Chapter Fourteen
The weather was unseasonably warm and sunny the next morning, so a stroll through Marlton’s expansive gardens was a must, according to Lady Regina. Daisy was itching to get on with her ancestor search at the Temple Church, but those infernal “courtesies” required a trek through the gardens with her host and hostess first. She prayed they could get it over quickly.
She should have known better.
As the talkative earl and his lady wife prepared to squire Daisy, Uncle Red, and the countess around the gardens, they had their guests change into sensible walking shoes and a wrap that could be shed if they became too warm. The group was a full quarter of an hour into the walk before they reached the first set of plantings.
The gardens were the pride of Marlton, Lady Regina explained, and a great part of its fame. The flowers and shrubs were visited by rare butterflies and by birds on migrations—whatever the heck those were. The gathering of such rare specimens attracted naturalists from all over England, now including the young Duke of Meridian. Daisy chaffed privately at the realization that her upcoming meeting with the object of her hopes was made possible by a few posies and some six-legged critters. She wondered fleetingly what they’d done with the butterflies she’d worn at the Mountjoy’s ball.
The term “garden” was inadequate to describe the wealth of plantings and multitude of colors that rolled across Marlton’s massive acreage. It had begun as an arboretum, the earl said, planted by a tree-loving ancestor. But it hadn’t taken long for flowering shrubs, hedges, and patterned plantings of flowers to make their way into the preserve. For the last hundred years, each earl had managed to add something new and unusual. The present earl, Lord Robert, had installed what he called “topiaries”. . . bushes cut into fanciful shapes and figures that were nothing short of remarkable. One was shaped like a bear, another like a rabbit, and a third was laid out like a rank of chess pieces on a grassy board.
A small army of gardeners was tending the breathtaking beds and medallions of color made up of asters, bells of Ireland, verbena, valerian, phlox, sweet Williams, nasturtiums, freesia, dahlias, delphiniums, and primroses. How the earl and Lady Regina could remember what each was called was beyond Daisy. She struggled to memorize a few. Whenever they approached, the workers respectfully faded back to allow them full access and smiled proudly as the earl complimented their skill and dedication.
Awestruck, she forgot for a time the pressing nature of her mission. She had seen a number of estate parks in England and on the continent, and was no stranger to the public gardens and conservatories in Paris and London. But nothing could compare to the size and splendor of the gardens that generations of Albemarles had created here.
They strolled the gravel paths and paused to smell flowers, listen to fountains, and enjoy the various vistas created by the garden’s architects. Most fascinating were a set of tall, tightly woven hedges that looked like walls. Lady Regina insisted on leading them to a blossom-sheltered bower at the center of the maze and mischievously related that when a young man and young woman reached the center of the maze together, they were required to kiss to assure good luck.
Red stepped close to the countess with a wicked gleam in his eye.
“Not on your life,” she said with a blush, and fled with laughter at her back.
It was well into the afternoon before they returned to the house and Lady Regina insisted on providing a light “luncheon” before sending them off to their rooms for a rest. Daisy paced and fretted in her elegant ivy-themed room, while Collette watched anxiously and tried to get her to lie down. In the end, she sent Collette to the housekeeper for writing supplies and penned a letter to the dean of the Temple Church asking for access to records corresponding to the date on the paper she had found in Huxley’s collection.
Only after Collette carried the letter to Banks with instructions to exercise Dancer by riding into the city to deliver it, did Daisy surrender to the need for a rejuvenating nap. After all, as the countess had pointedly advised, that night she could be seeing the Duke of Meridian and had to be at her best.
* * *
The earl’s carriage collected the duke from the train station late that afternoon; Daisy was afforded a view of his arrival from her window on the second floor. His hair was a tad too long, his suit not at all stylish, and his broad gestures conveyed boyish excitement as the earl greeted him and ushered him inside. She turned from the window, squared her shoulders, and set about dressing to become a duke’s fondest desire.
Later, as she joined the countess to descend the stairs to dinner, she was pleased to see her sponsor’s smile of approval. She had chosen a sky-blue dinner dress that was intended to bring out her eyes, and Collette had put her hair up into a lovely cascade of curls that included a pair of silk butterflies already proven to draw the duke’s delight.
The salon was filled with people, every one of whom wanted to meet Daisy and her uncle. Introduction after introduction proceeded along familiar lines: the earl, viscount, countess, lady, honorable sir, missus, dowager, or simple reverend mister . . . and she was Miss Bumgarten from Nevada, America. Hands were shaken or kissed, pleasantries exchanged, travel, weather, and gardens were all referenced. Suddenly there was a rustle of interest among the guests and they looked to the salon entrance.
Daisy turned to see what caused it.
“Miss Bumgarten!” The duke rushed forward a few steps before remembering himself and slowing to a more dignified pace. “How wonderful to see you.”
“Your Grace.” She managed a small curtsy and a warm, winning smile as he reached for her hand. “This is such a pleasant surprise.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He ignored the other guests, who watched their meeting with keen interest. Not even the earl’s throat clearing could divert his attention. “I had no idea you were visiting Marlton’s gardens, too. What a marvelous coincidence. Who would have thought? But then, who can fathom the clever doings of Fortune herself?”
Before she could respond, a stout, white-bearded, old fellow in immaculate dinner attire appeared at the duke’s side to clasp his arm with not-so-subtle force. The duke seemed unfazed. “Dear Miss Bumgarten, I would have you meet my uncle . . . Bertram Graham, Baron Beesock.”
“Baron.” She gave him her hand, but the icy look on the old man’s face made her wonder if it would be frostbit when she got it back.
