Page 6 of A Botanist and A Betrothal (Gentleman Scholars #4)

V esta slammed the vase onto the table, water sloshing over the sides and seeping into the expensive linen tablecloth. The morning sun streaming through the breakfast room windows seemed to mock the darkness of her mood, casting cheerful patterns across the mahogany surface where droplets now gleamed.

Arranging flowers was normally her sanctuary, the one task her stepsisters disdained enough to leave entirely to her. Usually, she found peace in selecting each bloom, considering its form and character, creating harmony from chaos, admiring the scents and colours as she worked. But today, her hands shook with barely contained fury as she thrust stems into place.

The conversation she'd overheard yesterday in her stepfather's library played over and over in her mind, each repetition stoking her anger.

"Access to the land in exchange for marriage to my stepdaughter..."

The words made her stomach clench. How dare they? Was she nothing more than a commodity to be bartered away, like one of Mr. Caldwell's shipments of tea or spices?

She yanked a rose stem free and repositioned it, ignoring the thorn that pricked her finger. A drop of blood welled up, bright as her rage.

The scientist—Doctor Welby—had at least insisted on speaking with her first, but she'd seen the hunger in his eyes when he'd surveyed the grounds, his excitement over the plants he’d been examining. Would her feelings matter to him any more than they did to her stepfather?

Questions swirled before her eyes, making her dizzy with their implications.

Could they truly marry her off without her consent? Did she have any legal recourse? Her mother would be no help—these days she spent most of her time in her darkened room, seeking solace in laudanum rather than facing her husband's machinations and moods.

The injustice of it all pressed down on her like a physical weight. She had always been the overlooked stepsister at best, the begrudged interloper at worst, but this... this was beyond bearing. Her hands trembled as she reached for another flower, her usual precision lost to fury.

Oh, the irony of it all! She had watched the arrival of the scholars in the neighborhood with such secret hope.

While her stepsisters had giggled over their clothes and manners, she had dreamed of intellectual discourse, of finally finding someone who might understand her forbidden interest in the natural sciences. Instead, here she was, about to be traded away like a particularly useful specimen in a botanical collection.

She remembered Doctor Welby's face when she'd encountered him near the gardens last week—his evident passion as he'd examined a plant specimen, the intelligence in his grey gaze, the way his hands had moved with such careful precision.

She had directed him to speak with Mr. Caldwell about access to the grounds, never imagining that she would become part of the bargain.

That had been a huge mistake, obviously , she thought, sarcasm dripping from the words even in her mind. Her stepfather had seen an opportunity and seized it, just as he did with every business venture. Only this time, she was the commodity being traded.

Vesta stared at the flowers before her, barely seeing them. The roses and lilies she typically found so soothing now seemed to taunt her with their perfect, cultivated beauty. Like her, they had been arranged just so, placed where others thought they should go, with no regard for their natural inclinations.

She thrust the stems into the vase with more force than necessary, the delicate blooms trembling from the impact. The injustice of it all was overwhelming. Vesta’s usual precision was lost to her fury.

Vesta had always known she was an unwelcome interloper to the Caldwell household, relegated to menial tasks and ignored by all. And now, they wanted to foist her off onto some man she didn’t even know? The rage bubbled up inside her, hot and fierce.

She had thought the scholars moving into the neighbourhood would be a source of intrigue, perhaps even a small escape from her monotonous life as she contemplated their research or pursuits. Instead, they had become another chain binding her to a fate she didn’t choose.

Vesta paused, gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. How dare her stepfather use her as a bargaining chip? The injustice of it all continued to make her blood boil.

Who besides a bourgeois bumpkin would consider such a thing?

Vesta easily ignored the knowledge that arranged marriages were completely acceptable in their Society. She read about them often enough in the papers, or in the letters her mother received from time to time from family members or old friends. But she had never thought she would be a party to such an arrangement at any rate. She had surely expected to at least be consulted on the matter of whom she would wed.

Why she had thought that, though, she couldn’t explain. It seemed to her to be common decency. But she didn’t truly expect decent treatment from Mr. Caldwell, so she really was being foolish in taking it so hard.

Her mother’s position as Mr. Caldwell’s wife was precarious enough, and Vesta knew that refusing outright, if she even could, would make things even worse for her. But she couldn’t stand by and let this happen without a fight, without even a whimper of protest.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. With her heart pounding against her ribs, Vesta stormed into her stepfather's library. The heavy scent of candle smoke and leather-bound books filled her nose—a smell she usually loved but now found suffocating.

Mr. Caldwell sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a position he'd clearly chosen for its ability to intimidate. He didn't bother to look up from his ledger.

"What do you want?" The words dripped with disdain as his quill scratched across the page. "I'm busy here, can't you see?"

Vesta's fingers curled into her skirts, gathering strength from the fabric's familiar texture.

"I need to know why you offered me as an exchange for Doctor Welby's access to your land." The words flew out before she could temper them with politeness, but she lifted her chin, refusing to back down.

Mr. Caldwell's head snapped up, his thin lips pressing into an even thinner line.

"How do you know about that?" His voice held the sharp edge of a merchant who'd discovered a discrepancy in his accounts.

"I overheard." Vesta forced herself to meet his gaze before she continued. "I was dusting in the hallway, as your daughters insisted I do. Your voice isn't the quietest sound in the house, and I couldn't help but hear it."

