Rose Gardner's Florist Page 2

  But she oughtn’t to foolishly bemoan things she had lost rather than celebrating everything she had gained. Rose shook off her momentary melancholy and prepared to go out.

  The WSPU were assembling at a member’s home, one with a drawing room large enough to accommodate many members. Rose found herself in a wealthy part of the city in a house she could not have imagined as a child in Spitalfields. The physical distance from that slum to Mayfair was no more than six miles, but it may as well have been from the earth to the moon. She often felt like an alien visitor to this lofty world.

  What began for Rose as one-time attendance at an open rally had led to membership in this union of women. But the tone of the WSPU had changed after their proposed suffrage bill was voted down. Their demonstrations had become increasingly violent. Members, including Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughters, had been arrested following attacks on police, politicians and public buildings. Rose feared risking her fledgling business by affiliating herself with the WSPU’s open aggression, but how could she inform Mrs. Pankhurst of that, when the leader had taken Rose under her wing?

  Arriving late to the meeting, Rose slid into an empty chair as Christabel Pankhurst spoke of a planned demonstration. The young lady sitting beside Rose was not one she recognized. She was a heavyset, dark-haired girl with wide brown eyes riveted on the speaker. Rose became more interested in the newcomer’s reaction than in the debate that followed.

  As the meeting turned into fervent discussion of differing opinions, Rose addressed her seat mate. “Your first meeting? It is a bit overwhelming isn’t it?”

  The young lady nodded. “I’m not certain I belong here. Everyone seems so knowledgeable and committed to the cause.”

  “Have you come with a friend?” Rose could not imagine why the newcomer sat alone.

  “Actually, I overheard mention of a secret suffrage meeting and invited myself.”

  She showed more spirit than Rose had expected. “Well, I’m glad you came. It is nice to sit beside someone who may feel even more out of place than I often do.” She offered her hand. “I am Rose Gardener.”

  The woman shook it, but hesitated before revealing her name. “You may call me Violet.”

  “One of my favorite flowers! I am a florist.” How proud she felt to say it. “Working women like me have only recently been invited to attend, as the WSPU has been limited to the upper class. I am glad of it, for it is only through solidarity of all women, high born and low, that we might accomplish our goal.”

  “Will having the vote matter when men possess all true power?” Violet’s eyes glistened and she swallowed hard before continuing. “The vote would not be of any use in my situation. Nothing can change my fate.”

  Rose offered her handkerchief. “Shall we leave the meeting and have a private chat? I know I am a stranger to you, but we are all meant to be sisters here. We ought to share each other’s trials.”

  Violet hastily dried her eyes and returned Hattie’s handkerchief. “I must go. Thank you for your kindness, Miss Gardener.”

  Rose recalled the safe haven Hattie’s shop had been to Miss Jennifer Pruett in her time of need. She would like to offer that same sort of sanctuary. “If you change your mind and desire a listening ear, you might find me at my shop on Providence Street.”

  The finely dressed young woman nodded, then rose and hurried from the room.

  Rose was very tempted to go after her. The decision of where to hold a grand rally followed by a march on Parliament paled in comparison to the very real distress exhibited by the mysterious Violet. But someone was asking her about providing floral arrangements for the event, so Rose stayed and involved herself in the meeting.

  *

  Several days later, Rose stood misting gladioluses and praying they would not wilt before she sold them. She fought an ongoing battle against an especially hot summer. No one wanted a limp bouquet. Her new agreement with a grower to deliver stock directly to her door saved her those early morning trips to Covent Garden. So far, quality flowers had arrived with satisfying punctuality. No customer uttered a negative word about their freshness, and she intended to keep it that way.

  Rose stepped away from the wall of flowers and bumped into a different sort of wall, something hard, unyielding and human. She shrieked, whirled around and sprayed the silent intruder with her misting bottle.

  The man retreated, brushing droplets of water from his face. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to frighten you. I should have announced my presence, but I thought you heard me enter the store.”

  “No. I did not!” Rose snapped. Frankenstein’s monster had returned. She gritted her teeth and tried to remember that all customers must be treated like honored guests. But honestly, why was the fellow looming right behind her?

  She managed a weak smile. “May I help you, Mr. Carmody?”

  He had removed his spectacles and now wiped the glass in nervous circles with his handkerchief. “Yes. I, um, need to buy… that is, my aunt is ill and having a birthday so I must buy her a bouquet.”

  “How kind of you. Do you know what sort of flowers your aunt prefers? I have some lovely gladioluses today.”

  Carmody’s gaze darted around the shop as if seeking an exit. “Red,” he blurted. “She likes red.”

  “I’m afraid I have no red gladioluses. How about red roses? Or perhaps a potted gardenia which will last longer?”

  “Roses, I think. Yes. Roses.” He cleared his throat and added, “Fragrant and pretty like, um, you.” His face turned as scarlet as the flowers and he stared at his feet. “My weak attempt at charm. Hardy has a knack for it, but I am hopeless. Please pretend I did not say that.”

  This fellow truly was the opposite of his friend in every way. Still, his clumsy attempt to compliment her was rather adorable.

