Garden of Temptation Read online

  Mr. Anderson is a nice enough man, but he’s not who I think I should select for the job. Which is exactly why I should hire him. My thoughts would hardly be clouded with thoughts of old Mr. Anderson. I still have another interview to do, but I think I’ve already made my decision.

  I’m certain Aunt Charlotte will be proud of me.

  Chapter Four

  Edison

  While waiting to hear back from Lady—I mean, Miss Thompson, I pick up a few odd jobs around the village. Repairing a roof here, mending a fence there. It is enough to help us get by for now, what with summer coming. But when autumn rolls around, the children will need warmer clothes, new shoes, and I’d like them to go to school. Thankfully, our mother was given a fair bit of schooling in her younger days, so she taught all of us to read and write and do a bit of math. Still, I’d like my siblings to have more opportunities than I had. But I’m not sure we will be able to afford it this year. Winter always means less work and more expenses. We’ll have to buy more food as our stores run out, and chopping enough wood every day is backbreaking labor. What I wouldn’t give to have that job at the estate. Good pay, free room and board, and work that brings me joy instead of tearing me down in body and soul.

  Getting to look at the fair Miss Thompson every day—even just a glimpse—would be an encouraging bonus as well. She is so beautiful. Curly blonde hair, bright blue eyes made even bluer by her matching housedress. I can’t imagine a prettier face. And her accent! It sounded funny at first, but the more she spoke, the more I enjoyed hearing it.

  I shake my head. Such foolishness, thinking so much of a fine lady like that. She’d never look at me the way I look at her. Nor should she. She deserves a rich lordling who can put her in pretty dresses and jewels. I wonder why she’s not married yet. But what was it she said she was looking for? A man with a title. I suppose I can’t fault her for that. Who wouldn’t want to marry well? If a rich heiress offered me a large home and title to boot, I’d certainly jump at the chance.

  I’d never worry about anything else if I had enough money. I’d build Mother a new house, one without drafts seeping through the cracks. My brothers and sisters could all have good schooling and be more than maids and day-laborers. The girls could marry merchants or traders. A practical wife who is good with numbers is always an asset to a man of business. And my brothers, they could become men of business. Work in a bank or become estate managers.

  I’m putting the cart before the horse, though. I haven’t gotten the job yet. I’m confident I will, though. Miss Thompson seemed the practical sort. She’d surely see the merits of having a young, strong man taking over the position, considering that age got the best of her previous gardener. I’m sure she interviewed men with more experience. The man who was entering as I left looked like he’d spent more than a few days working out of doors. But I had the feeling that Miss Thompson and I understood each other. That even though we’d just met, we’d had a sort of rapport between us already.

  Bah! I must be foolin’ myself. We’re worlds apart! She a proper lady and I’m a lowly gardener. First thing I was taught when I got my last estate job was that the line between the family of the manor and the staff was never to be breached. We should never assume familiarity, assume a friendship. Don’t put one’s nose in other people’s business. Of course, such rules were more easily laid out than followed, both by the family and the staff. I saw more than one footman dismissed for offering advice that wasn’t asked for. And more than one maid left in the middle of the night following rumors of familiarity between them and the young lords or their friends.

  I was always strict with myself, not giving into gossip or too much conversation with members of the family. I tried to limit interactions with them to my work. Even with other members of the staff, the maids especially, I avoided getting too close. I certainly didn’t want a babe coming along and ruining the plans I’d so carefully laid out for myself. But I suppose I have to chuckle at that, seeing as how I am now responsible for four children. Fate certainly has a sense of humor.

  “Good day, Mr. Woolsey,” I call out with a wave to the local vicar as I cross the churchyard. He looks up from his raking and holds out his hand for a shake as I approach.

  “Mr. Hawthorn,” he replies, wiping sweat from his brow. He looks older than I remember. He’d probably been the age I am now when I left, his mid-twenties. So he’d be about five and thirty now. “I’d heard you were back, though some doubted it would happen.”

  “Aye. It…it was hard coming back, even if he is gone.”

  “I’m sure,” he says. He leans his rake against a tombstone and motions toward the church. “Please, sit and talk with me. You must be thirsty.”

  “You’re the one sweating out in the sun,” I say.

  We step into the church, the stone walls keeping the large, open room cool. The smell of wax and incense fills my nose and my memories. I was never very religious. I couldn’t understand how God could let my father treat me—us—the way he did. My position on that hasn’t changed much, but I do respect the clergy and the work they do.

  I nod in thanks for the cup of water offered to me. “Don’t you have a curate for that sort of outdoor work?”

  “I did, but he left for seminary. Hopefully he will have his own flock to care for one day.”

  “Good luck to him, then.” I empty my cup and place it on the table. “Does this mean you’re looking for a bit of help?”

  “Are you interested in becoming a curate? I didn’t think you had religious leanings.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s a fine profession, sir, but I don’t think it’s for me. I meant more the physical labor part of it. Raking and gardening and mending the roof.”

  “I see. It must be difficult, having to take on the responsibility for your family.”

