She smiled. “It does have the look of a French manor. But the honey-colored stone reminds me of the stones of Notre Dame Cathedral during certain times of day. I’ve seen it used for many buildings in Bath. What sort of stone is it?”
“Don’t laugh,” he said, “but it’s called Bath stone. It’s actually a certain kind of limestone designated as freestone, because it can be cut or carved in any direction.” When she looked at him oddly, he shrugged. “I used to follow the stone carvers around the estate when they were making additions to buildings. When I was ten, I aspired to be a mason. Needless to say, my father nipped that in the bud very quickly.”
That got a laugh from her. “Speaking of buds—I should love to see your gardens. Even from here, I can tell they are quite beautiful.”
“They are.” He offered his arm to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
God, how good, how natural it felt to have her hand wrapped about his arm as they strolled around the house toward where the gardens were located. He wished he could have her hand there always, then cursed himself for even indulging such a thought. This was not the time for taking a wife. There was too much left for him to do, too much that could go wrong as long as he was here in Somerset. It would rip him in two if he married her only to find out that his past had come back to haunt him, and he lost her as a result.
So far, he had managed to avoid seeing Lily Faircloth, the onlywoman he’d ever fancied himself in love with and whom he’d nearly married before his father had put a stop to it and whisked him off to France. Lily, who’d found herself another man without a thought.
The longer he stayed here at Longmead, the more likely it was that he would encounter Lily, for she still lived in Somerset. And that would not go well, especially if Giselle were there to hear the tale. Or worse, one of the boys heard it and chose to tell Yates of it.
As soon as they reached the first pathway, Giselle let out a little cry and ran forward to look at a bed of flowers. “You have China roses! I have never seen them in England, only in Paris. And look how lovely yours are!”
“I have very good gardeners here, I confess,” Heathbrook said.
She looked over to where Heathbrook was watching her and enjoying her reaction.
A blush stained her cheeks. “You must have found me very silly, monsieur, planting hyacinth bulbs in your town house when you had these beautiful gardens here at your home.”
“Not at all. My garden in London needed your ministrations. Here, I have enough workers to take care of the gravel paths and flower beds and hanging plants. But I’ll admit the estate gardens look better now that I plumped up the staff with several détenus in need of work.”
“You know whom you should speak to about your gardens,” she said as she approached. “Mrs. Beasley. She is as clever with plants as Mr. Beasley is with engravings. I turned to her for advice regarding my cousin’s kitchen garden in Verdun.”
“So,youwere the reason we started having decent vegetables and herbs for our meals during our second year there?”
She looked away, now clearly embarrassed. “My cousin did not have good skill at gardening. Her plants often died. Thus, I helped her.”
“Good God, woman, how many things are you skilled at? Gardening, clerking, sketching, entertaining boys of all ages … Is there anything you cannot do?”
She flashed him a shy smile. “I cannot sew or mend or embroider. I have tried. I have a détenu friend named Eve. You may know her and her family, actually.”
He scoured his mind until an image of a jovial fellow leapt into it. “Mr. Archer’s daughter, yes. He married a French seamstress.”
“Eve is the daughter of his first wife. Unfortunately, Mr. Archer died on their way back to England.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and meant it.
“Anyway, she has been trying to teach me to embroider, but it is hopeless. I keep stabbing myself with the needle or making the stitches crooked. It never turns out right.”
“So, you did not embroider the pretty flowers on your gown?”
“No, indeed. Eve did that. It is beautiful, no?” She held out the sides of the skirt to show more of the embroidery.
“Yes.” He gazed intently into her face. “But not as beautiful as the woman wearing it.”
“You say such lovely things,” she said with a sniff. “It is a pity you do not mean them.”
Before he could protest that, she added, “As for my gardening skills, you do not needmyhelp with that here.” She swept her hand about. “Why, you still have asters and snapdragons blooming this late in the season. There are none to be had in London at present.”
“It’s markedly warmer in Somerset than in London this time of year,” he pointed out.
“True.” She flew ahead of him as something caught her eye. “You havefuchsias? I have only seen them in drawings.” She paused to gaze at them with such rapt enjoyment of their colorful blooms that it made his heart twist in his chest.
Then her expression turned mournful. “But of course you have them. A man of your wealth can easily afford fuchsias.”
“Why do you assume I’m wealthy?”