Page 50 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)

F rom Gardens from Age to Age, A Compendium ?—

Birdsong is the cheerful crown of an English garden. Though many attempt to manufacture the joy of that which nature bestows willingly, it is this author’s belief that no caged bird sings as beautifully as those who choose to visit a garden freely.

James was a faithful visitor the next few days as Candace recovered. She wouldn’t spend more than two days in her room, to Hortense’s dismay, but she consented to stay within the house for four, and Mrs. Penn kept all the rooms warm and tucked an afghan around Candace’s knees whenever she sat.

On the fifth morning, James found Candace working in the walled garden.

“Good morning, Candace.” He lifted his hand in greeting before realizing it was redundant to his words and dropped it quickly .

Perhaps it was her appearance that flummoxed him.

He wondered if he’d ever get used to how lovely she was.

She was especially so this morning, with her long red hair pulled back from her face in a thick braid, a plain white apron tied around her soft blue dress.

She knelt upon a folded towel that rested atop a tarpaulin.

“Good morning, James.”

He was glad she felt comfortable enough around him that she kept digging in the soil as he approached.

“What is your task today?” He frowned suddenly. “Are you well enough to be out of doors? Are you warm enough?”

She rolled her eyes and kept right on working. Now that he was closer, he could see she was weeding the planter box.

“Don’t you have gardeners for that? I thought you hired some from the village.”

“All of the men are busy clearing the garden folly. Mr. Scott says it will take at least a week to cut away the vines and clear the stand of trees that’s blocking it from view of the house.”

“These weeds can’t wait a week?” He smiled over her bent head.

“They’ll only be a week older, a week bigger. Besides, I don’t mind. I’ve been cooped up in that house for days. The sun feels good and it’s a lovely day.”

She certainly sounded better. Her voice was clear and strong, her skin back to full color instead of that pink-nosed pallor she’d had the first day .

“Speaking of the garden folly,” she said, “I’ve had an idea.”

Whatever it was, he was inclined to go along with it based on the smile on her lips and the sparkle in her eye alone.

“Am I to guess?” he teased.

“As I’ve said, it’s a shame it’s been hidden away all these years.”

“Indeed. These sculptures are better than some in the British Museum.” He tilted his head in interest. “What are you thinking?”

“I’ve already said the lake would be excellent for a garden party. I plan to throw one, invite the villagers and make a day of it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of sandwiches for Mrs. Davis to make.”

She laughed. “I’m sure there’s a way to do it. It would be my thank you for all the work they’ve put into Devon Manor over the past year. Both the house and the grounds wouldn’t have recovered if not for the industrious nature of the local populace.”

“Indeed.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I’m not trying to dissuade you from this idea in the least, but I feel I must remind you that the populace wouldn’t have been half as industrious if they weren’t being paid to do so.”

“Oh, I know that.” She swatted at his elbow. “Still, it would be fun, wouldn’t it? To have a picnic with decorations and streamers, something to celebrate the true arrival of spring?”

“That it would. I’ve no doubt that the villagers would enjoy it immensely. I assume you realize they’ll have to come to the house to access the road?”

She nodded. “I’ve already thought of it. I was going to have Mr. Scott hitch a wagon and give people rides to and from the picnic site. Those who want to walk from the house will be able to, but those who would rather ride can do so. What do you think?”

“I think you’ll be very popular in the village, indeed.”

“That’s not why I’m doing it. The garden folly should be shared, but we can’t have people traipsing through Percy’s fields whenever they feel like it. This way, everyone will get the chance to have a look. We could make it an annual thing.”

“It’s a wonderful idea. Please let me know how I can help.”

“I may need your kitchen’s help making sandwiches.”

He chuckled. “If all of the village will be traipsing through your gardens, it’s no wonder you’re digging in the dirt. What assistance can I offer today?”

Candace frowned up at him. “You want to help?”

“Of course. I came to see you. If gardening is the activity of the morning, I see no reason not to join in.”

“Very well.” She started to rise, then accepted his hand for help. She removed her gloves and propped her hands on her hips, surveying the garden.

“It’s looking beautiful,” he said, his eyes still on her.

She hummed in agreement, seemingly distracted by the tulips nodding under the weight of their new blooms in the corner.

