Rivals and Roses (The Vaughns #1)

Chapter 15

N o matter how many times he strolled down the main thoroughfare of Oakham, Arthur couldn’t believe the quaintness of it all. No press of people and deafening cacophony. A man could walk the street without having to keep his wits about him lest he be crushed beneath the wheels of a careless carriage or step into something unmentionable. Clothes hung on washing lines beside the cottages, unmarred by the tang of coal smoke that tainted everything it touched. People greeted each other as they passed.

Though the air still held hints of the malodorous scents of waste, it was more of a subtle note amongst the aroma of freshly turned soil and growing things. Gone was the London fog that enveloped the world in a putrid embrace. Even though the sky was overcast, one could see it and not a wall of fog so thick that the locals referred to it as pea soup.

Considering the picturesque setting, Arthur couldn’t say he regretted the decision to leave London—though his heart still sat uneasily as he considered the issue of the Templetons. Holding fast to the bundle of yellow roses in his hand, he reconsidered the wisdom in bringing them, but he hadn’t been able to resist the blooming bush .

A plan. That was all the situation required. It may not be a perfect solution, but it provided a possibility. Potential. It didn’t guarantee that Miss Templeton would throw herself into his arms and declare her undying love for him. But then, the likelihood that she would do so without warning was very low.

And it wouldn’t do to rush matters. Settle the trouble between them, and then court her. Simple.

But first, Arthur needed to talk to her, and while that was proving easier with every minute he spent in her delightful company, even the thought of broaching the issue of their financial rivalry was enough to make his throat close up tight and his tongue cement itself to the roof of his mouth. So many things might go wrong during this discussion.

Whilst his home sat in the heart of the village, theirs stood at the edge where the buildings boasted enough space for proper gardens. The front abutted the road with thick walls sprouting out the backside, enclosing a large area behind that was at least the same size as the house proper. The wooden gate stood open, and Arthur spied a familiar figure moving within the garden.

As she was the very person he wished to speak to, Arthur turned his feet toward the opening. A melody floated on the air as she worked, and the words of the song drifted in and out as she alternated between singing and humming. Arthur didn’t know the tune, and Miss Templeton didn’t voice enough of the lyrics for him to grasp the meaning, though it was a lilting ditty that flitted about in slow figures.

The garden was magnificent. In the city, there wasn’t enough space to grow one’s own herbs, and the Templetons had turned this patch of earth into an apothecary’s dream. A variety of species were laid out together, thriving despite the cool summer, with some ready to be harvested and dried whilst many more silently awaited their turn to bloom.

The lady rose to her feet, brushing off her hands as she gazed at the beds before her.

“Miss Templeton— ”

But Arthur got no further, for she whipped about with a shriek, a basket spinning out of her hand and dumping its debris on the clean beds and his shoes. The pruning shears slipped from her grasp, flying at him, and Arthur leapt backward, the sudden flailing knocking the hat from his head. Miss Templeton’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as she stared at the shears now spearing the ground between his legs.

Mouth covered, Miss Templeton lifted her gaze to Arthur and the pair stared at each other for a long moment before he hazarded to speak.

“I only wanted to say ‘hello.’”

“And apparently, you were nearly stabbed for your troubles,” she said with a wince as she closed her eyes and rubbed at her brow.

“I believe it has to be in your hands to be considered a stabbing,” replied Arthur.

Miss Templeton peeked at him. “Is that so?”

“Most assuredly,” he said with a firm nod. And with utter seriousness, he added, “Impaled is more apt.”

A burble of laughter broke past her horror, and Miss Templeton fought to repress it. And failed. Arthur’s muscles relaxed at the sound, and a smile graced his lips.

“I do apologize, sir,” she said when their laughter subsided. “Needless to say, you startled me.”

“No apologies necessary,” replied Arthur. “As you can see, there was no damage done. Which is more than I can say for your flowerbeds.”

He frowned at the bits of weeds and leaves that now littered the previously pristine rows.

“Or your hat,” added Miss Templeton, nodding at his feet, where the article had been trampled beneath his shoe. Thankfully, the bouquet hadn’t met a similar ending, and Arthur forced his hand to loosen around the stems.

“I saw these and thought you might enjoy them, though now that I see your garden…” His words drifted off as he considered the abundance of blossoms around them. Handing it to he r, Arthur ducked his face away as he focused on picking up his crumpled hat; it was bad enough that he hadn’t a cover for his head, and now he’d offered a useless token.

What a poor beau he made.

“I may have many plants on hand, but they’re useful sorts,” said Miss Templeton, lifting the bouquet to her nose and breathing deeply of their rich scent. “I haven’t the time or space to cultivate ornamental ones. And I love roses. They are heavenly.”

Drawing in a lungful, Arthur’s throat threatened to stymie him, but he forced his speech out. “I came by to offer an apology, Miss Templeton, as I fear there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding concerning my coming to Oakham. I was led to believe there was no other physician in town. I cannot claim that Mr. Finch and I were good friends, rather that we were close acquaintances whose social circles often overlapped, but I see I was wrong to put so much trust in him.”