She didn't mention how she'd pressed herself against the wall, straining to catch every word once she'd realized the subject of their discussion.

Mr. Caldwell sniffed, setting down his quill with precise movements that suggested barely contained anger. The afternoon light streaming through the library windows cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of disapproval around his mouth.

"Can't you see that it would benefit you?" He spread his hands in a gesture that might have seemed fatherly if she hadn't known him better. "All these years I've supported you and your mother, and now you have a chance to be useful."

The casual cruelty of his words struck her like a physical blow.

"How would it benefit me?" Her voice shook, but she pressed on. "To be traded away like one of your shipping contracts?"

"Well, you're always harping on about your desire to go visit your aunt for the Season so you can find a 'suitable' husband." His lips curled around the word 'suitable' as if it tasted bitter. "Your mother just asked me the other day, once more, for your dowry. Now you don't need to cost me anything, and you can find a way to introduce your sisters to your new husband's relatives."

Vesta blinked, the pieces suddenly falling into place. Of course—Doctor Welby must be connected to good society, as she had suspected from his manners and education. But her stepsisters. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it. They were as unpolished as newly mined gems, and twice as hard.

"Don't I have the right to be asked who I wish to marry?" The question came out softer than she'd intended, betraying her fear.

Mr. Caldwell's chair scraped against the floor as he stood, looming over his desk.

"You have no rights, girl." His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. "When your mother married me, you became mine to do with as I see fit. And now I have finally found what you can do to benefit me for all the years I've supported you and your mother. You will make this marriage, and you will arrange for your sisters."

Something snapped inside Vesta.

"They aren't my sisters," she said, her voice rising with a defiance that surprised even her. "And I will see what Doctor Welby has to say before I make any decision. You cannot force me to the altar."

She kept her spine straight as a ramrod, though her knees threatened to buckle. Her stepfather's face had turned an alarming shade of purple, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower. Yet underneath her brave facade, doubt gnawed at her. Could he force her? Did she truly have any choice in this matter?

The silence stretched between them like a drawn bow, ready to snap. When Mr. Caldwell opened his mouth to respond, Vesta turned and fled, unable to bear whatever cruel words he might loose at her. She ran from the library allowing the heavy door to slam behind her with a satisfying bang.

As Vesta fled, her vision blurred with tears of rage and frustration. She fled into the garden, her one sanctuary on the estate.

Usually, the carefully tended flowerbeds and neat gravel paths brought her peace, a reminder that even in chaos, nature followed its own perfect order. But today, even her beloved plants seemed to mock her—these were, after all, the very specimens that had brought Doctor Welby here in the first place.

She rounded the corner near the foxglove bed at full speed, her skirts whipping around her legs, and collided with something solid and warm. Strong hands steadied her shoulders, preventing her fall. She looked up into startled grey eyes—Doctor Welby's eyes—and felt her breath catch in her throat.

For a moment, they stood frozen, far too close for propriety. She could see the flecks of silver in his irises, smell the faint scent of paper and herbs that clung to his coat, feel the gentle pressure of his hands where they still gripped her shoulders. Her heart pounded in her chest, but no longer just from her flight from the library.

Vesta stepped back immediately, though some traitorous part of her protested at breaking contact. Heat flooded her cheeks—how could she feel such a pull toward the very man her stepfather intended to barter her to? Was she truly so starved for genuine human contact that even this brief touch could affect her so deeply?

Of course she was.

How perfectly inappropriate.

Dr. Welby cleared his throat, his own cheeks reddening as he quickly clasped his hands behind his back. "Miss Lowell," he said, his voice rougher than she remembered from their previous brief encounter. "I... that is... I had hoped to speak with you."

Vesta's fingers curled into her skirts, gathering what remained of her composure. "About my stepfather's proposition, no doubt," she said, unable to keep the bitterness entirely from her voice.

She saw a flash of shame cross his face, quickly replaced by something that looked remarkably like concern.

"Yes, but—" He paused, seeming to truly see her for the first time. "Miss Lowell, are you quite all right? You seem... distressed."

The gentle inquiry nearly undid her. Vesta turned away, ostensibly to examine a nearby rosebush, but really to hide the fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Why wouldn't I be all right?" she asked, proud of how steady she kept her voice. "It's not every day one discovers she's to be traded away for access to a flower bed."

"Traded away?" Doctor Welby's voice sharpened with what sounded like genuine dismay. "Is that what you think—"

He broke off as voices carried across the garden—her stepsisters, by the sound of it, approaching rapidly.

Vesta's eyes met his in shared panic. The last thing she needed was for her stepsisters to find them alone in the garden, especially given the current circumstances. Without a word, Doctor Welby stepped back, putting a more proper distance between them, though his eyes never left her face.

"This conversation isn't finished," he said quietly, urgently. "Please, Miss Lowell. Allow me to call properly tomorrow. There are things you need to know—things I must explain."

Vesta nodded quickly, already turning away as her stepsisters' voices grew louder. But she couldn't help glancing back once more at Doctor Welby, standing tall and uncertain among her flowers. The look on his face made her wonder if perhaps there was more to this situation than a simple business arrangement.

She hurried away, her mind churning with new questions. Why had he looked so distressed at her words? What could he possibly have to explain? And why, despite everything, did her heart flutter at the thought of seeing him again tomorrow?