Chapter Twelve
The third sleepless night in Victoria's room was, Sasha decided, officially taking the piss.
She'd tried everything: counting sheep, counting roses, counting the reasons why fantasizing about her best friend's sister was a terrible idea.
She'd even attempted some of those breathing exercises Ambrose swore by, though they'd only made her more aware of the soft, rhythmic sounds coming from the actual bed six feet away.
By dawn, she was ready to admit defeat. She was becoming obsessed, and obsession, in her limited experience, was generally a precursor to doing something spectacularly stupid.
What she needed was advice. What she needed was her best friend to tell her she was being ridiculous and to get a grip on herself before she completely humiliated herself.
Unfortunately, what she found when she went looking for Ambrose was an empty bedroom and a hastily made bed that suggested he'd been up early for reasons that probably involved looking at Lukas in the morning light.
She found herself wandering the grounds aimlessly, dodging garden sprinklers and trying not to think about the way Victoria had looked when she slept. Which sounded creepy, now that she thought about it.
Christ, she was pathetic.
The greenhouse appeared through the morning mist like a sanctuary, all glass and green growing things and blissfully free of complicated Sullivan family members.
Sasha slipped inside and immediately felt some of the tension leave her shoulders.
There was something soothing about the humid air and the smell of earth and growing things.
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Sasha jumped, spinning around to find Sir Archibald emerging from behind a towering display of orchids. He was wearing ancient gardening clothes and had soil under his fingernails, looking more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.
"Sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just…"
"Running away from the house?" He smiled, and it transformed his usually gruff face entirely. "Can't say I blame you. Place gets rather overwhelming when everyone's milling about with their dramas and complications."
"It's very peaceful in here," Sasha offered diplomatically.
"Mmm. Plants don't argue." He moved to a workbench covered in small pots. "They just grow if you treat them right and die if you don't. Refreshingly honest, really."
Sasha found herself moving closer, drawn by his obvious affection for the plants surrounding them. "What are you working on?"
"Orchid propagation. Delicate business, but worth it when you get it right." He held up a tiny cutting. "This little fellow's been giving me trouble for weeks. Particular about his conditions, aren't you, old boy?"
"How can you tell?"
"Look at the roots. See how they're pale and spindly? He's not happy where he is." Sir Archibald potted the cutting with gentle hands. "Sometimes plants need a change of environment to really thrive. Different soil, different light, different companions."
He glanced meaningfully toward the house, where Victoria was visible through the morning room windows, up now and already at her laptop.
"Some plants," he continued thoughtfully, "grow beautifully together.
Complement each other, you might say. While others…
" He nodded toward another window, where Archie could be seen having what appeared to be an animated phone conversation.
"Others insist on trying to grow in completely unsuitable conditions. "
Sasha felt heat creep up her neck. "Sir Archibald…"
"Plants that belong together naturally tend to find each other eventually," he said, apparently addressing his orchid but looking directly at Victoria through the glass. "Soil conditions permitting, of course."
"Right," Sasha said weakly. "Soil conditions." This wasn’t exactly the kind of advice she’d been in need of.
"Exactly. Wouldn't want to transplant something into hostile ground." He moved to another bench, where delicate seedlings stretched toward the light. "Though sometimes what looks like hostile ground is just… unprepared. Needs a bit of tending before it's ready for new growth."
This was possibly the most surreal conversation of Sasha's life.
"These are lovely," she said desperately, gesturing to a row of what looked like baby tomato plants.
"Ah yes, Cathy's project. She's got an excellent eye for what will thrive where." Sir Archibald's voice warmed with obvious approval. "Knows instinctively which plants need more attention and which ones are hardy enough to manage on their own."
"She's been very patient with me," Sasha said. "Teaching me about the gardens."
"Has she mentioned companion planting?"
"Um. Yes?"
"Fascinating concept. Some plants grow better when they're paired with the right partner.
Bring out the best in each other, you might say.
" He pruned a wayward stem with surgical precision.
"Of course, timing is everything. Plant too early and the conditions aren't right.
Too late, and you've missed the growing season entirely. "
Sasha was beginning to suspect that Sir Archibald was not, in fact, talking about plants.
"The trick," he continued, apparently warming to his theme, "is recognizing when the conditions are right for transplanting. When the soil is prepared, when there's adequate light, when both plants are ready to adapt to new circumstances."
Sasha wondered how she was going to escape this conversation without looking terribly rude.
"Of course," Sir Archibald added with studied casualness, "some gardeners are so focused on maintaining perfect growing conditions that they forget plants are actually quite resilient. Capable of adapting to new environments if they're given the chance."
"Right," Sasha managed. "Resilient."
"Exactly. Often it's the gardener who needs to change, not the garden." He set down his pruning shears and fixed her with a direct look. "Would you like to learn about propagation? It's all about encouraging new growth from existing root systems."
Before Sasha could decide whether accepting gardening lessons from her fake boyfriend's father while he made barely-disguised romantic metaphors was a good idea or a terrible one, movement outside caught her attention.
Ambrose and Lukas were emerging from what appeared to be the tool shed, both looking suspiciously undone.
Ambrose's hair was sticking up at odd angles, Lukas's shirt was untucked, and they were standing just slightly too close together while trying to look like they'd been discussing fertilizer or hedge trimming or other innocent gardening matters.
"Ah," Sir Archibald said mildly, following her gaze.
"I should probably…" Sasha began.
"Go rescue your boyfriend from making a complete fool of himself? Yes, probably wise."
She fled the greenhouse, leaving Sir Archibald chuckling among his orchids.
"WE NEED TO talk," Sasha announced, marching up to Ambrose with the sort of determination that came from three sleepless nights and too many gardening metaphors. Honestly, this was all starting to be less of a holiday and more like some sort of torture camp.
