Chapter Five

Parker followed Violet into the main greenhouse, lulled by the sway of her skirts. He’d always loved the sound his wife’s skirts had made as she’d dashed from one task to another. Funny how his fuzzy brain latched onto that particular memory. In a foreign country with a strange woman and sick as the proverbial dog, and all his mind could conjure up was the sound of his dead wife’s skirts. And even though the memory made his heart ache, perhaps that little slice of heaven would help get him through his task and back on American soil. He rubbed his chest as he followed along behind those comforting skirts. He held a firm belief God created only one woman for each man, and he’d found his already, years ago. Until a band of marauding British soldiers invaded their town and destroyed all he held dear while Parker was off fighting the war.

Since the war, he’d concentrated on learning the nursery business and getting by. Thomas McMahon, younger than Parker by several years, leaned on Parker heavily to keep his father’s nursery running and showing a profit after his father’s untimely death. Parker had been sent to England to handpick the roses for Mr. Jefferson’s garden and also to learn the groundbreaking techniques of hybridizing being achieved by Mulberry Hill Nursery. He was gratified by the faith placed in him, but all he really wished for was a speedy return home. A tour of Miss Wilson’s greenhouse could be marked off his rather formidable list after today. He’d see how the British laid out their greenhouses and if they were so different from the American way of doing things.

Parker shifted his bleary gaze from Violet to the sweet-smelling flowers in the greenhouse, all set in orderly rows. Even in his compromised state, he caught a faint whiff of their familiar odor and started to unwind. Here, he could feel most at home, most relaxed. His fingers brushed leaves both fuzzy and shiny, petals that were whisper-soft, and his heart rate settled into a nice, even pace, his muscles beginning to uncramp. He needed to spend time amidst the roses when his nose wasn’t quite so stuffed, to lean over and inhale their musky fragrances to truly feel at one with the world again. His senses would go into overload once he regained his health.

Violet led the way to a small area off the main floor of the greenhouse. Here, all the plants were in small containers on shelves, with drying racks hung from the ceiling. The racks were chock full of various herbs. Violet picked up a container and carried it to him.

“Can you smell this, or are you still unable?” She held out the plant for him to sniff. He obliged her and got a whiff of a strong, pungent odor, which made his head snap back.

“That scent certainly cut through my congestion. What is it?” He touched a shiny, waxy, narrow leaf, his curiosity aroused.

“It’s from India and is extremely rare in England, at least currently. It’s called cardamom and is in the ginger family. The flowers are pretty, but the seed pods are the golden part of the plant.” Violet stroked her finger lovingly over a plump pod as she spoke.

“Is it used in the same manner as ginger, then? For seasoning, and medicine?” He touched a pod as well and noticed how Violet’s fingers trembled a bit when his hand got close. He backed off so she could set the heavy pot back on the table. In many ways, Violet appeared fragile, but her years of working in the greenhouse had made her physically strong, and she handled the pot as if it weighed next to nothing. She had no need of his help, so he didn’t offer to assist her. Maybe his lack of action could be construed as ungentlemanly, but his gut told him any offer would be summarily rejected, anyway, and probably with a barbed comment.

“Uh, no. I mean, yes.” Violet shook her head. “It can be used as a medicinal agent, especially for respiratory problems, but it’s mainly used for seasoning and tea.” She lifted her gaze from the plant to him. “It’s even been said to be an aphrodisiac, if you can put any store in what the Indian growers claim.” Tinges of pink appeared on Violet’s cheeks. She spun around to replace the plant on the table.

“If my cough reappears, perhaps a tea with cardamom would help, then.” Parker chose to ignore Violet’s last claim about the spice. But the way she scurried on ahead of him like a frightened mouse, out of his grasp, made him aware she had not. He grinned. Here he was, so congested he could barely breathe, and he’d been none too steady even before his illness, what with his bad leg. Yet she feared he’d run after her and have his way with her after drinking some of the herb. If he weren’t so ill, he’d laugh at the situation. He had no interest in Violet beyond what she could teach him. But the rustle of her skirts soothed him.

