Page 50 of Whispers of Shadowbrook House

She wondered if she ought to simply get into the carriage and come back another day, but she had her instructions. “There is an order for Ashthorne Hall, I believe.”

The man leaned out into the wind and rain as if inspecting her. “You the Whitbeck’s new flower girl, then?” he asked with a growl. His breath carried more than a hint of whiskey. His glare, more than a hint of disdain.

His rude behavior made her wish she would never have to return here. But since it was the only garden shop for miles, she knew she’d need to come back. Perhaps she could salvage some of this bad first impression.

“Mr. Gardner?” she asked, holding out her hand and hoping she did not look as much a fool as she felt, standing in the rain.

Ignoring her proffered hand, the man shook his head and huffed in contempt. “I’m James. Gardner is out back in the greenhouse. He has your parcels. Walk on through.”

Though relieved that this unpleasant man was not Mr. Gardner, Hyacinth felt James could do with a reminder of basic manners.

He spoke to her as he would to a horse. But she chose to say nothing and simply followed him through the shop and out the back door.

A glass garden structure glowed with the light of dozens of hanging lamps, warmer and more welcoming than any word from James had been.

The alleyway between the shop and the greenhouse was a throughway for the night’s wind, which gusted against Hyacinth’s body and practically pushed her sideways.

James rapped on the glass door and waited, his hand holding his hat to his head.

He muttered something about locked doors that she did not try to hear.

Hyacinth watched through the glass as a figure scuttled toward them, becoming clearer as he approached.

By degrees, she could discern his short, round figure, his hurried gait, and his full, white beard.

Everything from his posture to his age to his stature spoke of the difference between him and his hired helper.

James was large and slouching and sullen.

The man hurrying toward her practically bounced as he jogged, and she saw his smile through the glass walls.

By the time he opened the door, Hyacinth knew she would be fond of this man.

James muttered, “Whitbeck’s new hire,” and made a sound of displeasure. “Hope she finds the manor to her liking.” He sounded anything but hopeful as he turned back to the shop.

Hyacinth was not sorry to be rid of him.

“Ah, Miss Bell. I’m George Gardner, and very pleased to meet you.” With a warm smile on his weathered face, Mr. Gardner reached for Hyacinth’s hands and pulled her into the safety of the greenhouse. He chuckled as he looked up into her face, as he was only as tall as her shoulders.

“Welcome, welcome. Come in out of all that weather, dear,” he said. “I’m right glad you’ve found us.”

A shock of white hair grew like a cluster of shaggy ink cap mushrooms from beneath his pointed red hat. His brown leather apron did little to hide his bulbous stomach, which seemed to shake as he laughed. With a hand still on her arm, he reached over and locked the hothouse door behind them.

“Can never be too careful,” he said when he turned back. With a clap of his hands, he said, “Now. Can I talk you into a cup of tea and a comfortable seat before we get down to business?”

“I really must not keep the Ashthorne housekeeper waiting long,” Hyacinth said. “But I hope we can share a cup and a visit on another day. I am sure you have much to teach me.”

Mr. Gardner laughed again. Hyacinth believed it might be his natural response to most situations, and she decided she liked it a great deal indeed.

With a wink, Gardner said, “Oh, don’t flatter me, young woman. I’ve nothing like the skill you’re known for. Mr. Whitbeck sent word about you.”

“Did he?” Hyacinth smiled at that. What might he have said? She was pleased her reputation impressed him enough that he’d spread it through the village before he left for India.

“Oh, aye. You’re a right smart touch with the orchids, he tells me. And well you should be, for his collection is a masterwork. Far more than James and I could manage.”

“Sir, I’m sure you kept the collection in good order since Mr. Whitbeck left,” Hyacinth said.

Mr. Gardner nodded. “It’s a beautiful lot he has, indeed. James would have liked to stay up at the manor, for he does fancy life at the big house. As I worked in the hothouses, he took to wandering. I believe he went looking for pirate caves.” Mr. Gardner’s laugh rolled out of him again.

“But you, Miss Bell, are perfectly suited for the work and the station. Between you and me,” Mr. Gardner said, “when I took on the extra work at Ashthorne, I ought to have hired someone who knows more about plants. Or who is more polite to customers. Or who can manage to stay in the place he is supposed to be working.” Mr. Gardner laughed again, as if his mistake in hiring his employee was a great joke.

