Page 34 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)
F rom the Quentin Daily-
Sources say that a certain noble lady has taken to wearing suspiciously large hats. Are they a daring fashion statement or are they hiding some sort of disfigurement?
The next morning, when the sun still battled with dawn’s mist at the far horizon, James returned to the great house only miles from his own, the gardening books secured in his leather saddlebag.
He was looking forward to enjoying the main pleasantries of Devon Manor, which were visiting with the ladies of the house and enjoying Mrs. Davis’s excellent food.
Percy’s chef believed—as did his own—that every occasion was worthy of a slice of cake, and that any time was excellent to enjoy a crisp cucumber-and-smoked-salmon sandwich with chevre.
It had troubled him of late that Percy’s smoked salmon might, in fact, be better than his own, and on the ride over, with the sun rising in the sky and a crisp breeze teasing the edge of skin between his gloves and coat, he decided that he intended to discover why.
It was only fish—surely the smoking method couldn’t make that much difference.
It was this small distraction that kept James from comprehending what he saw when his gelding plodded its way up the drive.
Candace stood knee-deep in the front planter, a small ring of green and brown destruction circling her dirt-streaked skirts.
She held a shovel in her gloved hands and, even as he watched, did her best to plunge the blade of it into the earth, narrowly missing her own foot.
Beside her, Vera spoke rapidly, throwing her hands in the air. Then she shook her head and abandoned Candace to the stubborn jut of her chin, meeting James in the drive.
“See if you can talk some sense into her; none of us can. For myself, I’m going inside to check if Mrs. Penn needs help tearing bandages.” Vera huffed her way into the house.
“Good morning, Candace.”
He drew near to get a better look at her progress. If there was any progress, it was difficult to see it past the globs of mud and the scattered leaves. He set the stack of books next to her discarded bonnet on the front stoop.
“Good morning, James.” Color was high on her cheeks; she kept struggling with the unwieldy shovel even as she greeted him as calmly as if they’d met in an elegant drawing room.
He watched for several moments as she floundered in the sucking mud in her tiny boots, which were invariably ruined.
In fact, the entire ensemble—skirts, coat, gloves, and the hat she’d tossed down upon the front stoop—were probably all past any redemption available at the end of Hortense’s brush and a wash basin.
“First time using a shovel?” he asked lightly.
Candace paused, blowing a lock of red hair from her cheek with irritation. “It was you who encouraged me to learn new things, James.”
“Indeed I did.” He gestured for the handle of the shovel, and she narrowed her green eyes. “A demonstration, nothing more. If you want it, I’ll give it right back.”
“Very well.” She thrust the wooden handle at him and accepted his hand to help her out of the small hole she’d been standing in.
“What is, er—what are you doing?”
“I’m digging .”
His lips trembled, and he smoothed them with effort. “Obviously, but what is the intended goal?”
“This is where the tulips will go. The white ones, at least.”
He set one booted foot against the blade. “How deep do you need to plant them for them to bloom properly?”
Candace blinked at him. “I don’t know.”
“Ah. Well, I’ve brought you some books on the topic; perhaps we should consult them over some breakfast before proceeding.”
Her green eyes flashed and narrowed once more. “That sounds like an excuse to get me out of the planter.”
“Not at all, though I might ask why you think you’re the best person for this particular task.”
“Of course I don’t think that, but our man of work and his sons are working in the back pasture on the broken fence, as they have been all week.
Mrs. Davis’s knee ached last night, which means we’ll likely have rain today or tomorrow.
And if it rains, who knows when it will stop?
I need to get the bulbs in the ground now . ”
James thought for a moment. “Let’s have breakfast, after you refresh yourself. You’ve made wonderful progress on this task for the moment—” Here, James carefully avoided looking at the small hole she’d managed, lest his lips quirk with humor. “We should consult the books before you proceed.”
“Very well.” Candace sighed as James rested the shovel against the stone facade. “They’re probably right, anyway. It would take me forever to plant a thousand white tulips—it’ll be impossible to get them in before the rain.”
He frowned, stooping to gather her hat and the books. James hated the defeat in her voice, the long lines of acquiescence on her face.
“Don’t give up just yet. But we should take sustenance before we proceed.”
