Page 9 of A Botanist and A Betrothal (Gentleman Scholars #4)

L incoln examined the blossom of the Epigogium aphyllum , grateful for the distraction it provided from his current circumstances. The rare and secretive plant was sturdier than the nebulous agreement he had made with Mr. Caldwell and his stepdaughter. Its presence here, like so many other unusual specimens he'd found, raised more questions than answers.

Never having expected to become betrothed, Lincoln wasn't sure what to do with a fiancée. She was easy to talk to and even easier to look at. But he was trying very hard not to get attached to her or to be distracted by her lovely and elusive presence. Their morning lessons had become the highlight of his days, though he told himself it was purely scientific enthusiasm.

The beautiful Ghost orchid was no white foxglove, but it was still a plant he hadn't encountered often. It reminded him of his betrothed. Delicate, contrary, beautiful. Like Vesta, it seemed to appear and disappear at will, challenging his ability to study it properly.

Betrothed. He had a betrothed. How truly strange. The word felt foreign on his tongue, like a Latin name he hadn't quite mastered.

Lincoln hadn't yet informed his family; only Roderick and Lucy knew. He dreaded the inevitable confrontation with his grandfather almost as much as he dreaded the possibility of being wrong about the white foxglove.

He had told the Northcotts everything, of course. He owed them his full honesty considering all Roderick had done for him and the other scholars. They weren't even shocked, which had nearly bowled Lincoln over with surprise.

"It's rather like something from a novel," Lucy had said, her eyes twinkling. "The scientist and the secret botanist." Her words had made him wonder if Vesta's interest in plants was more than just a convenient excuse for their arrangement.

The Northcotts didn't think very highly of their neighbour, Mr. Caldwell, but they trusted Lincoln to make his own choices over his life. Grandfather Westbrook wasn't likely to feel similarly, but that was a problem for a different day.

Today, he was surveying and cataloguing plants. It ought to fill him with excitement. It did fill him with excitement, of course; nothing made this botanist's heart happier than writing down the names and details of as many plants as he could encounter.

And the Caldwell property was remarkably diverse in its plant life. Almost suspiciously so.

Thus, he was staring at a Melampyrum cristatum and wondering how it got there. It was unusual for this part of England, especially paired together with its neighbouring plant, Cypripedium calceolus . The combination stirred a memory of something Roderick had mentioned about patterns in their treasure hunt research, but he couldn't quite grasp it.

The two plants didn't normally enjoy the same soil or light conditions. Lincoln had never heard of the two plants, neither the most common plants to be found in the English countryside, cohabiting. Lincoln began to wonder about the oddity of so many rare plants being found in one area. It was as if someone had deliberately created this unlikely garden, but to what purpose?

Would Mr. Caldwell be frank with him about the land? Had the ornery businessman somehow imported these plants in some strange way, and for what purpose? The man's eagerness to have Lincoln study the white foxglove took on a new significance in light of these botanical anomalies.

Mr. Caldwell didn't strike him as the sort who knew anything about the world around him, at least not pertaining to botany. Mr. Caldwell's expertise was making money and doing deals—something Lincoln knew nothing about—so he couldn't fault the man for not understanding Lincoln's field of study.

But Lincoln didn't trust that Mr. Caldwell would tell him the origins of the land. How could he find out? Would Vesta know? How could she? Though she had surprised him with her knowledge during their lessons, showing an intuitive understanding that sometimes took his breath away.

While Lincoln continued taking notes, almost by rote, the questions circled in his head even as he thought back to that dinner in which their betrothal was announced. It had been an odd experience to say the least.

Vesta's mother had barely said two words on the subject. She had shown almost no reaction. Remembering that brought a frown to crease his forehead. Lincoln was certain his own mother was going to have plenty to say when he showed up with a fiancée she had never met.

Why was it that Mrs. Caldwell had nothing to say? The woman's laudanum dependency might explain her silence, but something about it nagged at him. Like the strange plant combinations, it felt like another piece of a puzzle he couldn't quite see.

Vesta's stepsisters had said plenty, but none of it positive, that was certain. Lincoln's mind drifted back to that uncomfortable dinner, his fingers stilling on his notebook as the memory surfaced.

"A botanist?" Kimberley had practically shrieked when Mr. Caldwell made the announcement. "Papa, you cannot be serious. What sort of connection is that? We thought you meant a proper gentleman!"