• • •

Why could she never control her mouth when she discussed plants? Usually, she could be quiet, and she preferred to fade into the background when she was forced from the confines of the greenhouse. But put her in her element, and her speech overrode her common sense. Why had she even taken him to the herb garden instead of shifting his focus to her roses and have him begin to make his selections, thereby fulfilling the purpose of his visit and having him one step closer to leaving? And then, why had she selected the blasted cardamom? To show him her superior intelligence? And then, why did she have to relay its aphrodisiac claims? He could have lived the rest of his life without that particular nugget of knowledge. Why did younger men fluster her so? She guessed she should be grateful the man in question could barely breathe and had a bum leg. If he ingested some cardamom and ran after her, she could easily get away.

Her cheeks burned and she dashed back to her office, leaving Mr. Sinclair on his own to explore the enclosed hothouse portion of her greenhouse, where her experiments were taking place. He’d unsettled her since their very first meeting when he’d held her hand too long, causing her stomach to quiver and her fingers to tremble. But then, most men had the ability to unsettle her. Day Three so far had become a nightmare, and they hadn't even broached the subject of hybridization he had come to England to learn. There would be no getting around talk of propagation with this man. First cardamom and then hybrid roses. Violet took a few calming breaths. She didn’t need to have any more talk of propagating or anything else that might stray into uncomfortable waters today. She would tell him because they’d gotten off to a slow start, it was now too late in the day to begin teaching him about the complicated process of hybridization. But she still had to sit through dinner tonight, with Mr. Sinclair as their esteemed guest. Well, she’d handle dinner just fine, too. She would control her mouth, perhaps keep it filled with food, and let her sisters carry the conversation.

The greenhouse door burst open, and Poppy barreled inside, carrying a stack of clothing and food for Violet and Parker. Violet rose to take some of the pile from her.

“Father told me to gather up all the spare clothing we had laying about for Mr. Sinclair to try on. Is he here?” Poppy scarcely took a breath.

Violet nodded. “Yes, he’s here. He’s in the hothouse.”

“Is he naked?” Poppy’s gaze ricocheted around the glass house.

Violet laughed. “No, you silly goose. He’s not naked. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on when he arrived. I’ll give him what you’ve found, but you need to hurry back home now.” She held out her hands to take the clothing.

“But I wish to meet him if he’s here and properly clothed,” Poppy exclaimed. Parker wandered into the office while they were talking. Poppy caught sight of him and dropped the clothes she still had in her hands. Her eyes grew wide and she dipped into a small curtsy. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Sinclair. So nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Poppy.”

Parker executed a slight bow, grinned, and picked up the pants and shirts from the floor. He held up a pair of trousers, which stopped at his knees. “It’s nice to meet you, Poppy, and while I appreciate you finding spare clothing, these won’t fit.”

“Oh, I could tell you were tall, but you’re so much more so than most English fellows,” Poppy murmured as she craned her neck. “I’ll continue to search and will see you at dinner.”

Violet shooed her out of the greenhouse while Parker riffled through the pile of clothing.

“Poppy is delightful.” His mouth quirked up into a grin.

Violet brushed her curls back from her face, corralling them into a tight bun at the back of her head. “That’s one way of putting it. Poppy is a handful. As are my other sisters. You’re in for a treat at dinner.”

To his credit, Parker said nothing about cardamom for the remainder of the afternoon. He did appear to be gaining on his congestion and cough, since his eyes were no longer bleary. After the abbreviated tour of the greenhouse, they ended up back at the office area. She took her seat behind the desk and stared into the icy blue depths of Mr. Sinclair’s eyes for a long minute before she shook herself and cleared her throat. Parker Sinclair wouldn’t leave until he learned what his employer had sent him here to learn, so she’d better get started. She took a deep breath and motioned for him to take a seat as she spread the meal, which Poppy had delivered, on the table.

“What kind of name is Parker, anyway?” The question slid out of her mouth like a slippery eel before she could stop herself. Not the topic she should have led with, but the discussion of plants wasn’t the only thing befuddling her. The man standing in front of her upset her equilibrium more than she cared to admit. She really needed to get out of the greenhouse more, as her father mentioned time and again.