Once Candace slogged her way upstairs, shoulders rounded, the ribbons from her bonnet trailing on the ground beside her like fallen streamers, James was shown to the breakfast room and took a place at the table. He requested parchment and a pen from the butler, Benson, and jotted a quick note.
“Please have this delivered with all haste,” he said, passing the missive.
The butler nodded and hurried out the door.
“Thank goodness you arrived when you did.” Vera smoothed her hair back as she entered and took the chair across from James. “The entire house had paraded out there to beg her to stop. Well, not all of them, but myself and Mrs. Penn. And Benson gave her a very stern look, which had no effect.”
James grinned. “She has a stubborn streak. Part of the family inheritance, I believe.”
“It’s one thing when she’s aiming her strident nature at domestic problems, but I was sure she’d shear her toe off with that shovel.”
“Makes it difficult to dance, a lack of toes.”
Vera laughed, a low, rough sound. “Of course, she thinks she’ll never dance again. But we both know that’s not true.”
There was that same glint in Vera’s eyes—the not unkind acknowledgement that she knew how he felt for Candace.
“That will be entirely up to her. The dancing, I mean.”
“On the contrary. Dancing notoriously takes two.”
“Do you enjoy dancing, Vera?” He drummed his fingers against the table.
“Perhaps, but no one’s ever asked me.” She arched an eyebrow. “Which is precisely my point about Candace. In her current mind, she may not realize another dance is to be had until someone is bold enough to ask.”
“Indeed.”
He admired Vera more in that moment. She showed tact, bringing up a delicate subject in such a way that they weren’t truly speaking of Candace and her broken engagement—not really. If one weren’t privy to all the knowledge they had, anyone who overheard their conversation would be none the wiser.
He frowned, considering Vera more closely. It wasn’t just the awful clothes she had worn, but the title of spinster as well. Perhaps that was the real problem—once society began to ignore a person, the habit was hastily adopted by all.
Still, James could think of half a dozen good, well-titled men who would be delighted to have Vera as wife.
She was quite pretty—ash-brown hair and large green eyes ringed in thick lashes, a cream-colored complexion that often belied her state of mind with splotches of pink, and an adorable dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“If someone asked you to dance, would you be inclined to accept?” he asked.
Vera drew her head slightly back. Several moments passed before she answered. “Possibly. But then, I’ve always been just as happy sipping punch in the corner and watching the delightful fray. There’s no danger of suffering injury if one isn’t dancing.”
James nodded, conceding the point. He knew little of Vera’s family—only that her father rarely accepted social invitation, and her mother readily accepted all, though her presence was difficult to be borne.
Vera had a couple of brothers who were married and well settled, forming families of their own.
“I’ve spent several years bracing the wall myself,” he said with a wry smile. “There are many unique benefits to be found on the outskirts of the whirl.”
She laughed. “Bracing the wall. What a unique way of putting it—so much better than ‘wallflower.’”
“I always thought that a sort of compliment. As if acknowledging the beauty of the ladies on the periphery.”
“It treats us as meaningless decoration—flowers at the proverbial wedding. Part of it, perhaps, but not at all central to the point.”
“I see.”
“And men such as yourself are never called wallflowers.”
“Men such as myself?”
She leaned forward, a conspiratory sparkle in her eye. “Wall-bracers. The ones who choose not to dance.”
“That’s because men such as myself are never comfortably off the market.” The words were out of his mouth before he considered the hurt that might be inflicted by them; he winced internally.
But Vera just tilted her head as if considering his words. “I suppose there is some comfort to that. Although we ladies are subjected to intense scrutiny and an abundance of pressure, it’s mercifully brief. A time quickly approaches when I won’t be thought of at all—at least, not in that way.”
“I didn’t mean—” he rushed to add in order to soothe, to leech the sting from his words.
She held up a hand, halting him. “The benefit of being a wallflower is that it gives one time to think, to observe, to carefully consider . That is the large part of how Candace found herself where she is: she was at the center of it all, so caught up in the glitter and the surge and the attention that she didn’t have a spare breath to decide what she truly wanted, what would actually make her happy .
By the time she had a moment to stop and think, it was already done. ”