Page 44 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
She turned to him, her smile so wide it seemed to catch him in the chest. How else could he explain why it was suddenly hard to breathe?
“This space is amazing.”
“It’s my favourite part of the estate,” he confessed.
She nodded. “I can understand why. I can’t believe it has a chandelier! How glorious. Those lucky plants to have such a beautiful space to grow.”
She knew what an orangery was?
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m a bit of an architecture nut. I have a cousin who is studying architecture and we’ve had some fun talks over the years about all kinds of historic buildings. Including greenhouses and orangeries. Oh!” She spun around again. “Wouldn’t this make a wonderful venue for a ball?”
“If the roof doesn’t leak.” He pointed to the bucket. “That downpour last weekend was particularly hazardous.”
She winced. “And because it’s Grade II listed it’s not a matter of a bit of DIY, is it?”
“I don’t think our insurance would cover do-it-yourself repairs, no.”
She moved to the bank of multipaned windows, realizing the central one opened as a glass French door. “Do you think we could use this as a venue for events?”
“Perhaps. If the weather permitted.”
“Oh, I could just see how perfect it would be to have a ball held in here.” She clapped her hands. “Imagine a Regency Ball—at Christmas! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“That would certainly be something,” he said dryly.
“I see you’re not quite a believer.” Her lips tilted up in another provocative grin.
“I’m not a huge fan of balls, Regency or otherwise.”
“But see, this could be a fabulous venue.” Her nose wrinkled. “I imagine it’d be super expensive to fix the roof.”
Super expensive was an understatement. “Yes.”
“So what if we were to hold a fundraiser for those Mr. Darcy fans, and hold a ball here? It’s something to consider, anyway,” she added more uncertainly.
Somehow he didn’t want to be the person stomping on her enthusiasm. He sensed he’d done that too often already. “It’s definitely something to consider, yes.” He motioned to her diary, the one she’d been scribbling in so often yesterday, that was peeking from her back pocket. “You better write that down too.”
“Good idea.” She did, then snapped a few photos.
She peeked at him, and he found half a smile. He wasn’t an ogre, despite what other women in the past might think.
“Where does that path go?” she asked, pointing to the path that led to another gate.
“Why don’t you see?”
Oh, look at him, acting so carefree. He rolled his eyes at himself and followed. The Orangery backed onto the walled garden, which once upon a time used to supply the Hall with vegetables, fruits, and herbs. These days he grew some things in the greenhouses which lined the east and west sides. The brick walls held the heat and helped create a microclimate for the plants, and he’d used one for propagation, back when he had more time. Nowadays it was used to store chickens in the winter months. He explained some of this, and she marvelled at different aspects of the garden design.
She nodded. “And would it take much to get the garden beds producing vegetables again? You could then use them in the café, or sell excess here or in the gift shop.”
Did the woman never run out of ideas? Honestly, she was kind of exhausting. “I think we’d need to have council permits if we’re going to sell vegetables.”
“Really? I thought that was for products made from grown produce, like jams or cordials, or wines. Hmm.” She made some more notes in her diary, then glanced up with another cheeky look. “Where does that gate go to?”
He obeyed her implied request, and they walked through the east gate that led along another path, lined with hedges he really should have trimmed. He withheld a sigh, seeing it from an outsider’s perspective. Not only did the garden beds need weeding, but the walled garden needed reseeding, the hedges needed attention, there was so much to do. But he did have volunteers coming to help this week, so he should find those tasks they could help with—that they wouldn’t mess up too much—such as weeding or painting the dilapidated summerhouses. Perhaps he should get her to make a note of that in her book.
He gestured to the path that led past an apple orchard, beyond which was a small bridge.
She pointed to the small sign. “Snob’s Tunnel?”
