Chapter Two

Day One

Having made some missteps during the night, it was afternoon by the time Parker and his weary mount found their way to Salisbury and Mulberry Hill Nursery. His head ached from where he’d been clubbed, and unsure of his route, he’d let the horse wander a while before a kind passerby set him on the right course. He raised a weary gaze as he passed a huge residence along the way from Portsmouth and marveled at the estate house, which more resembled a castle than a warm, inviting home. The building interested him a bit, but his attention almost immediately strayed to the grounds surrounding the house. Acre upon acre of lovely landscaping, trees, bushes, mazes, and ornamental structures. Who lived here? Who had the money for all of its upkeep?

Soon after passing the large estate, he arrived at Mulberry Hill. Parker stood for a moment and took in his surroundings while he let the horse drink his fill of water at the trough. Several greenhouses dotted the landscape, and he noted a well-tended orchard behind the large white house in the middle of the foliage. Fields of flowers and bushes radiated to the left and right of the house. He hitched his horse to the post in front of the house, assuming the office was inside, and strode through the door to face the man who he had come from America to meet—Edgar Wilson. A young man met him at the door and led him into Mr. Wilson’s office.

“I apologize, sir, for my tardiness. The ship had a rough go of it for a few days, and we lost a bit of time. And then there was a bit of a problem getting here from Portsmouth.” Parker shook the elderly man’s hand.

“I thought the way over from Portsmouth might have caused you problems. No need to apologize.” Edgar offered Parker a seat. “May I get you something to eat or drink?”

“A little something would be nice, thank you. I have come down with lung fever or possibly bronchitis, thanks to England’s damp weather, and my trunk was tossed in Portsmouth after I was knocked unconscious.” Parker gratefully sank into a seat and waited for the man to give directions to his assistant, who then hustled from the room.

“Your trunk was tossed, you say?”

“Yes, sir. The only clothes I now have are the ones I’m wearing, plus one shirt and a pair of boots the robbers didn’t care for enough to take. Or didn’t have enough arm room to carry off along with everything else.” Parker tried to grin but didn’t quite succeed. “I’ve got quite a good-sized goose egg on the back of my head, as well.” Parker raked his hand over his head and came away with a trace of blood.

“I am so sorry. To be clubbed in the back of the head and robbed is a rather inauspicious beginning for your trip.” Edgar shook his head. “But we will endeavor to change your experience in the next few days as I introduce you to my lovely daughters who are part of my business. Ah, here’s the food.” Edgar waved toward the door as a serving girl entered with a tray of cold meats and cheese, a few slices of warm bread, and a glass of ale. “Have you any money to buy replacement clothing?” Edgar leaned over his desk and searched Parker’s face.

Parker wiped his hands on the napkin that accompanied the food, clearing away all traces of blood before he pried off his boots and removed the money he’d been carrying. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep this for me. It’s the money my employer sent to buy merchandise from you. Since my personal money pouch was lifted at the same time my trunk was tossed, that’s all the money I have.”

Edgar picked up the bills and formed them into a neat pile. “We don’t keep any valets on staff, so I’ll have my youngest daughter, Poppy, help locate some clothing for you. Perhaps there are enough spare items here on the property to give you several options from which to choose. Poppy’s the best of my daughters to aid you, because the latest clothing from France is all she talks about. The others don’t care so much about what they wear.” He placed the money in a strongbox under the desk. “And of course, if we can find you some clothing here, there will be no charge. You may have to go to town for some additional items. Poppy loves to shop, so I’ll put her in charge of that, as well.”

Parker made short work of the food and drank the ale quickly. “How old is Poppy?”

“She’s fourteen, but in her mind, she’s much older.” Edgar smiled. “You may be of the opinion she’s too young to be able to properly assist you, but trust me, none of my other daughters can tell a cravat from a pair of breeches.”

Parker rolled his shoulders. “I’ll take her assistance, gladly. Will I be working with her on the roses as well?”

“No, another daughter runs my greenhouse operation. You’ll be working with Violet, who is in charge of our roses. But you’ll meet each of my daughters, and they’ll show you the part of the business for which they have responsibility. Our business arrangement may be a bit unusual, but when my wife passed away five years ago, the girls kept the business going while I grieved. Since it’s to be their legacy, I decided to continue to include them even once I got back on my feet.” Edgar spread his hands on top of his desk. “Why don’t you get to the inn, settle in, then come back here and I’ll take you to meet Violet?”

