Follow the Heart (6 page)

She knelt and, not caring that it would ruin her mittens, pulled the cold soil apart and worked to set the three-foot shrub upright, back in its rightful place again.

“I do beg your pardon, but may I ask what you think you are doing?”

The male voice so startled her, she lost her balance and ended up sitting in the pile of muddy dirt she’d been trying to push over the shrub’s roots. Above her stood one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, the light from the waning sun shining behind him, creating a golden halo effect to his crown of brown curls.

Though vaguely familiar, his work clothes and heavy boots—and the long-handled spade on which he leaned—confused her as to how she would have met this man. He reached out his free hand toward her.

And Kate suddenly remembered him. “Mr. Lawton?”

“Miss Dearing. Do let me help you up.” He wiggled his fingers.

As he was wearing work gloves, Kate didn’t bother removing her soiled mitten before taking his hand. “Thank you.”

Once back on her feet, she turned to examine the damage to her clothing. The long cloak had protected the gown, thankfully, and the mud barely showed against the dark brown wool.

“Is there a reason you decided to replant the shrub I just dug up?” Andrew Lawton leaned against the spade handle again. His eyes encompassed the colors of their surroundings—green and brown and golden, all at the same time.

Kate wanted to sigh in appreciation of his appearance but stopped herself with a reminder of why she was here. “I saw that the bush had fallen over, so I was putting it back into the earth—you dug it up? Why?”

Mr. Lawton’s expression turned pitying. “Because it is an eyesore, and it has no place in the plan I have for this area of the new garden.”

“But . . .” Kate glanced around the otherwise pristine area. “It is rough and wild-looking, and it adds character and charm this garden desperately needs.”

She turned back to Mr. Lawton when he made a choking sound. Those green-brown-gold eyes danced with amusement, and Kate felt none of it. He was laughing at her.

“Miss Dearing, you are not a gardener, so you do not understand. It is not roughness or wildness that makes a beautiful garden. It is through the control, the discipline, of nature that true beauty is achieved.” Pity laced his deep voice.

Kate crossed her arms—no longer feeling the need to control her tongue or hide her true opinions. “Mr. Lawton, I will thank you to not make assumptions about me and what I do and do not understand. From what you said, I
understand
you are of the Italianate school when it comes to garden design. Artifice and architecture, formality and precision, but no passion. Nature was not meant to be controlled or disciplined. True beauty comes from allowing nature to take its own course, to be what God intended it to be.”

Andrew kept smiling at her in that infuriatingly superior way. He straightened and hefted the spade over his shoulder. “And that, Miss Dearing, is the very attitude that leads to overgrowth and destruction in nature—and chaos and ill discipline in people.” He inclined his head and walked away, whistling.

Kate stared after him, speechless. Had he just called her chaotic and ill disciplined? She took a few steps after him, desperate to ask him to clarify—but two other men approached him and she stopped.

She looked down at the shrub, which had started falling over again. With determination, she crouched and shoved the dirt Andrew Lawton had dug up back over the shrub’s roots, then pounded it back into the hole with all of her frustration.

Next time she saw Andrew Lawton, she would be the one to walk away whistling. Just see if she didn’t.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

C
hristopher stared at the portrait of the dour, bewigged man, hoping against hope it wasn’t one of his ancestors. He would hate to think he came from such stock. He moved on to the next life-size image hanging from the towering wall—and it took him a moment to realize it was a woman not a man, the tall, ruffled collar dating the image to the time of Queen Bess.

“Excuse me—are you . . . ?”

Christopher turned at the female voice. A girl—possibly a teenager—stood halfway down the enormous gallery hall, wringing her hands . . . though she looked curious, not worried. He flourished a bow toward her. “I’m Christopher Dearing. And you are?”

The pale face broke out into a huge smile. “I am Miss Florence Buchanan.” She made a slight curtsy. “You’re my American cousin.”

“I am? Well, if that don’t beat all.” He grinned and winked at her.

Miss Florence Buchanan giggled and flushed to the roots of her black hair. Even the bell shape of the skirt of her green dress couldn’t mask the languid lankiness of her frame—especially with two skinny stocking- and boot-clad ankles sticking out under the skirt and petticoats. She looked like she was better suited for playing baseball—or what did they call it here . . . cricket?—on the lawn than wandering about the portrait hall with her hands folded demurely at her willowy waist.

“I am sorry I was unable to greet you last night with the rest of the family.” She edged closer to him.

He tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked from heel to toe. “I understand you weren’t feeling well. I hope you are better now.”

“Much better, thank you.” She took another cautious step forward.

“Now you’ve had a chance to look me over, do I meet with your approval?” Christopher turned side to side, as if offering her the chance to inspect him fully.

She nodded. “Yes—I mean, I did not expect you wouldn’t. I mean, I rather expected—hoped—you might be dressed in buckskins and wearing a raccoon hat.”

He laughed. “A coonskin hat, you mean? I see you’ve been reading up on my fair land.”

“Did you know him? David Crockett?” She closed the gap between them, warming to her topic.

“No, to my utter disappointment. Davy Crockett died when I was very little. But I too enjoyed reading about him.”

“How far is Tennessee from Philadelphia? Miss Woodriff has a map, but it is not a very good one.”

“Tennessee is quite a distance from Philadelphia. And as it is a large state, parts of it are very far from Philadelphia.”

“As far as from here to London? It takes
hours
to get to London on the train.”

Christopher bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “It’s a bit farther than that.”

Her blue eyes grew wide. “As far as to Paris?”

“Even farther than that—though we don’t have the burden of crossing the English Channel, only the mountains.”

“But the train could take you there, so you could see where he came from?”