  “Indeed,” I say, taking a seat on one of the pews. I run a hand over my face. “I’d dreamed about it, you know, of him dying. Prayed for it even, when I was little. Am I going to Hell for that?”

  “Certainly not,” Mr. Woolsey says. “You had every right to for the way he treated you and the others. I only wish I could’ve done more to help. I chastised him every week. My wife and I gave your mother or siblings shelter when they needed it. I was the one who found Catherine her service position as soon as she was old enough.

  “The whole community knew of his shameful actions. But what could we do? Your mother wouldn’t leave him. Poor old dear still loved him in her way. And he did manage to provide for them materially. He’d get up, go to work, then go home, get drunk, get nasty, then he’d either pass out or the sheriff would haul him off for the night. The next morning, he’d wake up like nothing happened and start the day over again. It would have been an almost humorous thing to witness if it hadn’t been for the devastating effects on his wife and children.”

  I nod, glad that he understands. “I wanted him to die, but I never considered what would happen when he did. I didn’t think about how Mother would care for the children.”

  “Had she not been injured she could have gotten a position of her own, I suppose. As it is, the parish has done what we can, but we are a small community. We can’t provide all they need.”

  “And I wouldn’t want you to,” I say. “I don’t need charity. I need a job.”

  “I’m sure,” he says. “Where have you inquired?”

  “I’m a gardener by trade,” I say. “I had a good mentor at my last position. I applied up at the big house, but I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Oh,” he says, his face falling. “And I suppose you won’t. I heard Mr. Anderson was offered a position up there.”

  I feel as though someone has slapped me. I can’t believe Violet—Miss Thompson—would choose that old codger over me. “The man must be eighty!”

  The vicar laughs. “He’s only sixty-seven.”

  “Still…” I shake my head. I can hardly credit it. I bend forward, my arms on my legs, and blow out my ch
eeks. “That was my best opportunity to provide for my family.”

  “I already absolved you of praying for your father’s death,” the vicar says with a wage of his finger. “Don’t wish the same thing on poor Mr. Anderson.”

  I chuckle. “I won’t, of course. This is an unfortunate blow, though. What am I to do now?”

  “The mine is always hiring,” he says with a shrug, “but I’m sure you would like to avoid that.”

  I think about the smell of dirt and soot that always surrounded my father, the hacking cough he carried with him, and shake my head. “I’d rather starve.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that. It’s a bit unconventional, but why not? Why don’t you take on the maintenance of the grounds here for a bit?”

  “Do you mean it?” I ask, feeling a bit lighter all of a sudden.

  He nods. “I haven’t hired a new curate yet, and I suppose I could put it off a bit longer, until you find something else. I can’t pay you as much as you would earn at an estate—”

  “As long as it is something regular, I’ll take it,” I say, standing and offering him my hand. “Certainly better than trying to scrape enough by each day doin’ odds and ends.”

  He stands and we shake. “Of course. Let us hope this will only be temporary and you’ll find a job more suited before long.”

  “Indeed. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “I will. Come by tomorrow, first thing, and I’ll walk you around, show you some of the things I’ve neglected over the past few weeks.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll see you then, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He laughs and practically pushes me out the door. Otherwise I think I would have stood there offering my thanks until dawn.

  I’m elated, but at once disappointed. How could Miss Thompson not have hired me? I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out. When are we likely to cross paths again? She probably attends church here on Sundays, but it would be presumptuous of me to approach her. I’ll have to try and forget about her—and the position. I’ll have to not be bitter about it. She made the decision she thought was best, I suppose.

  I nearly trip over a newer grave that hasn’t quite settled yet. When I right myself, I look down at the wooden cross to see who it belongs to.

  Of course—it belongs to him. I feel anger bubble up in me. Even now, from beyond the veil, he is finding ways to trip me up. I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow his dark specter is what prevented me from getting the estate job.

  “I suppose you feel good about yourself now,” I say. “You must have finally realized that dying was the only way to get me back here. I’m only disappointed that it worked.”

  I turn to walk away, but I find I have more to say and turn back. “No. No, I won’t let you win. I won’t let you have the pleasure in seeing my life ruined. I’m here because I want to be here. I’ll take care of Mother and the others on my own. You’ll see. We won’t just survive. We’ll be better off with you dead.”

  I then do something I thought I would only be able to do in my dreams—I spit on his grave. It feels good. I might have to come back during the night and dance on it. If I did it now, in the daylight, people might think I’ve gone mad.

  Chapter Five

  Violet

  “Were there not any younger men who applied for the position?” Aunt Charlotte asks me and I instantly know I’ve made the wrong choice.

  “There…there was,” I say, all flustered and tongue-tied. “But he didn’t have as much experience.” I feel terrible lying about Mr. Hawthorn’s credentials. He had enough experience for the position. But I can’t tell her the real reason I didn’t hire him—because I was attracted to him.

  “Yes, I’m sure, my dear,” she says. “But when it comes to managing an estate, you have to consider the long term. You want servants and employees who will be with you for a long time. People who you can develop a rapport with, people who will grow in loyalty to the family and the estate. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say with a nod.