“Since I’m late already, I’d rather you take me to Violet now. I can go to the inn later.” Parker ran his hand over his now full stomach and coughed slightly. “If I were to go now, I’d probably fall into bed and waste what’s left of the day.”

Parker wondered which of the prickly daughters would be the most difficult to deal with. If the daughters were, indeed, prickly. After all, the man who’d imparted that information had then robbed Parker of all his material goods. So far, his choices were a fourteen-year-old with an adult attitude or the one who had control of the roses he needed to complete Thomas Jefferson’s gardens. Neither sounded all that prickly. If he weren’t so sick, it might be fun meeting and dealing with all the sisters. It had been a long time since he’d been in the company of women. Eleven years, as a matter of fact. Since the British had destroyed his family.

• • •

Violet affixed the big calendar to the wall behind her desk just as the door to the greenhouse opened. The enclosure had misted over during the night, condensation on the glass shielding her from the outside, but she didn’t need to see who had just entered. She’d been waiting for him all day. She straightened her spine, willing it to be composed of steel for the next month. Her American albatross was here. Later than she expected, but still.

Time to face the inevitable. She could be cordial, as her father had requested. She’d be the epitome of frosty English grace. Teach him quickly and send him on his way with a boatload of roses. Sell him much more than necessary in order to gain more profit from his visit. More money in the nursery’s coffers wouldn’t make up for the lapse in Violet’s hybridizing efforts, but it would at least be something to point to with pride. She pasted a smile on her face, left the confines of her small office, and strode out to meet her father and the American.

Her footsteps faltered as she caught sight of their guest. She’d expected an older, white-haired, balding gentleman, possibly stooped over from decades of tending young plants. Yet the man standing in front of her was neither white-haired nor stooped over. Instead, he towered over her by at least eight inches. His arms were well developed from his work in his American nursery, and his buff-colored breeches were sculpted to his toned legs. Her gaze traveled up, over his broad shoulders to his face. His mop of dark hair had been tossed about by the wind, and his eyes were the blue of winter ice. He couldn’t be more than in his late twenties, early thirties, if that. Certainly not what she’d envisioned. Not what she’d hoped for.

Their eyes met.

He smiled ever so slightly.

Violet caught her breath, her heart pounding against her rib cage.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

A hot stretch of silence spooled between them.

“Ah, there you are, Violet.” Her father entered the greenhouse after his guest, filling the void in the conversation. “This is Mr. Parker Sinclair, from Philadelphia. Mr. Sinclair, meet my second eldest, Violet.”

“So, you’re finally here, Mr. Sinclair.” Violet extended her hand, expecting him to kiss it the way a proper English gentleman would have.

Instead, his big calloused fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed ever so slightly. His palm was tanned and nicked with scars. She shouldn’t have noticed. Why had she? Her breath climbed her throat in a thin wisp of air.

“I hope I’ve been worth the wait, Miss Wilson.” He pumped her hand heartily as if attempting to extract water from a well. Held on far too long. His thumb tightened its grip on the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger, and she couldn’t breathe.

His scent—rich and earthy—surrounded her, invaded her nostrils.

Her stomach tightened, burst into a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Alarmed, she tugged her hand back. “Let’s just say I’ve not been holding my breath.”

“Really?” Slowly, he let go. His eyes flashed at her.

Bloody American.

Parker glanced toward her father, and then, as if collecting himself, he faced her again. “Miss Wilson,” the American spoke in a deep, gravelly voice so low she had to lean in to hear him. His face had a grey pallor, and his body was covered in a sheen of sweat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your father tells me there’s no one better . . . ”

Her father grabbed at Parker’s arm as the American swayed, crumpled in front of them, and then fell to the floor.

“Dear Lord, what’s happened to him, Father?” Violet gasped as she knelt beside the man and could feel the heat of fever radiate off him.

“He mentioned he’d been robbed while in Portsmouth and had a bump on his head. And that he’d contracted lung fever. Maybe it’s all been too much for him.” Her father tried to right the man but couldn’t.

