Page 17 of Snowdrops and Winterberry
“These are pliant enough for making boughs and wreaths.” Mr. Simpkin tugged on a branch. “How extensively decorated was Falstone Castle at Christmastime?”
“Only a wee bit,” Robbie admitted.
Mr. Simpkin nodded. “I’ll fetch an armful the day Lady Jonquil wishes to begin decorating.”
“Along with wildflowers and such?”
He nodded. “I’m counting on the two of you to know how to pleasantly arrange it all. My expertise lies with planting the foliage, not crafting it into decorations. I’ll simply try to find things that are pleasant and green and filled with life. That iswhat Christmas is, after all—a celebration of life during that time of year when the world slumbers. The leaves have fallen. The landscape is barren. And yet in the midst of that darkness comes this moment when life returns. Life and light and hope.”
For a moment Robbie could hardly breathe. He’d spoken casually, quite as if he’d not just made a beautiful observation. It was an unguarded moment in which she saw a side of this man she’d not expected. This builder of walls and planter of flowers had a poet’s heart.
“That is what we must make this celebration,” she said. “Adam’s known too much loss and darkness. He needs to feel hope.”
“You likely think me strange for saying so,” he said, “but that is why I do the job I do. There is life in nature. There is hope in the cycle of it. Planning a garden or an expansive lawn or a conservatory that will change with the seasons without going entirely barren brings people hope.”
“Is that why you don’t mind helping us with this even though it is pulling you away from your work?”
“I will confess itisinterfering. But it seems to me this is part of what I’ve come here to do.”
Robbie’d always had a healthy respect for the hand of fate. It had, she was full certain, brought Adam to this house, where he could feel wanted and peaceful. It had, apparently, also brought Mr. Simpkin so he could offer hope.
What remained to be answered, though, was why fate had broughtherto Brier Hill.
Chapter Eight
Howard’s excursion with Miss MacGregorthe day before had offered a much-needed escape from the frustration of the job he’d come to Brier Hill to complete. His stone hadn’t arrived. Most of his planting couldn’t be done until the wall was complete. All the while time was ticking away.
But that brief afternoon jaunt and the amiable gab he’d shared with a woman who, at first meeting, had seemed rather more like a fishwife than a friendly sort had restored his spirits. He’d returned to his corner of the estate with more hope than he’d left with.
He set himself to the task of laying bricks for the garden beds, leastwise those nearest the existing walls. It was work he could accomplish while waiting for his stone.
He’d passed a morning and good portion of an afternoon when Miss MacGregor arrived.
“I’ve a spot of time on my hands,” she said. “Can I do anything to help?”
“The soil in the beds here needs breaking up,” he answered.
She gave a quick nod and fetched from among his tools a grubbing hoe—the exact right tool for the job. He watched her a minute as she worked. Poor technique could cause pain or injury.
He needn’t have worried. She set to the work with expertise borne of experience.
“Why is it you’re not looking after your little duke just now?” he asked, kneeling once more to continue his brickwork. “Is he napping?”
Miss MacGregor spoke as she worked. “He’s too old now for napping, except on rare occasions. He’s passing the afternoon with his host and hostess. They’ve asked him to help themdecide what’s most needed to turn one of the bedchambers into a nursery.”
Howard doubted they actually needed the help of an eight-year-old. But he’d discovered in his interactions with them that they were compassionate and generous people. They had likely chosen to involve the little duke because they thought he would enjoy it. He likely needed to feel part of a family in some way. Howard was thirty-eight years old, but he still keenly felt the loss of his parents.
“Watching them with the duke,” Miss MacGregor said, “I’ve not a spot of doubt they’ll be fine parents, doting and caring in a way many of their station are nae.”
There was no mistaking she was Scottish, and yet her manner of speaking wasn’t so decidedly that of Scotland that he was left to wonder. He’d wager she’d lived quite some time on this side of the Scottish border.
“Perhaps Lord and Lady Jonquil will be looking for a nursemaid,” he said. “Your charge is at the age where he is unlikely to have one much longer. Might be your coming here will offer you an opportunity to find a new position without too much difficulty.”
She paused in her digging, her face taking on a very thoughtful expression. It seemed she hadn’t considered the possibility of being hired on at Brier Hill. He couldn’t tell, however, whether she was pleased with the prospect.
“They’d likely be right generous employers,” she said as if talking to herself. “And they’re young yet, so there might be more children, which’d give me some longevity in the position.”
“You’ll likely think me terribly nosy, but you don’t sound overly enthusiastic about what seems to be a perfect situation.”