The walled garden had undergone a vivid transformation under Candace’s care these last few weeks. She’d cleared away the dead remnants of the previous plantings, brought the remaining vestiges to heel with her clippers, and planted a bevy of new things .

Under her instruction, the gardeners had repaired the wall, built garden benches, installed trellises for the newly planted fruit trees so they might be trained as they grew, laid fresh gravel upon the walkways, and gotten the dry fountain running once more.

The effect was striking. Instead of a dead, overgrown square, it was a lovely, orderly garden, ready to burst forth in bloom.

“I still think something’s missing in the far corner, but all of the books you bought state that gardening takes time and patience.”

He smiled down at her. “A wonderful occupation for you, then.”

She scoffed and swatted his elbow with her gloves. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Nothing. Only that patience is grown much like a garden—slowly.”

“What would you know of patience?”

“Too much, some might say.” Candace peered up at him curiously, and he redirected her attention before she could ask his meaning. “If you can’t come up with a different task, I’ll assist you with yours.”

“Weeding?” She lifted her eyebrows.

“Don’t look so surprised. I don’t consider myself above such a thing.”

“Very well.” She shrugged. “You may share my towel—otherwise it becomes quite brutal on one’s knees.”

James was secretly delighted with her suggestion—the towel was perhaps only a few feet long.

Which was how, for several hours, James found himself working side by side and chatting with Candace in her garden, every so often brushing her shoulder or bumping her elbow not-quite-by-accident.

He laughed with her, teased her, and felt something bloom between them that had very little to do with the garden itself.

The following day, James returned home from a ride down to the village, having posted a letter—one so important he felt the need to deliver it to the innkeeper’s hand himself.

He entered the front parlor and found Candace and Arthur focused on a puzzle on a round table, Seamus snoring at their feet. Their heads were bent close together, and as James watched, Candace pointed at something and murmured to Arthur.

The sight was so like the scenes he’d painted in his own mind that James stopped and stared. He resisted the urge to pinch himself to see if he’d wandered too far into one of his own daydreams. Candace smiled down at Arthur, but it was James who was left breathless.

“Father!” Arthur called, glancing up and noticing him lurking in the doorway. “Lady Candace brought me a present!”

“Did she?” James walked to the table, pretending that he hadn’t paused at all. “That was very kind of her.”

Candace smiled up at him. “It’s a small trinket, nothing more. It finally arrived from London and we couldn’t wait for you to start it. I hope you don’t mind. ”

“Of course not.”

James fought the inclination to smooth a stray curl at the nape of her neck. He settled for staring at the red wisp instead, imagining what the silk would feel like against his fingers.

“It’s like a dissected map,” Arthur said, “but it’s a painting instead.”

His son pointed toward a piece of paperboard that showed what the puzzle would look like when it was finished. It was a ship upon the sea—sky and clouds, white sails and rigging, and frothing ocean.

“Five hundred pieces, Father!”

Arthur’s eyes were bright with the challenge. He offered Candace one of the pieces.

“No,” Candace murmured, sliding it into a different pile. “This is one of the clouds. See the variation? It’s not a sail.”

“What about this one?”

She canted her head, scrunched her nose. “Maybe it’s a bit of both? See that line?”

Arthur nodded and placed it between the two distinct piles they’d made.

“Have we found all the edge pieces?” As she asked the question, Candace looked up and smiled at James.

He felt it all the way to his toes, that smile.

It wasn’t the one she offered when she was in a ballroom, where anyone and everyone might be watching her.

It was a different sort of smile—free and simple.

It stunned him even more for the relaxation behind it.

James wondered if any man had ever seen that smile.

Probably her brother—she undoubtedly felt comfortable around Percy .

The idea made him frown. Much like her puzzle pieces, perhaps she’d sorted James into a pile with her brother. Maybe she felt no more for James than for Percy—a comfortable, safe, well-worn friendship that would never be anything more than what it was.

“Join us.” She still smiled at him, unaware of his internal struggle. “We’re just starting to sort things into piles.”

And because he’d be hard-pressed to deny her anything—least of all a simple request for his presence and help—he pulled up another chair and helped his son and the most beautiful woman in all of England sort sails from clouds.