"Good morning to you too," Ambrose said, attempting to smooth down his hair. "Lovely day, isn't it? Very… educational."
Lukas had the grace to look embarrassed. "I should get back to the roses," he said, disappearing in the direction of the formal gardens with impressive speed.
"Educational?" Sasha raised an eyebrow
"He was showing me proper tool maintenance," Ambrose said with as much dignity as he could muster. "Very important to keep your equipment in good working order."
Sasha ignored the innuendo. "I'm sure it is." She grabbed his arm. "We need to talk. Now."
She dragged him toward a bench hidden behind the rose garden, safely out of sight of the house windows.
"Right," she said, settling beside him. "I need to tell you something."
"If it's about the fact that you've been staring at my sister like she's the last chocolate in the box, I'm already aware."
Sasha felt heat flood her cheeks. "It's not—I haven't been—"
"Sash. Yesterday at lunch you forgot to eat because you were too busy watching her argue with Georgina about heritage buildings. The day before that, you nearly walked into the stream because she was reading on the terrace."
"Bollocks."
"You can barely take your eyes off her."
"I might," Sasha said carefully, "be developing a slight crush on your sister."
Ambrose snorted. "Might?"
"Alright, fine. I'm completely gone on her. Are you happy now?"
"Ecstatic," Ambrose said dryly. "Nothing I love more than watching my best friend fall for someone who's completely off-limits. Like my older sister. This isn’t one of those ratty books you borrow from the library that have all their pages stuck together, you know."
"Listen," Sasha said. "This whole situation is getting out of hand. Maybe we should call it quits, tell your grandmother the truth—"
"No." Ambrose's voice was sharp. "Absolutely not. We agreed to see this through to the house party."
"But—"
"But nothing. Look, after this holiday, you'll have complete free rein to do whatever you want. Pursue my sister, elope to Scotland, whatever makes you happy. But right now, for just a few more days, can you please keep it in your pants?"
Sasha stared at him. "Keep it in my pants?"
"You know what I mean."
"Do I? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been doing quite a bit of your own pursuing. Tool maintenance, Ambrose? Really?"
"That's completely different."
"How is it different?"
"Because Lukas isn't—" Ambrose stopped abruptly.
"Isn't what? Isn't your sister? Isn't someone your family would disapprove of? Isn't someone who might complicate your perfect good-boy holiday?"
Ambrose was quiet for a moment, staring out at the gardens. "It's just a few more days," he said finally.
"And what if a few more days is too long? What if I do something stupid? What if your sister does something stupid? What if we—"
"Then try not to get caught," Ambrose said with exasperation. "Jesus, Sash, it's not rocket science. Keep your hands to yourself, don't snog her in front of Grandmother, and try to remember that officially you're madly in love with me."
"And what about you? Are you going to keep your hands to yourself?"
"I'm being very careful," Ambrose said stiffly.
"Are you? Because tool maintenance in a locked shed doesn't exactly scream careful to me."
"We weren't—that wasn't—" Ambrose's face was bright red. "We were talking."
"Right. Talking. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Before Ambrose could formulate a response, the bell for breakfast rang across the gardens, saving them both from having to continue what was rapidly becoming a very uncomfortable conversation.
"Saved by the bell," Sasha muttered, standing up and brushing dust off her dress.
"We're not finished discussing this," Ambrose warned.
"Yes, we are. Because we're both going to be very good and very careful and definitely not do anything that might scandalize your grandmother."
"Exactly."
"Even if it kills us."
"Even if it kills us."
They shook hands with mock solemnity, both knowing they were probably lying.
AFTER A HOT MORNING, lunch was served on the terrace, and Sasha found herself seated between Sophie and Lady Charlotte, trying to look like someone who hadn't just spent the morning receiving romance advice from a man who spoke exclusively in plant metaphors whilst elbow-deep in soil.
Victoria was across the room, discussing something with her grandmother that involved a lot of hand gesturing and what appeared to be architectural drawings. Even from a distance, Sasha could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she was braced for criticism.
"The gardens are looking particularly lovely this year," Lady Charlotte was saying to the room at large. "Lukas has done exceptional work with the roses."
Sir Archibald emerged from behind his newspaper long enough to fix his wife with a look that suggested he knew exactly what she was implying.
"The boy's dedicated," he said mildly. "Knows his business."
"I'm sure he does," Lady Charlotte said delicately.
Sasha caught Ambrose's eye across the room and saw her own panic reflected there.
"More tea, anyone?" Lady Charlotte asked brightly, clearly trying to steer the conversation toward safer waters.
Twenty minutes later, when lunch was finished and everyone began going their separate ways, Sasha excused herself to use the bathroom. She was making her way back through the house when she caught sight of movement in the kitchen corridor.
Sophie was there, standing in front of a dish cart, moving with the sort of careful stealth that suggested she didn't want to be seen. She had a plate in her hands and was loading it with what appeared to be leftover cold meats from lunch, her movements quick and efficient.
When she noticed Sasha watching, Sophie froze like a deer in headlights.
"Oh," she said, clutching the plate to her chest. "I was just… getting a snack."
"Right," Sasha said casually. "Lunch not filling enough?"
"Something like that." Sophie's eyes darted toward the back stairs. "I should… that is, I have studying to do."
"Of course," Sasha said, stepping aside to let her pass. "Don't let me keep you."
Sophie hurried away, still clutching her plate of purloined food, and Sasha was left standing in the corridor wondering what exactly the youngest Sullivan was up to.
But then, everyone in this house seemed to be hiding something.
The question was whether any of them were going to survive the secrets they were keeping.