On the opposite side of the long room sat Papa’s desk; Mr. Timms occupied the seat, his feet propped atop it, the heel of his shoe scuffing the polished surface.
“The shipment is to arrive any moment now,” said Violet, though the apprentice didn’t bother looking up from his magazine. “Mr. Timms!”
The young man finally tore his gaze from the illustrations and sighed.
“We have a large delivery coming today, and we need the worktable cleared for the crates and bags that are arriving,” she repeated, motioning behind her.
Mr. Timms scoffed and straightened his magazine. “You aren’t the Mr. Templeton I report to.”
The pain in her head grew, and Violet turned away, her hand kneading the knot forming in her forehead as she turned on her heel and returned the way she’d come.
That lazy good-for-nothing. She would not allow him to spoil her day. Her list of chores was quickly being completed, and that made for an excellent afternoon. The household accounts had been checked, the bills paid, the post answered, and the garden weeded—
Pausing in the corridor, Violet drew in a sharp breath. The weeding. That wasnearlydone. Just a little more, and that, too, would be ticked off her list. Then she could get to work pruning.
Chapter 15
No matter how many times he strolled down the main thoroughfare of Oakham, Arthur couldn’t believe the quaintness of it all. No press of people and deafening cacophony. A man could walk the street without having to keep his wits about him lest he be crushed beneath the wheels of a careless carriage or step into something unmentionable. Clothes hung on washing lines beside the cottages, unmarred by the tang of coal smoke that tainted everything it touched. People greeted each other as they passed.
Though the air still held hints of the malodorous scents of waste, it was more of a subtle note amongst the aroma of freshly turned soil and growing things. Gone was the London fog that enveloped the world in a putrid embrace. Even though the sky was overcast, one could see it and not a wall of fog so thick that the locals referred to it as pea soup.
Considering the picturesque setting, Arthur couldn’t say he regretted the decision to leave London—though his heart still sat uneasily as he considered the issue of the Templetons. Holding fast to the bundle of yellow roses in his hand, he reconsidered the wisdom in bringing them, but he hadn’t been able to resist the blooming bush.
A plan. That was all the situation required. It may not be a perfect solution, but it provided a possibility. Potential. It didn’t guarantee that Miss Templeton would throw herself into his arms and declare her undying love for him. But then, the likelihood that she would do so without warning was very low.
And it wouldn’t do to rush matters. Settle the trouble between them, and then court her. Simple.
But first, Arthur needed to talk to her, and while that was proving easier with every minute he spent in her delightful company, even the thought of broaching the issue of their financial rivalry was enough to make his throat close up tight and his tongue cement itself to the roof of his mouth. So many things might go wrong during this discussion.
Whilst his home sat in the heart of the village, theirs stood at the edge where the buildings boasted enough space for proper gardens. The front abutted the road with thick walls sprouting out the backside, enclosing a large area behind that was at least the same size as the house proper. The wooden gate stood open, and Arthur spied a familiar figure moving within the garden.
As she was the very person he wished to speak to, Arthur turned his feet toward the opening. A melody floated on the air as she worked, and the words of the song drifted in and out as she alternated between singing and humming. Arthur didn’t know the tune, and Miss Templeton didn’t voice enough of the lyrics for him to grasp the meaning, though it was a lilting ditty that flitted about in slow figures.
The garden was magnificent. In the city, there wasn’t enough space to grow one’s own herbs, and the Templetons had turned this patch of earth into an apothecary’s dream. A variety of species were laid out together, thriving despite the cool summer, with some ready to be harvested and dried whilst many more silently awaited their turn to bloom.
The lady rose to her feet, brushing off her hands as she gazed at the beds before her.
“Miss Templeton—”
But Arthur got no further, for she whipped about with a shriek, a basket spinning out of her hand and dumping its debris on the clean beds and his shoes. The pruning shears slipped from her grasp, flying at him, and Arthur leapt backward, the sudden flailing knocking the hat from his head. Miss Templeton’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as she stared at the shears now spearing the ground between his legs.
Mouth covered, Miss Templeton lifted her gaze to Arthur and the pair stared at each other for a long moment before he hazarded to speak.
“I only wanted to say ‘hello.’”
“And apparently, you were nearly stabbed for your troubles,” she said with a wince as she closed her eyes and rubbed at her brow.
“I believe it has to be in your hands to be considered a stabbing,” replied Arthur.
Miss Templeton peeked at him. “Is that so?”
“Most assuredly,” he said with a firm nod. And with utter seriousness, he added, “Impaled is more apt.”
A burble of laughter broke past her horror, and Miss Templeton fought to repress it. And failed. Arthur’s muscles relaxed at the sound, and a smile graced his lips.
“I do apologize, sir,” she said when their laughter subsided. “Needless to say, you startled me.”
“No apologies necessary,” replied Arthur. “As you can see, there was no damage done. Which is more than I can say for your flowerbeds.”
