her stepsister had called her name.

Perhaps he should speak with Lucy and Roderick before making any decisions. They might see angles to this situation that he was missing in his fixation on the scientific implications. But shame held him back—how could he admit to his friends that he was considering marriage solely for access to a plant specimen? Even if that specimen might prove revolutionary.

But shame continued to flood through Lincoln at the mercenary nature of his contemplation.

Could he even handle the balance needed with a wife and his scientific pursuits? He ran a hand through his hair again, dishevelling it further. The door to his laboratory loomed ahead, a portal to both his dreams and his doubts.

He needed to get going, but he was no closer to accepting the correctness of what he was likely intending to do: marrying a well-born young woman for access to her stepfather’s land. All in the name of scientific endeavours.

Was his pride and ambition that great? Was he that determined to prove himself to his Westbrook family? And what really was in it for Mr. Caldwell? Why would he make such an offer? The uncertainties gnawed at him.

There was nothing for it but to discuss the matter with Miss Lowell herself. She was obviously most affected, besides him, of course. If she were in support of his pursuits and the marriage, then why not?

He had to marry eventually.

Was he really going to justify it like that?

It wasn’t as if he were truly in the line of succession, but as a Westbrook, it was expected that he wed one day. Still, though, he wasn’t yet in a position to support a wife at this point.

Maybe he never would be, considering the options were to make a financial success of his science or give up his science and accept his family’s allowance. He wasn’t certain if he could make the first thing happen and the second was decidedly not to his taste.

Lincoln sighed. The weight of his unresolved questions sat heavy on his shoulders. He needed clarity, and the only way to achieve that was by speaking directly with the young woman. Perhaps then, amidst the uncertainty and ethical quandaries, he would find the answers he sought.

With a resolute nod, Lincoln picked up his bags. As he reached for the door handle, his eye caught the pressed white foxglove on his desk—so pure, so perfect, and so completely dependent on the answer of a woman who might hate him for what he was about to propose.