He lifted his whip, then froze. “Ashmore Hall?”
“Yes.”
The man turned and looked at her for the first time, taking in her travel-worn clothes and dusty boots. She held her breath. “Are you employed there?”
“What if I am? I need to be there before night falls. I can't afford a room here.”
He stared at her with hooded eyes. Then he shrugged and let his whip slash through the air.
The cart rumbled slowly towards the gate. She threw her bag down in frustration. It landed in a puddle. “Oh, blast it all. Why can't Arabella live in a more accessible place? Now what am I going to do?”
The carriage came to a halt. The man stared ahead, immobile. Then he called out, “What’re you waiting for, girl? I haven't got all day.”
It took Lucy a moment to comprehend what he meant. Relief swept through her. She picked up her muddied bag and scrambled into the driver's seat next to him.
“Thank you, oh, thank you, thank you,” she said, breathlessly. Then she clung to his arm as the carriage set in motion again and she nearly tumbled out again.
“I’ve a feeling I’ll regret this,” he muttered as he untangled himself from her.
An hour later,the man scrubbed a weary hand over his face. “Heaven help me. Do you ever stop chattering?”
Lucy beamed at him. “I do like to talk, don’t I? So, you’re the head gardener at Ashmore Hall? How wonderful! I heard the gardens of Ashmore Hall are like the gardens of Eden.”
He grunted.
“Tell me, what’re you working on now? Are you planting those bushes? Are you going to plant them in a huge, impressive alley like they usually have in those grand places?” She waved her hands around.
“Ashmore Hall has alleys a plenty. This one’ll be a grove,” he said, unwillingly.
“Oh! I can just see it! How lovely it’ll look! And then you will surely plant lots of hyacinths, daffodils and gooseberries? How lovely it’ll smell!”
“That's an odd combination.”
“Is it? But you've got to see the colours in your inner mind, see. It's all about the vision.” She spread both hands out in front of her, as if framing a painting.
“The vision.” He scratched his nose.
“Yes. Like an artist. I've always thought gardeners are like artists. Like painters of nature.” She looked at him dreamily. “You've got to have the vision.”
“Devil take it, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It's easy, see? You close your eyes and visualise it with your inner eye. See the colours and then—an artist would try to catch it with his oils, and oh, a musician with music a gardener, I suppose, with flowers. A gardener is an artist like all the others. He must be, else he cannot catch the spirit of beauty. The beauty of nature.”
The man looked at her as if she'd lost her mind entirely. He dug into his pocket to retrieve a pipe. He lit it and stuck it into the corner of his mouth.
“Sit down before you fall off,” he commanded.
Lucy had gotten on her feet, gesturing about. She plopped down again. “But what am I saying? Do you know we haven't even properly introduced ourselves? My name is Lucy Bell.” She held out her hand.
The man stilled. “Miss Bell.” His eyes narrowed. “Of course you are.”
He didn’t take her hand, so Lucy dropped hers.
“And you are?”
He muttered an oath.
“Excuse me?” She tilted her head sideways.
