“That makes sense. I prefer to be up with the sun. Insects are far busier during the cooler hours. I imagine they dislike heat as much as the rest of us.” His eyes sparkled at her, alluding to their conversation from the day before. He gestured to her sketchbook, still all politeness. “Are you drawing the fountain scene? It is a bit of genius work, is it not? The dowager duchess designed this garden, I believe.”
Alice pulled her sketchbook a little closer. Would he think her foolish if he saw? Perhaps not, as he apparently spent hours and hours observing insects. “Not the garden in its entirety. Merely the flowers.” There, they had both done enough to be considered polite by Society’s standards. He would withdraw to his own business.
Except, if anything, he appeared more interested than before. “Your interest in flowers extends beyond glancing at their pictures in publications?”
A laugh escaped her lips, though it was somewhat rueful. “I believe most ladies sketch flowers from time to time, Mr. Gardiner. Society rather demands that we are schooled in sketching things that are reminders of feminine beauty.”
“I suppose that is true, but I find most give up realistic depictions in favor of the more artistic.” He sighed and scratched behind his ear, his gaze going back to the pond. His next inquiry was merely polite, instead of curious, which gave her leave to relax. “Which flower has captured your interest?”
Stretching the book out to him, Alice attempted to sound unruffled. “You may look if you like.”
He came closer to accept the book and flipped open the soft red cover. Then he looked from the sketch of the purple-loosestrife to her, then the real thing, then back to her.
“It is anatomically correct.” One of his dark eyebrows arched upward at the same moment his head tilted to the side. Without asking, he turned the page and spotted the last sketch she had done before coming to Clairvoir. She had taken the time to color it in with pastels.
“Oh, that is only a flower I found near King’s Lyn. The cook there keeps a patch to make tea for my uncle’s gout.” Alice’s voice trailed away, and she felt her cheeks burn. He didn’t care about her uncle’s gout, her drawings, or her. Yet something made her squeeze out the last of her explanation. “She calls it a speedwell.”
“A Veronica chamaedrys,” Mr. Gardiner murmured, though he nodded as though it were not a correction. With one finger, he traced the main flower before he looked at the detail of the leaves she had drawn along the side. She had attempted to recreate the illustrated plates in one of the Royal Society journals. In the scientific magazines, they always represented the plants in full, with more detailed sketches of their individual parts along the border of the page. “The germander speedwell. Londoners nearly eradicated it at the end of the last century, for that gouty tea. It has other purported properties, too. Real or imagined, I do not know.”
Well then. Perhaps he did care. At least about the flower. As a man interested in entomology, she had not expected his knowledge of botany.
“Miss Sharpe. These are remarkable renderings of plants. Do you enjoy drawing flora?” He gave her such a look as to make her hesitate in answering. Alice sensed it was not an idle question.
Though inclined to bite her lip and shrink away from answering, Alice answered quietly. “Yes. I do. Flowers fascinate me.”
He handed her back her sketchbook. “One moment, please. If you would indulge me, I would like to show you something.” He bolted away, going to the things he had dropped beside the manufactured pond. He shuffled through the pile and drew out a sketchbook not dissimilar to hers. The leather of his cover was green, she saw as he approached.
He undid the twist of leather meant to keep the covers closed and all loose-leaf paper inside. Opening the book, he held it against one arm while his free hand paged through the individual sheets. Then he pulled one out with a triumphant, “Ah-ha!”
Mr. Gardiner handed her the paper. “What do you think of this?”
She took the paper when he offered it and studied the drawing. She tipped the paper to one side to study the colors. The flower was yellow, but only one shade. The leaves about it were oblong, almost pointed on one end, and the stalk tall. But it took her a moment to identify the five-petaled flower. “Is it a primrose?”
“A common flower.” He pointed to the insect he had drawn next to the flower, a fuzzy bee-fly that appeared so realistic, Alice nearly touched the page to feel the soft tufts on its body. The wings were iridescent, allowing her to see, through them, the shape of the insect’s body. “And a common insect, terribly misunderstood by many gardeners. I have found the bee-fly to be a regular visitor to the primroses. I have chosen to depict them together. But you see that while I have devoted a great deal of attention to the detail of the bee-fly, the flower has been… Hm.”
“Neglected,” she supplied. “Yes, I see that.” But why, when he was obviously a skilled artist?
As though he had heard her question, Mr. Gardiner tapped the flower on the page. “Flowers are essential to many insects. They survive on the pollen and nectar, the petals and leaves, they make homes among the roots. And His Grace has commissioned me to compile a scientific catalog of flowers and insects here in the Clairvoir gardens. It is a complicated undertaking, and I find I prefer spending my time on the insects.”
He grimaced when she glanced up at him. “That will never do, of course. I must properly display both. I only have until the end of August to finish the work, and there are thousands of insects. Hundreds of plants.”
The enormity of the undertaking made Alice’s shoulders slump, but at the same time she admired Mr. Gardiner. “There is a vast deal for you to accomplish, sir, in a short time.”
“Indeed. I wonder, perhaps, if you might be interested in helping me.” When Alice’s gaze jerked back to him, he leaned closer to her, speaking quickly. “I do not dare suggest you take on my responsibilities, Miss Sharpe. That would be highly dishonest. But if you could assist me, when your time permits, as a colorist or to help me fill in details, I would be eternally grateful. I will not insult you by offering funds for such work, but I would credit you freely in the finished report and any subsequent publications.”
Alice’s lips parted and her mouth went dry. Did he mean to suggest that her name would appear in a scientific document? In the report he prepared for the duke, one of the most powerful men in England? Or perhaps, she thought, with a strange burning in her stomach, in a public journal or magazine.
With her heart racing, Alice pressed the paper into his chest. Then she fairly jumped backward when his hand came up to catch the sketch, covering hers quite by accident. She had removed her gloves to draw, and he wore none. The momentary warmth transferred from his palm to the back of her hand seemed to travel up her arm and into her chest.
“I—I have duties enough, Mr. Gardiner. Though I thank you for your generous offer.” Alice took another step backward.
He could not know—How could he?—that she had dreamed of such a thing. Dreamed of being a person of notice, if only for a moment or two. Her name, her drawings, under the eye of anyone of importance gave her a thrill of excitement.
But bringing such attention to herself would embarrass her family. She was certain of it. They never wanted her to be seen as anything other than part of the furnishings of their houses. She was beneath the notice of anyone of importance.