If she knew him better, she might ask one of the many questions filling her mind. Why would Mr. Gardner hire someone so obviously unfit to help him in his work? But even though he led the conversation in that direction, she felt it would be rude to pry.

“Good help is often difficult to find,” she said.

Mr. Gardner grinned and nodded, holding the sides of his ample stomach. “Mr. Whitbeck certainly got the best England had to offer when he found you.”

Hyacinth began to make a polite denial, but Mr. Gardner gestured to the pot in Hyacinth’s hand. “Have you already been to the manor, then?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Oh, no. This is Eleanor. She once belonged to my mother.”

The emotion in her voice surprised her. Of course she loved her plant, but the feeling of loss and mourning caught Hyacinth off guard, and she put her free hand to her face as she attempted to steel herself against her grief.

Mr. Gardner seemed able to read her feelings in her face. He nodded gently and said, “And a fine-looking orchid she is. She’ll fit right in with the others.”

His affirmation was exactly enough to help Hyacinth move past her momentary sorrow.

“Thank you. Having her safe in the orchid house will be a relief to us both, I’m sure.”

“We mustn’t keep either of you waiting, then,” he said, and they made their way to the rear of the greenhouse where he gestured to a stack of crates.

“I’ll have my man James load these into your carriage. And perhaps your driver can assist us.”

“I’m happy to help as well,” Hyacinth said, lifting a small box from the top of the pile to prove her willingness.

Mr. Gardner immediately protested, but Hyacinth didn’t give him a chance to stop her from helping.

Pulling a crate from the pile, Mr. Gardner led Hyacinth back out of the greenhouse and to the rear of the shop.

Mr. Gardner knocked and called out, “James, give us a hand with these parcels, if you please.”

As the shop door opened, Hyacinth heard the younger man muttering even over the sound of the wind.

If this was the kind of person working in this village, she felt grateful at the thought of a deserted manor house. She would rather be alone than in the company of men like James.

Returning bearing several of the boxes, he continued to grumble. She pretended not to notice his unsavory language or the comment that may or may not have been about her. As she lifted her crate up to the driver, James came up behind her.

She moved aside half a step to avoid touching him.

He moved closer, standing far too close to Hyacinth’s ear. “You’d do well to watch yourself in that old house,” he said. “Don’t go wandering. Place is haunted by spirits.”

Hyacinth chose not to answer, but she stepped away from James and closer to Mr. Gardner. Ghosts? Did this man think her a child, likely to be frightened by silly tales?

She was glad he could not see the fine hairs on her arms rising in response to his warning, unsure if she was more frightened or thrilled by the possibility of a haunted manor.

She stayed between Mr. Gardner and the driver as they moved the garden supplies to the carriage.

With all four of them carrying parcels, it only took one more trip to the greenhouse before the packages were loaded.

The driver retook his seat and held the reins as the horses stamped in the rain that had become a downpour.

Mr. Gardner handed Hyacinth in to the carriage.

“Keep your eyes open up there at the manor. You must know places like that are full of ghosts,” he said, still with a grin and a wink, but this time, Hyacinth’s shiver was less enjoyable than the first. After that comment from James, Mr. Gardner’s jest felt too real.

She glanced over Mr. Gardner’s shoulder, but James was nowhere in sight.

Mr. Gardner continued, “But that doesn’t mean you’ve anything to fear. Everyone knows old houses are full of haunts. No need to assume the ghosts are of a wicked turn of mind. You might learn a thing from the Ashthorne spirits about making yourself at home.”

He grinned, and his whole face folded in wrinkles and the lift of pink cheeks.

“Of course, the coast has also been overrun with pirates for hundreds of years, and they are probably a different story. Do stay away from the pirates, Miss Bell. And please come see us when you next make a trip into the village. I owe you a cup of tea.”

His silly pirate warning made her feel better; clearly, his stories were all in fun. She gave his hand a squeeze and thanked him for his help. “I would love to come back and visit.”

Mr. Gardner nodded and closed the door. Seconds later, the horses were in motion, and once again, carriage full of garden supplies and head full of ghosts, Hyacinth was on the road to Ashthorne.