But Miss Templeton held up a staying hand. “I will admit I am furious with Mr. Finch in many respects—as his fears are unfounded—but I cannot fault him for desiring the best for his family.”

“Forgive me, madam, but I must disagree. I fault him greatly for it, even if I understand the temptation. People always have reasons for why they do what they do, however ill-conceived or selfish. Mr. Finch made a choice that benefited himself at our expense.”

Miss Templeton drew her arms before her, her brow creasing and her gaze dropping to the ground as silent thoughts seemed to whirl about her head. Arthur longed to ask her what they were, though he knew he hadn’t the right.

“Having considered the situation we find ourselves in,” he began, grasping for the words he’d planned—but they slipped from his grasp. “I wanted to discuss a matter with you. Of business. Concerning our work…”

Miss Templeton bent down, moving before Arthur knew her intention, and she snatched up the shears and the rest of her tools. He moved to scoop up the detritus that had fallen from her basket and helped to gather her things.

“I have it,” said Miss Templeton, though she struggled to manage them and the bouquet.

“Allow me,” he said, taking the tools and basket.

“You will dirty yourself,” she said with a shake of her head. “I am already a mess, as you can see. There will be no damage done.”

Arthur gave her face and figure a look, though he didn’t know what she meant by “a mess.” Certainly, she was smudged with dirt, but the little smears on her cheek were appealing. As were the locks that pulled free from her bandeau, draping down her neck in delicate curls. Her cheeks were flushed from her exertions, bringing a rosy glow to her complexion, which only enhanced what was already quite lovely.

“I insist,” he said, scooping the mess and tools into the basket before she could mount another protest. He rescued his hat and placed it on his head; thankfully, only the rim had suffered any permanent damage, though the whole thing was far from pristine. If anyone looked a mess, it was he.

“Truly, Dr. Vaughn…”

But her protests faded away as he took it in hand and carried it into the house.

Arthur wanted to offer his arm to her, but if the lady protested so much over a little bit of assistance, he doubted she would easily accept any unnecessary gallantry, as the ground was even and the house sat only a few feet away.

“Were those beehives?” he asked, nodding back at the garden as she closed the gate behind them.

Miss Templeton nodded and led him toward the front of the house. “Honey does wonders for many ailments, and I prefer beeswax as a base for many lineaments and salves. To say nothing of the fact that the bees help the plants to flourish.”

Giving a hum of approval, Arthur shook his head at himself; the benefits to such a venture were obvious, yet he didn’t know of many apothecaries who bothered cultivating beehives .

“That is a magnificent garden,” he added as they moved to the front door. “In London, we don’t have the space to maintain our own. We must purchase all our supplies from local growers or importers. Though I do think you would enjoy visiting some of the physic gardens. There is one in Chelsea that is especially impressive, with one of the most extensive collections of medicinal plants I’ve ever seen.”

Miss Templeton’s brows rose at that. “I would like to see that. Sounds fascinating—”

But her words were cut short when a cart rolled up beside her.

“Here you are,” said Miss Templeton with a bright smile for the driver before giving Arthur an apologetic one. “Please excuse me, but I must see to our delivery.”

Shoving the bouquet into Arthur’s free hand, she turned toward the cart, peering over the back to the crates and sacks inside.

Ought he to leave? Miss Templeton’s tone was dismissive, yet she hadn’t sent him away. And there was a little matter of the reason he’d come by. While the roses and discussing her garden were a pleasant diversion, they weren’t the primary purpose of his visit, and Arthur couldn’t bear the thought of putting it off now that he’d gathered his courage.

Shrugging to himself, he shifted the basket in his hands. The roses were too delicate to be placed inside, so he kept them in hand and turned to study the home.

At first glance, the Templetons’ home was much the same as any of the cottages and houses lining the streets of Oakham with a stone exterior that seemed both gray and brown, depending on the light. The front door stood in the center with windows that flanked either side; on the farther one, Arthur spied an ordinary parlor, whilst those closest to him peered into what must be Mr. Templeton’s office and workspace.

Jars and bottles of every shape lined the shelves along the window, filled with powders, herbs, and oils of every color. A long table stretched through most of the space, scuffed and dinged from much use, and standing in front of the windows was a desk, whose chair was occupied by a lad who was more interested in his magazine than his work.

Perhaps this was a younger Templeton sibling, though Arthur would swear there were only three: Mr. Templeton, Miss Templeton, and a daughter who married and moved to Plymouth. And years of experience had taught him to recognize the signs of a lazy apprentice; he couldn’t quantify precisely what gave the impression, but he didn’t dismiss the instinct.

Arthur couldn’t help but wonder where Mr. Templeton was and why he’d left his apprentice with nothing to do. During his years of study, Arthur had wanted nothing more than a few minutes to rest, but there were always more supplies to be readied, more texts to study, and more practice to be completed.

Frowning at the window, he turned away to see Miss Templeton open the front door before returning to the cart. The horse stood patiently awaiting the command from his master, whilst the fellow in question watched as Miss Templeton reached for a massive sack of Epsom salts. Before Arthur knew what she was about, the lady hefted it onto her shoulder with a grunt—whilst the driver simply stood there.

“What in the blazes are you doing?!” Arthur demanded.