CHAPTER 13
Charlotte sat up straighter. “B-Botany?”
“Yes, I know, it’s not the most exciting of the scientific disciplines.
” He made a wry face. “But I’ve always had more of an interest in the land than Father or Wynton, for whom the estates were merely ways to squeeze out guineas for their personal pleasures.
I enjoy learning about plants, soils, and yields.
And I find the gardens a relaxing place in which to cultivate flowers and fruit.
It’s endlessly interesting to experiment with what does well in what environment. ”
There was, reflected Charlotte, so much they didn’t know about each other.
“You remember the old abandoned conservatory attached to the east wing of the manor house?” he asked.
Repressing a shiver, she nodded. It had been a cold, dreary place in her youth, with cracked windows, dank stone, and creatures that slithered through cracked terra-cotta pots and rusted gardening tools.
“I’ve restored it,” he said. “I occasionally attend the meetings of a scientific society in Leeds, and a number of us have been sharing specimens from different areas in the north of England and Scotland. I’ve become particularly interested in evergreens . . .”
As if the current conundrum needed to sprout yet another curling vine! thought Charlotte. That her brother had an interest in botany seemed an awfully odd coincidence. Whether it was one that possessed hidden thorns remained to be seen.
“Indeed, through one of my fellow club members, I’ve been corresponding for the last few years with Professor Murray, a botanist at the University of St Andrews.
He was kind enough to send some Pinus sylvestris specimens from the Highlands, which I’m testing on the upper slopes of one of my lesser estates near the Scottish border.
And through him, I was put in contact with a botanist in the American city of New York, who—”
Her brother must have caught the sudden change in her expression, for he gave an embarrassed cough. “But enough about all my scrabbling in the soil. I’m boring you to perdition.”
“O-On the contrary,” assured Charlotte.
“Please continue,” urged Wrexford. “Your sister is extremely tolerant of my fascination with anything scientific. I’m quite sure that she’ll humor us.”
Wolcott waited for Charlotte’s confirming nod before allowing an uncertain smile. “If you’re sure . . .”
“Do go on, Hartley,” murmured Alison.
“Well, then, I admit it was quite an honor to exchange letters with such a notable expert in the field—though, of course, my area of interest must have struck him as awfully mundane. Nonetheless, he was generous-minded enough to arrange for specimens of Quercus velutina, Quercus rubra, and Quercus macrocarpa from New England to be sent to me.”
“Quercus?” questioned Charlotte.
“Oak trees—three hardy species of American oak trees,” he explained. “I’m hoping such stock will thrive in our northern climate, too, and perhaps provide a stock of excellent timber for shipbuilding. Something that would be both patriotic and profitable.”
“A very excellent and admirable idea, Wolcott,” said Wrexford. “If more of us aristocrats used our heads as more than just perches for our fancy hats, Britain would be much the better for it.”
“That same thought has occurred to me.” He sighed.
“The strictures that limit what a highborn gentleman can do with his talents make no sense to me. Most of us are packed off to the finest universities in the land, and then find ourselves forbidden to apply our knowledge in any meaningful endeavor. It’s a terrible waste. ”
“Your ideas sound almost as radical as those of your sister,” murmured the dowager.
“I understood your frustrations, Charlotte,” he said. “And applauded your courage in refusing to let your wings be clipped.”
“Courage is woven into every fiber of your sister’s being,” said Wrexford. A hint of humor touched his lips. “After all, she agreed to marry me.”
The dowager smiled through a mouthful of brandy. “Which shows Charlotte’s intelligence is just as strong a thread. Your bark is far worse than your bite.”
As soon as Wolcott’s chuckle died away, the earl said, “But getting back to botany, I, too, have a botanist friend in New York. Dr. Hosack—”
“Ah, Dr. Hosack!” exclaimed her brother. “My correspondent speaks very highly of him. He studied in Scotland as a young man, and I’ve been told that it was our botanic gardens in the north that inspired him to create the very first one in America. Apparently, it’s quite magnificent.”
“Yes, he’s recognized as a leading expert in plant medicine,” replied Wrexford.
Wolcott’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Indeed, indeed! That’s what my correspondent tells me.” A pause. “He, too, has quite a reputation for medicinal expertise, though he’s far too modest to have mentioned it to me.”
“Would your correspondent perchance be Josiah Becton?” asked Wrexford.