  “Servants are… Well, not like family, of course. They go in and out of your life with fair regularity. They are more like an extension of the house itself. You wouldn’t want to move from house to house every year, would you? You could never feel at home if you did that. It’s the same with servants. You want to keep familiar faces around, build a staff you can depend on.”

  “I do understand,” I say. “I’m sorry. Should I…should I fire poor Mr. Anderson?”

  “No, of course not,” Aunt Charlotte says. “There’s nothing to be done about it now. And who knows, he might stay on longer than I expect. And you may well have hired the best candidate. But do keep what I’ve said in mind in the future.”

  “In the future? You don’t mean to put me in charge of such a task again, do you? Not after such a blunder.”

  “How else will you learn? If you mean to marry a lord, you must be prepared for the responsibilities that go with it.”

  I sigh and lean on the arm of the chair, rubbing my forehead. “This whole enterprise seems rather futile to me. No one wants an American wife, despite my dowry, apparently.”

  “I’m sure there are some who do,” Aunt Charlotte says. “It just isn’t talked about openly.”

  “Then how are we to find such men?”

  There is a knock at the door and I see the butler rush past to answer it. There is the sound of a few voices out in the hall. It is Aunt’s at-home day, so we are dressed to receive company.

  “Just wait,” Aunt Charlotte says as she stands to greet her guests.

  Three older, though not elderly, women enter the drawing-room. I know all of them from church and local social functions. They are the matriarchs of some of the important local families. There’s Mrs. Brunswick, the mother of three daughters who all married lords even though their father was not a peer. She is a short, plump woman with a kind face and rosy cheeks, though I have heard she is much harder than she appears. She tends to get what she wants. Lady Halstead is the wife of Lord Halstead, the county earl. Lady Halstead is not terribly tall, but she is frightfully slim. A stiff breeze might blow her away. She has two sons, both already married. Finally, there is Lady Brunt, the village gossip. She’s a kind, affable lady who is pleasant company. But her penchant for sharing every tidbit of news that enters her ears has left her with few close friends.

  I greet each lady with a curtsey and kiss on the cheek after they first pay their respects to Aunt Charlotte.

  “How lovely to have you back in town, Miss Thompson,” Mrs. Brunswick says. “I thought for sure that you would not return to us unattached this year.”

  I blush. “Yet here I am.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find you someone yet,” Lady Brunt says. “I’ve heard that the engagement between young Henry Wagstaff and Georgiana DeWhit has been broken.”

  “Really?” I say, surprised. “He pursued her quite actively in London.”

  “He pursued her, but she had no interest in him,” Lady Brunt goes on as we all sit and a maid brings in a tray of tea things. “How do you think she took the courtship?”

  “I don’t know her well,” I say. “However, you are right in that she didn’t much care for him at first. That was no secret. But I thought perhaps she had changed her mind after getting to know him.”

  Lady Brunt shakes her head. “That wasn’t it at all, apparently. His pursuit of her was so brazen, no one else tried to court her, so she was embarrassed to return home unattached.”

  “It was only her first Season,” I say. “Besides, won’t a broken engagement hurt her reputation more than no engagement at all.”

  “It could if she weren’t the daughter of a viscount,” Lady Halstead puts in. “She’ll have more offers, to be sure.”

  “What of Lord Henry?” Aunt Charlotte asks. “Why was he in such pursuit? Is his estate in trouble?” She winks at me and I understand her plan. She hopes to find news about possible fortune-hunters within the county gossi
p. My stomach clenches a bit. It’s terribly distasteful, using my money as a lure for an unsavory match. But what else am I to do? No well-situated lords have shown any interest in me.

  “No,” Lady Brunt says. “I suppose you haven’t seen Georgiana. She’s strikingly beautiful. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm.”

  Aunt Charlotte snorts. “There’s far more at stake in a marriage than a pretty face. Is she any more lovely than my Violet?”

  The three women look at me and I wish I could slink away. I feel as if I am being appraised at auction.

  “I think that if beauty was the only requirement in a wife, Violet wouldn’t have even made it through her first Season without being snatched up,” Mrs. Brunswick says.

  “Thank you,” I say. At least, I hope her words were a compliment. I can’t be entirely sure.

  “Beauty, money, a title,” Lady Halstead says. “Those were the criteria we laid out for our sons when they were ready to start courting. Two out of three simply isn’t enough.”

  “Of course it is,” Mrs. Brunswick says, taking offense. “My girls didn’t have titles from their father, but they do now from their husbands.”

  “Not from my sons,” Lady Halstead says, sipping her tea. “But families of earls have high standards than barons.”

  Mrs. Brunswick gasps—her daughters married barons and viscounts, but no earls. I can’t help but chuckle to myself. The exchange seems so terribly petty. Why Mother and Father are so determined that I marry into such a family I can hardly credit.

  “Then why hasn’t Violet had a proposal?” Aunt Charlotte puts to Mrs. Brunswick.

  “I can only suppose it’s because she’s not English,” she says. “And since she’s not English, everyone knows the real reason she’s here.”