He affected a deep sigh. “Alas, the railway system in America is not nearly as advanced as it has become in England. We have many more miles to cover, and most of it is through hazardous, rough terrain.”

“Filled with Red Indians?”

He gaped at her. “Miss Florence, what does your governess allow you to read?”

“You may call me Florie. And Miss Woodriff gives me the most wonderful books. But Matthew sneaks his penny dreadfuls to me after he is finished with them.”

“Matthew . . . the footman?”

“Yes.”

No wonder this conversation had been very much like the one he’d had this morning with the young footman assigned to be his valet.

“Matthew is ever so desirous of going to America. A year ago when Miss Woodriff’s brother left to go to California to get rich, Matthew almost went with him.”

Christopher’s interest piqued at that detail. So the governess’s brother was off in California seeking gold. Though Christopher considered the endeavor foolhardy, he admired the man for the foresight of leaving Miss Woodriff behind where she would be comfortable and safe, rather than dragging her across the continent on a difficult journey only to put her at risk—from the environment and those populating it—once they arrived in California.

A clock chimed, echoing through the gallery. Florie gasped. “I had no idea how late it was. Miss Woodriff despises tardiness.”

Christopher offered his cousin his arm. “Then let me escort you, and I will explain how I detained you. That way, she can be angry with me instead of you.”

Florie took his arm with another giggle. “She tries to be stern, but deep down, I don’t think Miss Woodriff could truly be angry with anyone. Not for long, anyway.”

After several minutes, Christopher was glad of Florie’s chattering company—he never would have found his way. They left the main part of the house and went into an older wing—colder, damper—and up two more flights of stairs.

When they reached the top of the second flight, the echoing clip of footfalls met them. They turned a corner, and Miss Woodriff came to an abrupt halt before she ran headlong into them.

She stared at Christopher for a moment, astonishment clear in her golden-brown eyes. With a little shake of her head, she turned her attention to Florie. “Miss Florence, your Latin lesson was to have started five minutes ago. You know how I feel about tardiness.”

Florie gave Christopher a what-did-I-tell-you glance, then let go of his arm. “Thank you for the escort, Cousin Christopher. I will see you at dinner.”

“My pleasure, Cousin Florie.” He waited until the young woman disappeared into the classroom before turning his focus on the governess. Shorter than he’d remembered, she barely came up to his shoulder. “My apologies for making Miss Florence late. She found me in the gallery, and I kept her talking when she should have been returning here for her lesson.”

Miss Woodriff—severe from her tightly drawn-back hair to her high-necked, long-sleeved indigo gown—closed her eyes. Before she bowed her head, the hint of a smile eased the straight line of her lips.

She looked up at him again. “I have been Miss Florence’s governess for five years. I know it is she who kept talking to you, rather than the other way around. I do apologize if she kept you from anything important, Mr. Dearing.”

“Nonsense. It was a highly educational conversation. We discussed geography, an American politician, and the aboriginal peoples of my country. I learned quite a bit.” He ducked his head and grinned at her, trying to coax the corners of her mouth up farther.

It worked. Though she kept her lips pressed firmly together, Miss Woodriff gave him what most would consider to be a smile. “In other words, she asked you about Davy Crockett, Tennessee, California, and Indians.” She shook her head. “Though the penny dreadfuls Matthew brings her contain a vast variety of shocking stories, those are her favorite subjects. Once again, I apologize, Mr. Dearing.”

“Don’t. I enjoyed it. I like that she’s taken an interest in America. But perhaps I might be allowed to disabuse her of some of the more fantastical stories she may have read about my country.” He looked over Miss Woodriff’s head toward the classroom. “I quite enjoyed history and geography when I was a university student.”

A glimmer of keen interest sparkled in the governess’s eyes. “I believe that would be a wonderful idea. Would you consider coming to one of Florie’s lessons and answering her questions? I am sometimes hard put to find the answers in my limited library on the subjects. Or would that be too much of a bother?”

He gave her a slight bow. “I would be delighted. Just let me know when, and I will be here.”

Miss Woodriff’s lips parted slightly when she smiled this time. She backed down the short hallway. “Thank you, Mr. Dearing. I look forward to learning more about America under your tutelage—for Miss Florence’s sake, of course.”

“For Miss Florence’s sake.” Christopher waited until Miss Woodriff closed the classroom door behind her before he turned and skipped down the stairs, humming a jaunty tune he’d heard the sailors singing on the voyage over.

In the light of day, Miss Woodriff was more attractive than he’d thought last night. And if she let her hair down and wore a more becoming color, she could even be considered pretty.

But no, he couldn’t allow his mind to travel in that direction. Though he’d never considered himself a great catch—too tall, too angular, not wealthy enough—for some reason, women did seem drawn to him. But now, with no promise of money and only his wits to guide him, he couldn’t set aside his father’s edict that he find a wealthy woman to wed.

The burden of marrying money and saving the Dearing family could not fall solely on Kate—who, though pretty, didn’t have the most outgoing or flirtatious personality. Christopher wanted nothing more than to find a woman who matched him for wit, intelligence, and demeanor. Someone like Miss Woodriff might fit the bill quite well. But he could not allow himself the luxury of finding out. Like his sister, his fate was sealed. Marry money.

Of course, unlike his sister, he did have one small chance of escape. If Andrew Lawton would agree to introduce Christopher to his mentor—Joseph Paxton, designer of the Crystal Palace in London—he could possibly find well-paying employment.

Kate tried to pull the shawl collar of her dinner dress higher up onto her shoulders, but the gray-blue silk taffeta would not budge. Athena fussed over Kate’s hair, arranging a few long ringlets to rest over her bare right shoulder.