Charlotte held her breath.
“Why, yes! How did you guess?”
* * *
“There is currently an international symposium on botanical medicine taking place at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew—” began Wrexford.
“Merciful heavens—what a cork-brained idiot I am!” exclaimed Wolcott.
“I had heard of it months ago from Professor Murray, but somehow the fact that it was taking place now managed to slip my mind.” He made a self-deprecating face.
“Do you think it might be possible to arrange a meeting with him so that I may express my thanks for all his help?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Wrexford. “His heart had been weak for some time, and alas, he suffered a fatal spasm last week.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. What a distressing loss,” responded Wolcott in a voice tightened by shock.
“Professor Murray will be greatly saddened by the news.” He fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought.
“Now that you mention the symposium, I recall a mention in his last letter of being very excited about the discovery Becton was going to reveal in his lecture.”
Charlotte had gone pale, but refrained from joining the conversation. A wise move, decided Wrexford. Her relationship with her brother was fraught with enough complication without having him wonder why she had any knowledge about the death of a stranger.
“Did he say what it was?” Wrexford asked.
Wolcott shook his head. “No, but that’s hardly surprising, as I’m a mere neophyte.” He rolled his glass between his palms, watching the amber spirits slowly spin. “At least Becton will live on through his work.”
“Indeed.” However meaningful Wolcott’s unexpected revelations might prove, Wrexford decided this was neither the time nor the place to parse through them.
“It’s a pity that you’ll not have the opportunity to make his acquaintance.
But I imagine you’ll still find a visit to the Royal Botanic Gardens fascinating.
Charlotte is familiar with the grounds, and I’m sure she would be delighted to give you a grand tour. ”
“Yes, it would be a great pleasure,” she confirmed. “Death should not overshadow the celebration of Life, in all its glorious profusion of shapes and textures and colors.” A glance at the dowager. “Might we convince you to join us?”
“What a splendid idea!” replied Alison. “And we must bring the Weasels.”
“Weasels?” Wolcott raised his brows in confusion. “But surely such destructive creatures would cause great damage to the delicate flora.”
Charlotte let out a burble of laughter. “These Weasels are capable of causing a great deal of mayhem, but I assure you, the plantings are quite safe from them. You see, it’s a term of, er, endearment that we use for my two wards, who—for the most part—don’t behave like wild beasts.”
Her lips twitched. “However, I’ll make no promises about the cleanliness of their paws or clothing. Like a magnet drawing iron filings, they seem to exert a powerful force for attracting all sorts of muck.”
Wolcott chuckled. “Boys will be boys.”
And Weasels will be Weasels, thought the earl. Confuse the two at your own peril, Lord Wolcott. But that was a lesson his soon-to-be brother-in-law would need to learn for himself.
“Shall we make it for the day after tomorrow?” suggested the dowager. “Hartley and I must make some morning calls tomorrow after nuncheon.”
“And then I’ve an engagement to dine with some old friends at my club,” added her brother.
“That’s perfect,” Charlotte assured them. “I’ll have my maid pack a picnic and we can make a day of it.”
Any lingering shadows from the mention of death gave way to a lighter mood as the plans were quickly finalized and a time set for the dowager’s barouche to fetch Charlotte and the boys. The talk then moved on to other London landmarks that might interest Wolcott.
“Ye heavens, I’m exhausted just listening to such peregrinations,” quipped the dowager as she patted back a yawn.
Charlotte quickly rose. “Much as I don’t want the evening to end, we ought not keep you up any longer.”
“There will be many more of them,” said Wolcott as he shot to his feet and drew her into a parting hug. “I can’t begin to express how happy I am that we’ve reconnected.”
As Wolcott drew back and cleared his throat, Wrexford saw both of them were blinking back tears.
“Dash it all, I’ve missed you, Charlie.”
“And I you, Hartley.”
Ebb and flow, mused the earl. Life was in a state of constant motion, of constant flux—the elemental forces of the universe inexorably pushing and pulling at each other. Light giving way to dark, and then reasserting itself . . .
Watching Charlotte and her brother, he vowed to himself that her future would not be as shadowed as her past.
* * *
“You’re up awfully late.” Wrexford shrugged out of his overcoat and eyed the jumble of open books spread out over the counter of the workroom after letting it drop to the floor. “Dare I ask why?”