Tunbridge Wells
She made her way toward the poetry section, seeking solace in Cowper’s gentle verses. The shopkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Phillips, nodded from behind her counter, and Elisha managed a polite smile in return. At least here, surrounded by books, she could pretend her world hadn’t tilted off its axis.
“Mrs. Linde.”
The voice, pitched low and carefully modulated, made her start.
She turned to find a gentleman in plain dress approaching—brown coat, simple waistcoat, no ornamentation save a modest watch chain.
His dark hair was combed differently, and he affected a slight slouch as though trying to appear less commanding, but something about his natural bearing…
“Indeed, sir.” Her heart began an erratic rhythm as those impossibly blue eyes met hers. Dear God, it’s Edgar. Unmistakably Edgar, despite the plain clothes and altered bearing. But here? Why?
“Allow me to introduce myself, madam. I am Jonathan Crook, at your service.” He withdrew a calling card from his waistcoat and bowed slightly. “I am an author of modest renown, and I confess I’ve been most eager to discuss recent horticultural developments.”
Elisha blinked. Horticultural developments? She glanced around the cramped bookshop, noting Mrs. Phillips pretending to dust nearby shelves while clearly listening. Understanding dawned.
“How… unexpected, Mr. Crook. Might we converse over there?” She gestured toward a small table tucked beside towering bookshelves. “The light is better for… botanical discussions.”
As they seated themselves, Elisha studied his face, her fingers trembling as she arranged her skirts.
The familiar scent of his cologne—washed over her in an intoxicating wave, making her heart stutter and her skin flush with recognition.
This was Edgar, though she couldn’t fathom why he was here, disguised, speaking of horticulture.
“I came here to warn you that some delicate blooms are at risk,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough that his words wouldn’t carry. “And I fear the head gardener has been… transplanting the prize specimen to a location where he might have complete control over its cultivation.”
Head gardener. Elisha’s mind raced. Steven? “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. Crook. Surely a head gardener wishes only the best growing conditions for his plants?”
“One would hope so. But sometimes a gardener’s true interest lies not in the bloom’s health, but in claiming exclusive rights to its beauty.” His voice dropped lower. “Particularly when he fears another gardener might return to tend what was once his responsibility.”
The pieces began clicking together. Steven had sent her away—not just for her writing, but to separate her from Edgar. “And this… other gardener? Where has he been while his bloom required tending?”
A shadow passed over his features as he looked away ruefully before meeting her eyes again. “Circumstances forced his departure. But he never stopped caring for the bloom’s welfare, even from a distance.”
“How convenient,” she said coolly as the weeks of hurt resurfaced.
“No correspondence, no word to acknowledge her existence. What manner of circumstances could be so pressing that he couldn’t reassure her of his wellbeing?
” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
Her pride wouldn’t allow her to display her heartache.
The accusation seemed to strike him into silence for a moment. When he spoke, the words came out cautiously.
“Perhaps the other gardener was endeavoring to improve his circumstances… his skills… to qualify for the bloom’s tending.”
“What is there to improve?” Her voice was cold and steely, full of restrained hurt. “He’s a gardener. Don’t all gardeners know how to sow their wild oats and coax seeds to sprout? In fact, I believe I saw several articles discussing his vast experience in sowing seeds in various gardens.”
Edgar’s face suddenly turned pink. He pulled on his neckcloth as if he were suffocating before clearing his throat.
“Um… The head gardener spread rumors about the other gardener’s…
unsavory growing practices. Made it appear he was tending multiple gardens simultaneously, neglecting his most precious bloom.
The newspaper articles. Her breath caught. Steven had been behind those false reports. It shed light on why she’d been wary of him all along. “These rumors—were they true?”
“Completely fabricated. The displaced gardener spent his time watching over his bloom from afar, ensuring no harm came to her.”
Air left her lungs and the weight seemed to lift from her ribs as understanding deepened.
Edgar had been protecting her, even while absent.
But still… the need to confirm his feelings for her was too great to ignore.