“Miss Bamgarters.” He bit off the words and gave a Prussian-stiff dip over her hand. It was only then that she remembered where she had seen him before; he was one of the family elders in the Earl of Mountjoy’s upper room.
A second later, he was whisking the duke away to greet other guests, and the countess appeared at Daisy’s side with a raised eyebrow that said she had seen the baron’s mispronunciation of her name and the crass way he spirited the duke away from her. Daisy nodded to her, took a steadying breath, and then turned brightly to engage their host and fellow guests.
When dinner was announced, Lady Regina led them into the dining room on Uncle Red’s arm. Albemarle escorted his mother, the dowager, and Daisy was surprised to have the duke appear at her side and offer her his arm. She cast a subtle glance around and discovered the countess had performed the ultimate sacrifice—throwing herself in the baron’s path and dousing him with enough charm that he couldn’t refuse to escort her.
Whether it was the countess’s influence or simple curiosity about the pairing on her hostess’s part, Daisy was seated beside the duke at dinner. She warmed as he took the chair beside hers and turned to her with a smile that could almost have been called shy.
“I am so glad to see you here, Miss Bumgarten. I know you said you enjoy gardens and butterflies, but people say such things to me—knowing I study them. I had a feeling that your interest was more genuine, and I am gratified to be proven correct. Have you seen the gardens?”
“I have only been here a short time, Your Grace, but the earl and Lady Regina personally squired us around the gardens. The plantings took my breath. Such colors and shapes. A surprise around every turn. And the butterflies . . . just thick around the flowers.”
“It seems you’ve already captured some in your hair.” He reached out to touch one of her butterflies and inadvertently brushed a curl on the nape of her neck. Surprised, she gave a small “oh.” He withdrew with a look of chagrin, but a moment later she met his glance with a smile and he relaxed. His face seemed a bit leaner than she remembered, somehow more mature.
“I’ve heard of Albemarle’s gardens for years.” He paused as the serving began, then continued when the footmen had moved on. “Don’t know why I’ve never come before. Just too absorbed in my studies, I suppose. And there is always so much to do.” He shrugged. “I’ve determined to see more of nature for myself. And I’ve you to thank, Miss Bumgarten. You are my inspiration.”
“I am?” She felt an unexpected wave of warmth at his earnest compliment. “How wonderful of you to say so, Your Grace.”
“When I saw how eager you are to travel and learn and see other places and other people—well, I realize how isolated I have been, and I am determined to remedy that. Starting with good Albemarle’s gardens.”
“Just wait until you see the topiaries they have installed,” Daisy said. “They’re such fun. Though I believe you’ll like the butterfly garden best.”
“They have a butterfly garden?” He pressed a hand to his heart. “I won’t sleep a wink tonight.”
At that moment a voice was raised down the table: his uncle Bertram was recounting a tale of the duke’s younger days.... “He fell into a muddy stream bank area while searching for a specimen and returned to the house covered head to toe with mud and oblivious to rugs and upholstery . . . thinking of nothing but his precious salamander.” There were polite chuckles as the other guests looked to the duke for a reaction. His ill-concealed discomfort silenced that end of the table.
“Well, salamanders can be quite a prize for twelve-year-old boys,” the countess said, trying to relieve the awkwardness.
“Twelve? That was just last year!” Uncle Bertram roared with laughter, oblivious to the fact that he was the only one laughing.
The duke stiffened and Daisy could have sworn he shrank inside his coat. Unable to help herself, she reached for his hand beneath the table, and when he looked over in surprise, she squeezed it and gave him a smile.
The rest of dinner was more enjoyable. Uncle Red recounted a few prospecting stories and the earl related a tale or two he’d read about cowboys on a cattle drive. Red and Daisy were called on to confirm that thousands of cattle were moved to railheads across vast open spaces, and that the drives sometimes took weeks. But they did have to say that this was less common since the railroads had spread over so much more of the country. Long, brutal cattle drives were no longer as necessary.
By the end of dinner the duke seemed to have recovered his spirits and spoke about the recent theories of naturalists about the habits of birds and even butterflies. Once again his uncle made pointed comments about his eccentric interests, but this time his remarks were ignored, even by the countess, who chose to converse with the guests seated opposite her instead of listening to him.
Later, when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the salon, the baron did his best to prevent Arthur from seeking out Daisy and was partly successful. She watched as Arthur was forced to sit hands of cards he had no interest in and suffered through displays of piano skill that ranged from pleasant to cringe worthy. Eventually the aging baron’s stamina and vigilance waned and the duke sought out Daisy for a chat.
“I must apologize for my uncle,” he said with a tepid smile. “He grows older and less discreet by the year. Whatever goes through his head comes out his mouth, without a care for how it may be received. And yet, I cannot be too hard on him. He and my aunts have always worried and fussed over me, and tried to direct and protect me.”
“No doubt,” she said. And what they were trying to protect him from, right now, was her. Daisy slipped her hand between them and risked another touch of his hand. “My mother has been much the same. She didn’t want me to tour the continent and come to England. But in the end, I recruited Uncle Red and wrote letters and contacted the countess—and—here I am.”
“Such pluck. You are without a doubt the pluckiest female I have ever known, Miss—May I call you Daisy? I feel like we have been friends forever.” When she nodded, it was as if the sun dawned in his face. “And do please call me Arthur—at least out of company. So few people do.”
By the time she trooped up the stairs at the end of the evening, Daisy was glowing with the success of her time with “Arthur.” When the countess arrived in her room later, she, too, was flushed with excitement.
“Now is not the time to rest on our laurels,” the countess forced herself to caution. “We still have to find evidence to satisfy the family elders.” Then she smiled. “But having the duke’s interest might sway things in our direction no matter what the outcome of your ancestry search.”