She eyed a ladder propped against the wall. “Are you planning to plant vines?”
“Excellent idea.” He sipped again, letting the sweet coolness flow down his throat. “That would save me from painting, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re going to paint, too?”
“That’s the plan. I sent Harry off for paint. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Since when does Harry tell me anything?” She took the empty tankard from his hand. “What was the ladder for, then?”
“I tried to fix the roof.” Turning away, he lifted the ax. “If you wouldn’t mind going into the laboratory—”
“Into your private domain?” She laid a hand on her pillowy bosom. “Be still my heart.”
“—you may find some foreign matter has fallen from above.” He whacked at an overgrown bush. Or vine. He wasn’t sure which, but he was fairly certain the thing wouldn’t be termed a tree. “I’m going to have to ask Harry to find a roofer.” He whacked again, then turned sharply when he heard a chortle. “Are you laughing at me, Hilda?”
“Of course not, milord. That would be terribly disrespectful, wouldn’t it?” She cleared her throat. “You know, some of that may be salvageable if you prune it instead of killing it.”
He ran a grubby hand back through his hair. “Is that so? I had no idea you were knowledgeable about vegetation. Perhaps you could—”
“I most certainly could not.” She drew herself up to her full height of five feet. “I’m a housekeeper, not a gardener. It’s dirty work, that is.”
It certainly was, if the state of his clothing was any indication. Deciding he’d done as much to destroy that plant as possible, he moved to the next one.
“Why are you limping?” Hilda’s eyes narrowed. “Your breeches are torn.”
He started to wave the ax in a dismissive gesture, then changed his mind and lowered it. He was reasonably proficient with a sword, but an ax was another matter. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just scratched myself a bit up on the roof.”
“Fell through, you mean, do you not?”
On second thought, if his housekeeper failed to curb her tongue, the ax could come in handy. His hand tightened on the hilt. Or the grip. Or whatever one called the wooden part of an ax. “Perhaps my foot did slip. I told you there might be foreign matter in the laboratory that needs to be cleared away.”
“Well, I hope your blood isn’t mixed with it. That’ll stain the floor.” Shaking her head, she walked away, leaving him in peace at last.
As soon as she disappeared around the corner, he plopped onto a stone bench, swiping a hand across his brow. He eyed his handiwork.
He’d been chopping away for nigh on four hours, and the job looked bigger than when he’d started.
FIFTY-SEVEN
“VERY INTERESTING,” Violet said, staring at the dried top of a pineapple.
Lily smiled sweetly at their father. “What an exciting project.”
“It’s an ugly thing,” Rose said.
Father gave her an indulgent smile—or perhaps he hadn’t quite heard her. All plants were beautiful to him, and he’d been known to take offense on their behalf. “I’m going to plant it in a big pot and keep it here in the Stone Gallery at nights and all winter.”
Violet didn’t find the plan surprising, since he was already trying to grow oranges indoors. The long, narrow chamber, which was lined with windows and occupied the entire ground floor of the west wing, had been used in Tudor times to take exercise in inclement weather. But now one could hardly walk two steps without bumping into a plant.
Rowan’s foot tapped on the black-and-white marble floor. “How many pineapples will it grow?”
“I’m not sure.” Father frowned. “Maybe only one.”
“One? We’ll eat it in a trice!”
“But then I’ll have another top, and I can grow more—”
“And by the time Rowan is married with children,” Rose finished for him, “we ought to have a decent crop. Anyone want to go riding?”
It seemed a long time since Violet had exercised anything but her heart. “I’m game,” she said.
“Me, too,” Lily added.
“Me three.” Rowan scratched his head. “No, make that four.”
They all laughed.
“Be back in time to dress for supper!” Father called after his children as they trooped outside.
A few minutes later they were mounted on their horses and riding along the river. Violet took the lead and automatically headed toward Lakefield, hoping Ford was back from Oxford. She wanted to see him, to talk things through now that she’d had time to think. She hoped she could get him alone somehow, away from her siblings where they could speak in private.
The sun felt warm on her skin, and Socrates’s white hide was tickly against her legs. She leaned into a turn, loving the wind in her hair, the effortless movements of the animal beneath her. Suddenly she felt like she’d been cooped up in the house entirely too long. The fresh air was marvelous. She decided she should leave her books behind and go out more often.
“We should ride the other way,” Rowan said.
Lily pulled up alongside him. “Why is that?”
He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t want to see Jewel.”
Three days had passed since he’d drunk the chocolate, and he was still scratching. And doubtless still hearing Jewel’s laughter in his ears.
Rose laughed now. “Jewel went home with her parents, you goose.”
“Rose!” Seeing their brother flinch at the word goose, Violet sent her a warning look. “But she’s right, Rowan, Jewel is nowhere near…”
Her words trailed off as Lakefield House came within sight.
“Oh my,” she said, staring at the decimated garden. “What do you think happened?”
“A storm,” Rowan guessed. “With lots of blowing.”
Lily’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “I expect we would have felt the effects of that at Trentingham.”
Rose shaded her eyes with a hand. “Is that a hole in the roof?”
They drew nearer. “Oh my,” Violet said. “Is that—oh my.”
“On the ladder there.” Lily cocked her head. “Is that the viscount?”
Rose drew breath and released a very