“And why should this bloom trust a gardener who disappeared without explanation? Perhaps she’s learned to flourish under the head gardener’s care. ”
Edgar’s knuckles turned white against the table. “Because the head gardener may not have the bloom’s best interests at heart. There are… delicate specimens in that garden that could be used against the bloom if discovered.”
Delicate specimens… What could… Good heavens, surely not. The reform writing? Cold dread settled in her stomach. If Edgar had discovered her political activities… What could he be thinking of her? Is that why he’d kept his distance? What if Steven had?
“What sort of delicate specimens?” she asked as her guard reasserted itself once more.
“The kind that certain authorities consider… weeds. Dangerous to the established order of gardens.”
Seditious material. There was no mistaking his meaning now. If that were the case, she could be arrested, transported, or worse. A chill settled over her. “And you believe the head gardener knows of these specimens?”
“I’m uncertain. But he’s certainly positioned to discover them. And once discovered…” Edgar let the implication hang.
“He could use such knowledge to ensure the bloom’s… complete cooperation,” she finished, panic fluttering beneath her ribs.
A group of matrons entered the shop, discussing Lord Melbourne’s latest scandal. Edgar and Elisha fell silent until the women moved toward the religious texts.
“There is another concern,” Edgar continued, his voice low and wary. “The head gardener has been making himself indispensable to the bloom’s livelihood. Should he choose to create circumstances that would compromise the bloom’s reputation…”
Compromise. Marriage would be the only solution to salvage her honor. Elisha’s fan fluttered against her chest as the full scope of Steven’s potential manipulations became clear.
“And what does this displaced gardener propose to do about such machinations?”
“He’s prepared a sanctuary. A place where the bloom could flourish safely while he deals with the head gardener’s interference.”
The sanctuary? Where… By Jove, he’s not suggesting his own cottage? The impropriety should have shocked her, but her foolish heart only beat more eagerly.
“This sanctuary—it would be… properly supervised?”
Edgar’s eyes held hers meaningfully. “The gardener would do his utmost to ensure the bloom’s honor remained intact while protecting her from those who would exploit her.”
Elisha studied his face, seeing both the man who had abandoned her and the one now offering her protection. “And after? What becomes of a bloom that requires such… unconventional protection?”
“The gardener hopes,” he said softly, “that in time, he might prove worthy of tending such a precious specimen permanently.”
Her heart stuttered at the implication, but she quickly chided herself for her gullibility.
He couldn’t have meant he’d offer for her.
No, he likely meant he’d protect her within his capacity as a duke.
“Pretty words, Mr. Crook. But this bloom has learned to be wary of promises from absent gardeners.”
“Indeed.” He leaned forward, intensity blazing in his eyes. “But sometimes a gardener must prove his devotion through actions rather than words. The question is—does the bloom trust him enough to accept his protection?”
The bell chimed again as more customers crowded the small shop. Edgar rose smoothly, every inch the polite stranger.
“It has been most illuminating discussing horticultural matters with you, Mrs. Linde. Should you wish to visit that garden sanctuary, it lies but a mile from your current location,” he said as he handed her a card with Rosemount Cottage written on it.
“Indeed, Mr. Crook.” Her voice scraped through her strained throat with a hint of tremor as she pondered spending the night in his company. “I shall… consider your advice about… transplanting.”
Edgar tipped his hat and departed while Elisha remained seated, her mind spinning. Did she have the courage to trust Edgar again—or if two months of silence had taught her better than to place her faith in absent gardeners?
*
Edgar paced the front parlor of the cottage he rented like a caged lion, his boots wearing a path in the Turkish carpet.
Each tick of the clock on the mantel seemed to mock him.
The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, painting golden stripes across the polished floor—how many more times would that light shift before she arrived? If she arrived at all.
Had she fully understood his coded message?
More importantly, would she dare to come?
The very impropriety of what he asked—an unwed woman arriving unchaperoned at a bachelor’s residence—spoke volumes about his desperation.
His grandfather would be turning in his grave at such a scandal, but after two months of separation, after watching her window darken night after night, propriety seemed a small price to pay for even a moment in her presence.