She looked at Constance’s expectant face and envisioned six hundred pounds slipping through her fingers. Her throat began to itch.
“And what latitude have we to make use of the parklands?” She gestured out the window at the rolling downs and thick forest that made up the better part of Westhaven’s grounds beyond the manicured pleasure gardens.
Lady Constance laughed. “The parklands, Miss Cavendish? Do you mean to dress my ballroom in gorse and meadowsweet?”
Poppy tapped her chin, an idea flickering into focus in her mind.
“I’ve always thought there is nothing more evocative of the countryside than our beautiful native flora. The wildflowers are at their most gorgeous and romantic this time of year, and they would look remarkable in contrast with the grandeur of the ballroom. After all, without a touch of the wild, all we will have are rooms overfull with dull … ordinary flowers. Don’t you agree?”
She held her breath, hoping she had read the girl correctly.
Constance clapped her hands. “Why, it’s brilliant, Miss Cavendish! Why stop at a ballroom garden if we can have a ballroom forest?”
Poppy let out a sigh of relief. There would be plants enough to fill the rooms of Westhaven if she had to forage every last bluebell from the forest floor herself.
That left her only the next miracle to perform: finishing such a task in the unthinkable span of a fortnight.
Archer once again checked his watch, unable to concentrate on the pile of letters from London. He had spent the day riding with his land steward, an activity that reminded him why he had not returned here in thirteen years. He’d thought the estate had been stripped of the worst remnants of his father’s madness, but the obscene nymphs his forebear had erected in the grotto beneath the trout pond turned his stomach. If accidents of birth and death meant he must oversee a land he wished only to forget, he preferred to do it by correspondence.
Unfit to be alone with the kind of thoughts that kept overtaking his reports on coal prices, he went in search of Constance. The sound of laughter drew him to the library, where his sister and Miss Cavendish sat side by side in a shaft of late afternoon sunshine, their heads hunched over a sketchbook.
It struck him once again how lovely the gardener was. Like a willow tree, with her slender neck and her tumbling mass of plaited hair escaping from its pins.
“I think a bower of ivy draped over the windows in the colonnade,” she was saying. “Arranged so the leaves trail down over the glass and cast shadows in the candlelight.”
“I love it,” Constance breathed.
He leaned over them. “May I see?”
Both women jumped, too absorbed in their planning to have noticed his entrance. He held up his hands in mute apology. Westhaven made him this way. Awkward. Unable to comport himself properly. It eroded his veneer of control like the sea chipping away at a cliff.
“Good heavens, Archer, do announce yourself next time,” his sister said. “We ladies are at work.”
She gave him an ironic smile, anticipating his amusement at the notion of her working.
Behind her, his father’s ornate pleasure gardens twinkled in the afternoon light, like the old man winking at him from the grave. Unlike the lewd frescoes the duke had painted in the library, the collection of follies were not openly licentious. Nevertheless they had drained the family’s coffers while the estate fell into neglect. He should have had them razed.
“Your beloved gardens are at their most beautiful this time of year, don’t you think?” Constance chirped sweetly, following his gaze. “We’re going to light them with torches for the ball and build a platform right at the edge of the lake for dancing. Mr. Flannery is coming all the way from London to write it up for the Peculiar.”
Lord deliver him. It was his sister’s fondest wish to make her mark as a legendary hostess in the Parisian style. He’d been unhappy when she’d befriended the editor of London’s most notorious gazette in the service of her goal, and begun hand-feeding him her finest morsels of intelligence.
“See, there is no trouble. Now is not the time for scandal.”
He had spent half a lifetime repairing the name of Westmead from the shame his father had cast upon it. Securing the succession would finish the work. After that, Constance could do as she pleased.
“I would never dream of making scandal on the eve of your engagement,” she said, the picture of blatant insincerity.
“Oh dear, it’s growing late,” Miss Cavendish said suddenly, drawing to her feet. “I lost track of the time. I should return home before nightfall.”
“Oh, do stay for supper, Poppy. Archer is so dull. I am desperate for company.”
He ignored his sister’s provocation, preoccupied by the sight of Miss Cavendish gravely rolling up a scroll of sketches. So she called herself Poppy. Quite a name for a gardener. Not entirely fitting, given her demeanor. Thorn might be a better name for her. Or Stinging Nettle.
“You are kind, but I must return home before Mr. Grouse departs. Another time.”
“I trust Mr. Grouse met with your satisfaction?” Constance inquired. “My brother assures me he is our very best land agent.”
“He seems capable. I’d like to visit the nursery before dark to inspect the progress his men made today. Perhaps you could call for the carriage?” She glanced worriedly at a clock.
“It’s much faster in the curricle,” Constance said. “Archer, would you mind driving Miss Cavendish?”
“If Miss Cavendish does not object.” In truth, he welcomed the distraction. He was curious what exactly the gardener was undertaking to require so many men and such a state of haste.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You’ll want this before you leave,” Constance said, drawing a banknote from the drawer of her escritoire. I assume you have some means of drawing from it?”
“Indeed. My solicitor will see to it,” Miss Cavendish said, tucking it tidily into her ledger. Her manner was utterly imperious, like bills for a small fortune passed through her fingers several times a day.
Archer waited as Constance embraced Miss Cavendish like an old friend, then led her into the corridor.
As soon as they were alone, she crooked up a corner of her lovely mouth. “You do the work of the coachman as well as the gardener, Your Grace? The papers are right to call you industrious.”
Was that a slight twinkle in her eye? Perhaps the six hundred pounds had had an effect on her mood after all.
She exhibited no particular cheer as they made their way toward Bantham Park, however. She seemed distracted, or perturbed.
“I hope my sister was not too plaguing in her demands,” Archer said, his fifth attempt at making conversation in as many minutes. “She can be capricious but is susceptible to reason when pressed.”
“Not at all. Lady Constance is a pleasure,” Miss Cavendish replied in a firm tone that did not welcome further inquiry.
He repressed an inward groan. He was not particularly known for his charm, but he rarely found himself incapable of engaging another person in civil pleasantries. Was she nervous in his company? It had been years since he’d been alone with such a pretty woman. Perhaps he had erred in agreeing to drive her home without some form of chaperone. But then, they were in an open carriage on a sunny afternoon on a well-traveled road, and she was not a newly minted miss, but a seasoned nurserywoman with clients across the countryside. The rules of trade did not adhere to the rules of the drawing room, and a woman of her reputation as a supplier of plants would surely not be unaccustomed to dealing with men on her own authority.