“Parker is my mother’s maiden name.” He finally removed his satchel, which was strapped to his body, placing it over the back of his chair. Violet followed his movements with her eyes, appreciating the play of his muscles as he rotated his arms and shoulders. His rough work shirt, which he’d worn for days, now at least appeared clean, since it had been laundered while he lay in his sickbed. She shook her head to shift her mind into an appropriate line of thought. Staring at a man’s shirt and appreciating his arm muscles had gotten her in trouble once before with Davey, whose strong shoulders and forearms had been forged by his work as a farrier and blacksmith. The result of that disaster had sent her scurrying back to her greenhouse. She would not let it happen again. Her teeth ground together as she gained control of herself. Her gaze drifted to his hands, now dwarfing a sandwich of ham, cheese, and two thick slices of bread.

She swallowed hard. She’d chosen the path of their conversation, so now she must follow through with it. What had been the question anyway? Ah, yes, his name. “I only ask because it’s rather unusual. Is your mother still pleased with her choice of names?”

Parker shrugged his rather impressive shoulders and glanced away from her. Stitches and biscuits, Violet. What is wrong with you? Stop it! She should not be referring to his shoulders as impressive, even in her head.

“I certainly hope so, but she’s been gone for a number of years now. As has my father.” He straightened and his gaze locked on hers. “America is still an untamed country and can be a very dangerous place to live. Not at all the lap of comfort you’re used to.”

“I'm sorry to hear of your losses.” He waved her comment away. Perhaps the time had come to progress to other, more neutral, topics. If only she could think of something.

“How did all the sisters come to be named for flowers?” Parker’s gaze rose to meet hers as he turned the line of questioning to her, deflecting the conversation away from himself.

Violet smiled. “That was Mother’s doing. Father had just begun his nursery business when the first daughter was born. Mother handed her over to Father with the offhand comment that she was yet another flower for his garden. So, she became Iris, thereby starting the trend.”

“How many years has it been since your mother passed on?” Parker’s simple question brought Violet to the verge of tears.

“It’s been five years but seems so much longer. She contracted scarlet fever while helping a sick family in town when Poppy was still quite young. Iris, Lily, and I, along with nannies and governesses, have done our best to fill in for Mother after that. And, it’s quite sad that Mother isn’t able to see Poppy grow up.” Violet ran her hand over her eyes, searching her mind for a less emotional topic. “Since you're feeling better, perhaps I can show you the special roses we nurture here, and you can begin to pick what you need for Mr. Jefferson’s garden this afternoon. You have requested quite a few, and it will take some time to make your selections, so we’d best get started.”

Parker perked up like a parched plant freshly watered. He opened his bag and tugged out a sketchpad. “I visited briefly at Monticello before my trip and made some drawings of where the rose garden would be located. Let me show you what I have.” He stood and came around the desk, standing next to where she sat, so they could both view his drawings.

She tried hard to concentrate on the sketchpad, but could feel his body heat radiating against her cheek. If she pivoted her head ever so slightly, she’d be staring at his hip and what lay beyond. She took a deep breath and raised a shaky finger to the drawing.

“What a lovely location,” she squeaked and glanced over and quickly up to his face. He leaned over the sketches, his hip brushing her shoulder, and a wave of heat coursed through her body.

“Ah, I didn’t do the place justice with my simple sketches. Monticello sits on top of a mountain, and you can see for miles in each direction. The rose garden will flank the long circular drive and will be the first impression for Mr. Jefferson’s many important guests, so I must get this right.” He traced the proposed bed with his finger before he closed the pad and left her side to replace the all-important sketches in his bag.

“Well, let’s wander through the roses, and I’ll tell you a bit about each one. You can begin to whittle down your choices.” Violet picked up an order pad and pencil and stood. She needed to get her greenhouse back to herself, and soon. If she had to prod this man along, she’d happily do so. They could get started on his massive order yet today, and she’d be one step closer to shoving the man out her door. And to getting her life back. She’d put all thoughts of his clothing, his shoulders, and his large nicked hands out of her head and focus on what he’d come to this country, and to Mulberry Hill, for. She could do this.