Violet leaned close to the American, searching for the wound. She could smell the ale he’d consumed. She glared at her father. “You were told he’d suffered a blow to the head and you still gave him a mug of ale? No wonder he’s passed out.”

Edgar shrugged. “The man had a thirst.”

“Let’s get him into the chair.” Violet sighed. Already, in the space of five minutes, this American had proved to be a passel of trouble.

Together, they righted the man and hauled his heavy body into the chair. Breathing hard, Edgar glanced at him. “I’ll go down to the house and fetch Iris for you. In the meantime, do what you can to clean him up and set him to rights. I’ll tell Millie to make up the guest bedroom. We can’t have a man this ill stay at the inn by himself. He’ll reside at the house with us until he’s better.”

Violet’s day kept getting worse. As did Mr. Sinclair’s, she supposed. She set a pot of water on the woodstove to heat up, and then ran to her herb garden to cut what she needed for a salve and some soothing tea. The water had warmed by the time she got back to the unconscious man, so she grabbed a cloth and dipped it into the pan. Before she cleaned his head wound, she took a hard look at the person who would seriously disturb her life, at least for the next few weeks. He coughed uncontrollably even in his compromised state. Funny how mere moments ago when he’d entered her quarters, he’d come across as such a healthy specimen of male flesh that she couldn’t find her tongue. Now, he resembled some old, doddering, broken-down fool in need of her care. And with her father’s declaration that he stay at their house for a few days, care of this man had only just begun. She sighed and wrung out the washcloth. Maybe he’d take a turn for the worse and perish. Of course, she didn’t wish death on anyone, but her life would at least return to normal should the worst happen. And lung fever was no laughing matter.

Iris bustled in as Violet finished wiping the remaining blood from Mr. Sinclair’s scalp. “So this is our rugged American?”

“In all his glory. May I present our illustrious guest?” Violet waved her hand in his direction.

Iris touched the man’s forehead, feeling the fever radiating off him. “He’s in a bad way.”

“I am concerned about his wound more than I am about his cough. Father said he’d taken a blow to the head while in Portsmouth. To still be oozing blood two days after his head came into contact with whatever knocked him around is a bad sign.” Violet showed Iris the pan of bloody water. “I’m making a salve of calendula and comfrey to reduce the swelling and help heal the wound.”

“Let’s treat the wound, wait for him to come around, and then get him to the house.” Iris ticked off what needed done on her fingers. “Do you have any smelling salts here?” She frowned when Violet shook her head. “Well, then, we’ll just have to wait for him to wake up. Mr. Sinclair won’t be touring the greenhouse or selecting roses for a few days, so you can take comfort in the fact you’ll get a respite.”

“I only hope we won’t have to play nursemaid to him for days on end, even though Father insists we make room for him at the house.” Violet applied the salve to the back of Mr. Sinclair’s head, biting her lip as she concentrated.

“We’ll take turns if need be.” Iris strode to the man’s side and spoke as he started to regain consciousness. “Hello, Mr. Sinclair. My name is Iris. Violet and I will assist you down to the house. Father insists you stay with us for a few days until you’re feeling better.”

“No, I must get on with my business. I cannot afford a few days in bed.” Mr. Sinclair attempted to stand but fell back into the chair.

“And I’d say, a few days in bed is exactly what you need.” Violet helped the man to his feet, and with assistance from Iris, got him upright and moving toward the house. At least he wouldn’t invade her greenhouse space for a few days. She had a fleeting vision of him in bed though, and it shook her to her core. Why did her mind insist on playing tricks on her when she should be grateful for the reprieve?

• • •

Violet sat at the noisy dinner table with her head bowed, not engaging in the lively conversation that flowed around her. Mr. Sinclair had been in their presence only one afternoon, yet he was the topic on the tip of each tongue among her sisters.

“Father’s put me in charge of finding more clothing for poor Mr. Sinclair.” Poppy grinned in delight.

Violet grimaced. “I caught you holding up his breeches this afternoon, once we got him back to the house and into the sickbed.”

“Well, how am I to do my job if I don’t have any idea of the man’s size?” Poppy pouted before her face broke out into another grin. “From the length of the breeches he had on, I’d say he’s quite tall. And ever so handsome.”

Lily barked out a laugh. “You could tell how handsome he was by the size of his breeches?”

