The private room was warm, uncomfortable so. As they entered, Graham looked down at Hope and saw a genuine fascination on her expression. Her dark eyes lit up with wonder as she gazed around the glass room.
“What is this place?” she asked, her hand grazing the rough, makeshift wooden desk where Graham would record his findings. Note papers and journals were scattered all about the tall table.
“It’s a hothouse and my office of sorts. Although, technically it’s more of a records room. My office at the hunting lodge is far more organized.”
She turned to face him.
“I should like to visit the hunting lodge. Is it far?”
Graham let out an unsteady laugh.
“It wouldn’t be wise to bring you there.”
“Why not?” The look he gave her must have been explanation enough, because her cheeks turned pink as she turned away. Taking a few steps towards the desk, she bent at the waist and pointed her index finger out. “What’s this?”
Graham came up alongside her and reached for the little glass bottle that had captured her attention. He held up the golden, liquid treasure.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? This is heather honey. The texture is different as it’s more of a jelly until stirred. It turns into a syrup then, but will return to its former state if left alone. I have several dozen hives for it set up along the hills on the edge of my uncle’s lands. There are fields and fields of heather that go on from miles. This is from there.”
“Do you mean to say that the bees use the nectar of the heather flower?”
“Aye. The taste of honey can vary from place to place, based off of the flowers the bees have access to and the surrounding climate. The color changes too. You’ll have every shade from white to dark amber.”
“And do you produce a lot?”
Graham shrugged.
“Last year’s numbers were good. We produced about nine hundred and fifty pounds of honey, fifteen hundred pounds of honeycomb.”
Hope’s eyes widened.
“Goodness, that’squitea lot.”
“Not really. I have about thirty hives. I could have more, but I spent half of last year in Glasgow.”
“Why is that?”
His brow quirked up.
“You really are interested, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am.”
He smirked.
“Well, I had been selling the bulk of my production to a confectioner, Duncan Thomas. He used my honey in his recipes—most particularly a hard, butterscotch like candy that sold out repeatedly in his shop. He asked for sole buying rights, but I had a different idea.”
“What was your idea?”
“I asked his thoughts about building a sugar refinery. They’re going up all over Glasgow and I thought why only sell to the people in the city? If we could sell his confectionaries nationwide, we’d have a proper business on our hands.”
“You own a candy factory then?” Hope asked, her eyes widening.
“Aye—or at least, half of one. Mr. Thomas as I will share the profits fifty-fifty. Our first set of deliveries are going out next month.”
“My goodness, you’re a proper entrepreneur, aren’t you?”
Knowing that Hope had come from the first of society, Graham was unsure if she was genuinely impressed. There were many in her class who would look down on a man for participating in common trade, no matter how profitable it might be. But with no lands of his own, he’d never been able to live a “proper” gentleman’s life, earning his income from tenants. Not for the first time did he feel guilt swell in his heart. Hope should be marrying someone with something to his name. Someone who would inherit a title or land.