Nancy had seized on her sister's protest. "At least a baronet, Papa. You promised us better opportunities, not some... some... plant collector."

She'd aimed a sneer in Lincoln's direction that would have done any duchess proud, though her elbows on the table rather ruined the effect.

"Girls," Mr. Caldwell had started, but Kimberley wasn't finished.

"It's not fair!" Her fork had clattered against her plate. "We're your real daughters. Why should she get to marry first? Even if it is just a botanist."

The last word dripped with such disdain that Lincoln had nearly laughed, though he'd caught himself when he saw Vesta's fingers whitening around her napkin.

"Mr. Welby is grandson to the Marquess of Westbrook," Mr. Caldwell had announced with obvious satisfaction.

The transformation in the stepsisters had been immediate and almost comical. Nancy had actually knocked over her wine glass in her haste to simper in Lincoln's direction.

"Oh, the Marquess of Westbrook! How distinguished! Vesta, you sly thing, keeping such information to yourself."

"I didn't—" Vesta had begun, but Kimberley spoke over her.

"You simply must tell us all about your family, Doctor Welby." She'd leaned forward, displaying what Lincoln assumed she thought was a becoming décolletage. "Do you have any brothers? Or perhaps cousins?"

"I'm sure Dr. Welby doesn't wish to discuss his family connections over dinner," Vesta had said quietly, but with a firmness that had drawn Lincoln's attention. He'd caught a glimpse of steel beneath her usual gentle demeanor.

"How would you know what a gentleman wishes to discuss?" Nancy had snapped. "It's not as though you've had any experience with proper society."

"Unlike you two paragons of refinement?" The words had been barely a whisper, but Lincoln had heard them. When he'd glanced at Vesta, however, her face had been a mask of perfect composure.

Mrs. Caldwell had remained focused on her plate throughout the exchange, though Lincoln had noticed her hand trembling as she lifted her glass. Mr. Caldwell had beamed at them all as though witnessing a perfectly pleasant family dinner.

Looking back now, Lincoln could better understand why Vesta spent so much time in the garden. Any refuge from such company would be welcome. The memory of her quiet dignity in the face of their crude behavior made something protective stir in his chest. Even if their arrangement was one of convenience surely, she deserved better than the barely veiled contempt of her own family.

How had his gentle, quiet, even studious betrothed endured this household for as long as she had?

A part of Lincoln wanted to marry her as quickly as possible to get her away from the cad who was her stepfather and the awful young women she endured as stepsisters. But that might be a disservice to the poor young woman.

What did Lincoln have to offer her aside from a bunch of plants? And the growing mystery of their placement, which he was beginning to suspect might be connected to the treasure hunt that had brought him and his fellow scholars together.

If he was right about the foxglove, he might have plenty to share with her in the not-too-distant future. If he was wrong, all he had was a room at the scholarly institute.

Lucy and Roderick had been kind and offered that Vesta could join the household if they ended up wed and destitute. Lincoln appreciated the offer.

His word as a gentleman required that he would marry the woman if she agreed after a time. As far as Lincoln understood it, he was committed, but he was willing to let her go. In fact, he might be happy to let her go, but it was now for her to decide.

Though the thought of her walking away made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with scientific curiosity.

He had already spent two days wandering Mr. Caldwell's land, taking notes and studying the plants. He wished he could take the specimens back to the Institute for more experimentation but he had promised Mr. Caldwell he wouldn’t do so until they wed.

That had probably been foolish on his part, but what was he supposed to do?

He was a gentleman, after all. Grandfather Westbrook would expect it of him. Or perhaps his mother would. Actually, Lincoln could barely imagine Grandfather Westbrook considering a young lady's opinion on anything.

The Marquis of Westbrook didn't consider anyone's opinion on anything. Perhaps that was why Lincoln felt so strongly about allowing Vesta her say. Or perhaps it was the way her eyes lit up when she made a new discovery during their lessons, showing him the garden through fresh eyes.

He couldn't concentrate. Frustration welled within him, and he almost threw his notebook into the nearest ditch. Vesta was distracting him already, and she wasn't even there.

Perhaps he conjured her with his thoughts, for suddenly, she was standing before him, a notebook of her own clutched to her chest and an expression of determination on her face that made his heart skip.