Page 12 of A Fearless Heart
She tended to several tropical specimens, checking the soils for mold (the moist air of their glasshouse made it a constant threat). And then she checked the Iranian salvia.
“Almost ready,” she murmured, examining the dark green glossy leaves and aerial parts of the plant. “Do you know,” she said, “you may well be the first example of your species to thrive on the isle of Britain? How do you feel about that? Proud, I should hope. Myself, I’m quite a common example of my type—female human—and I can’t say I’m thriving. Half the time, I’m scared to step outside my door. How am I to survive in the world if that’s the case? Survive in the biological sense, I mean.” She sighed. Cady worried about a lot of things, but she never worried about her habit of talking to plants. They were, if not stimulating conversationalists, then at least polite ones.
Cady tested the soil of one pot and slowly poured more water in. She envisioned a world where there were whole farms under glass, growing not just hothouse fruits, but also medicinal plants that would be harvested and made into medicines that everyone could use.
“Ah, that reminds me,” she murmured aloud. “I’ve got to get that old glasshouse back in working order. The hot walls are a wreck.”
She strolled over to her worktable and scrawled out a note to speak to Rundle about it. Now that the gardener, Mr Court, had proved he wasn’t a bumbling idiot, Cady felt better about giving him a more complex task. And restoring her mother’s old glasshouse would be a monumental effort, even for that bull of a man. It occurred to Cady for half a second that the work would go much faster if she were there to direct him in all the particulars and help out with the less physically demanding tasks. But that would require her to actually be around him and speak with him….
Unbidden, his image flitted across Cady’s mind. She bit her lip, trying to stamp it out. But how was she supposed to do that? In fact, she’d found several excuses to “supervise” his work from various vantage points in the house over the past week. She told herself that it was merely curiosity about a new person, after quite a long time without any contact with new people. But somehow she doubted that she’d be so curious about a woman, or a man who wasn’t quite so striking.
Which he was. So Cady peeked out of the windows on the upper floors of the house, just “happening” to be there when he was working below, often in just his white shirt, which allowed her to get a glimpse of his muscled form underneath. Dear Lord, what was she going to do if he was still working at Calderwood when the weather got hot?
Ugh, if she was still lurking in the shadows in June, it would mean that all her experiments had failed, and she wouldn’t have learned how to treat the affliction that had come upon her. She’d be a recluse to the end of her life, living in the shadows, reviled, abandoned…
Before her imagination could totally run away, she heard footsteps approaching. Turning around, she saw Rundle.
“Apologies for interrupting, my lady, but in case you’ve forgotten, it’s Thursday. And you have said you would at home for tea.”
“It’s Thursday?” she asked in dismay.
“I’m afraid so, my lady.”
Cady sighed, resenting the need to stop speaking to plants and start speaking with people. But she dutifully went back to her rooms so she could change into suitable attire for the afternoon. Martha helped her dress, choosing a green gown so dark it was almost black. The somber hue was appropriate for mourning, and Cady added a wide black velvet sash around the high waist, as well as long black gloves. Martha brushed her hair and put it in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, secured with a black ribbon.
Another afternoon, another gauntlet of sociability. Cady had hoped that no one would call on her today—she was practically mad to get back to her glasshouse and all the newly sprouting plants. But instead, she was here in this cold, dry drawing room, presiding over yet another awkward gathering of neighbors and so-called friends.
This time was worse than last, because while Mr Heath wasn’t there, Mr Pollack very much was, and something in his demeanor suggested that he hadn’t come for the lemon biscuits.
“You look very lovely today, my lady,” he told her after sloshing down a cup of tea.
“How kind of you to say,” Cady replied.
Mrs Bowcott was her usual chattering self, speaking of the planned festivities for Easter, and did Arcadia expect to attend?
So they can burn me as a witch? No thank you, Cady thought. Aloud, she murmured that much would depend on the weather.
But Mrs Bowcott could not stay long, and within twenty minutes, she stood and announced that she must be on her way. Cady hoped that Mr Pollack would follow suit, but he did not. Instead, he walked to the French doors. As he did so, a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the rose garden as if God had special intentions there. Cady wished she was out there, rather than inside with Mr Pollack.
But then he said, “Well, my lady. It seems that the sun is finally coming out. Before I leave, may I take you for a turn around the gardens?”
Against all her better judgment, Cady said yes.
* * * *
Gabe hadn’t known that it was possible to hate plants. But after a week, he hated crabgrass, and ragweed, and creeping thistle. Though it hadn’t been long since the family had lost so many workers, the neglect was evident. The grasses in the meadows were overgrown and straggly. Branches blown down from recent storms still needed to be cleared away. And every square foot of the gardens needed to be weeded.
His hands ached. The skin had been pierced by thorns and nettles. His back felt like it was on fire when he finally lay down on his bed each night. But the work allowed him to keep watch on the house, and speak to the other servants at mealtimes, and note who was coming and going.
He’d sent two short notes back to the Zodiac so far, irritated by how little he had to report. He knew how many secrets lay just beyond the next wall, or the next locked door, or the next garden gate. But he was constrained by his role, and his nighttime forays were short and always risky. One thing, however, was clear. The lady was a recluse, so the odds that she was darting off to London to poison people were long. But of course, she could still be thesupplierof the poison.
On this day, he was working in the Italian garden, clearing the ground of last year’s detritus. Gabe dug carefully around a little green shoot, giving it a wide berth should the roots have spread wider than the leaves had. He lifted the plant out of the ground, and placed it gently into the pot, taking care to dribble loose dirt all around.
“There you are, a temporary home until I find out what you are and where you belong,” he told the plant. Then he shook his head. This place was getting to him. Here he was, talking to the plants when he ought to be cutting them down. But what if this one was important?
He felt a prickling sensation across his back. He casually raised his hand to his neck and rubbed as if he got a sore muscle. But he looked around as he did so, for that feeling was well-known to him, and one he developed during his years as a spy. Someone was watching him.
Gabe twisted his torso, pretending to need to stretch. His movements allowed him to scan the whole garden, and the meadow beyond and the house that loomed up to the east. There were so many windows…any one of them could harbor a pair of unfriendly eyes.