Poppy shook her head. “No, silly. I caught a glimpse of him as Iris and Violet dragged him in from the greenhouse.”

“Enough, children,” Edgar Wilson’s voice boomed. “Mr. Sinclair is our guest, not our entertainment. Why don’t you bring me up to date, Lily, on what you’re doing over at the Weymouth estate? We don’t wish to have you spend too much time there, and I’m aware of how many hours you’re spending on your maze.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “Not another maze, Lily.”

Lily cackled and rubbed her hands together. “Would you care to come and test it for me? It’s absolutely diabolical.”

“No thank you. I hope never to set foot in any maze of yours ever again.” Violet shivered, even though the air in the room was warm.

Lily detailed for their father what she had accomplished that day. Iris raised an eyebrow at Violet as they sat quietly, waiting their turns. Violet’s lips curved upward just a bit. Their father may harbor the notion that each part of his business was of equal importance, but Violet had no warm spot in her heart for Lily’s propensity for creating mazes out of perfectly good boxwoods. Violet had not been the only person to get lost in one for hours.

“Enough talk about mazes!” Poppy’s exclamation summed up what the others thought. “Let’s discuss something of interest instead.” She focused on Violet. “Tell me every word the American said to you before he passed out. Is his voice deep and like honey?”

“He didn’t say a whole lot before he collapsed. He has a cough and a fever, as well as a head wound, so his voice was low and gravelly, not at all like honey.” Violet snapped her napkin onto the table. If every dinner between now and when Mr. Sinclair left them would have him as the main topic of conversation, she’d go mad. “May we please get back to a more pleasant topic?”

 “But you at least got to see him while he was standing. You got to put your arm around the poor unfortunate man as you helped him down the hill.” Poppy pouted. “Describe him for us. Is he dreamy?”

Violet clenched her hands together. “You’ve been reading too much out of the wrong books, Poppy. I’m going to have to talk to your governess about your choices from the library. Mr. Sinclair is tall, as you’ve determined, and has dark hair. He has a limp. If that’s your definition of a dreamy person, it only proves how young you are.”

Edgar glanced at Violet and then at Poppy. “That’s enough talk of Mr. Sinclair for now. I agree with Violet. It’s in poor taste for us to be discussing the man at our dinner table. Poppy, you’ll get to meet Mr. Sinclair officially tomorrow, if he’s better, and will be able to make your own assessment on his dreaminess.”

Poppy’s eyes grew large. “The poor man, getting robbed just as he got off the ship. What kind of an introduction is that to our country?”

Violet’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Maybe he was being given a sign that he should wrap up his business quickly and return home. I should have planned a mishap for when he set foot in my greenhouse. Instead, the man collapses at the very sight of me.”

Edgar cleared his throat and cast a stormy glance at each of his unruly daughters. “I’m quite certain the sight of you had nothing to do with the man losing consciousness, Violet. Mr. Sinclair is our guest, and his employer, Mr. McMahon, purchases a considerable quantity of plants and seeds from us each year. Or at least his father did. Now that the son has taken over the business, we need to forge a new relationship, so his trusted employee, Mr. Sinclair, will be treated with the utmost respect while he’s here. Is that understood?” His eyes focused on Lily. “There will be no luring him into one of your maze monstrosities.” Then he cast his gaze on Poppy. “And you won’t talk him into buying anything more than the basics, because we’re to pick up the cost of replacing his stolen merchandise in a show of good faith.” He shifted his attention to Iris. “I’ll need you to give him a brief overview of how we handle our business’s bookkeeping, since Mr. McMahon requested it, but don’t give away all our secrets.” Iris bobbed her head. Last, he spoke to Violet. “But you’ll be in charge of Mr. Sinclair on a daily basis, so you need to be on your best behavior, regardless of how much of an interruption he’ll be. Figure out a way to use an extra pair of hands in your work.”

Violet stared at the table. She’d been pondering Mr. Sinclair’s tanned hands with their little scars ever since he’d held onto her hand for much longer than he should have. She shook her head, hoping the couple of extra days she was being given would allow her to refocus on what was important and not on the man’s hands. Losing focus was exactly why she should never poke her head outside her greenhouse. But now, danger had come calling among her roses and had set up shop in what had been her safe place. The bloody American. Her lips curled at the thought. He’d been bloody in more ways than one.