  Rose abruptly understood that Carmody had not been too arrogant to speak to her on their first meeting. He was simply tongue-tied with shyness. A warm wave of sympathy at his distress swept through her, demanding she put him at ease.

  “All is well, Mr. Carmody. I accept your kind praise in the spirit it was given. Now, may I show you the roses and make up a bouquet?”

  He nodded and moved his large body with great care around the shop, keeping his elbows to himself as he passed the bereavement display. Rest In His Love Forever.

  When she showed him the array of blooms from purest white, to yellow and pink, to deepest ruby, Carmody bowed over the roses and inhaled deeply. His eyelids closed. The thickness of the spectacles enhanced the long lashes fanning across his cheeks. Rose felt a little hitch in her chest at the sight of his pleasure, as if she were witnessing a private moment.

  He straightened, regaining his height. “Rosa ruber, a woody perennial of the genus Rosa, in the family Rosacae, is it not?”

  “I, uh, suppose so,” she responded to his scientific identification. “I just sell them. I do not know Latin names. Only that they smell nice.” Apparently, his awkwardness was catching.

  She selected the best flowers, stems dripping wet from the bucket. “How many?”

  “Two dozen.” His voice grew so quiet she could scarcely hear.

  “That many? They are quite expensive.”

  He waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. “No matter. She is my favorite niece, um, aunt.”

  His slip told her there was no sick relative celebrating a birthday. That meant something else had brought him to the shop, and there was only one likely reason. Rose cringed as she realized he’d invented a pretext to see her, a flattering but frightening thought. She was not interested in Mr. Carmody, but didn’t want to offend him by rejecting him. This wasn’t some would-be lothario flirting with her, but Guy’s dearest friend, which put her in an awkward position.

  Her nervous tension distracted her from attending to the roses. A sharp point bit into her palm and left behind not a light scratch but a jagged tear. She yelped, tried to avoid dropping the flowers and succeeded in grabbing a fistful of thorns.

  M
r. Carmody wrested the roses from her grip with one hand and took a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. “Bind your hand until I can tend to it,” he ordered in an authoritative tone.

  Rose mutely did as he bid.

  He set the flowers aside and escorted her to the work room as if he had been there before. Locating the sink, he held her bleeding hand while pumping water over it. “Have you any salve or bandages?”

  With his thumb pressing tight against her palm to slow the bleeding, she couldn’t think straight. “I have… I’m afraid I don’t. I haven’t needed any before.”

  He pushed his glasses into place and leaned to examine her wound. “I think I see a bit of thorn embedded. Do you have tweezers with which I might pluck it out?”

  She shook her head. “I suppose I am ill-prepared for accidents.”

  “I will attempt to capture it with my nails with your permission.” His courtly manner made her smile.

  “Please do.”

  He peered more closely at her wound, warm breath grazing her skin as he painstakingly teased out the sharp point that had broken off.

  “Steady on. Nearly there,” he soothed, when Rose whimpered.

  But it was not pain that prompted the sound. His nearness and kindness stirred something inside her which rose to the surface as a little moan.

  “Aha! I’ve got you.” Carmody plucked a dark bit from her throbbing palm and flicked it into the sink. “Now for a disinfectant. Have you any alcohol or perhaps a bottle of vinegar?”

  “Yes, I do, for shining the windows.” She pointed out a bottle under the sink.

  When her rescuer doused her wound with the astringent, she moaned again.

  He regarded her with luminescent eyes enlarged by the spectacle lenses. “I am sorry to hurt you, Miss Gardener, but it is necessary to stave off infection.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your aid, Mr. Carmody. I appreciate it.”

  More than he could have known, for at no time in her memory had anyone treated her with such tender care. The Gardener family was not prone to warmth or gentleness.

  Her knight bound her hand in his kerchief again, tying the makeshift bandage tightly. “Be certain to treat your hand again later today and put on a fresh cloth, won’t you? If any redness or swelling occurs, go to a physician at once.”

  Rose nodded, astounded by the man’s shift from shyness to authority. She touched the fine linen stained with her blood. “How do you know so much about doctoring?”

  “Through my reading. One never knows what topics might prove useful, so I learn as much as I can about many things.”

  “Well, this was certainly useful knowledge to have. I can’t thank you enough. Now, let me make up that bouquet—for your aunt.”

  “Yes. Of course. But don’t bother with stripping the thorns. She won’t mind them.”

  Carmody followed her into the shop and seemed to leave his self-assurance in the back room. Silently he watched Rose bundle the roses into white paper tied with a scarlet ribbon.

  She handed the bouquet to him. “I hope your aunt recovers and is able to celebrate her birthday in comfort.”

  He gravely accepted the bouquet. “I am certain these flowers will be much appreciated.”

  Their gazes met for the space of several heartbeats. An almost-smile quivered on his lips and Rose guessed he knew she was aware of his fabricated relative. Neither of them mentioned the ruse as he bid her good day and left the store.

  Pain burned in her vinegar-anointed hand. A different sort of heat quickened her pulse as she watched from the window while her visitor strode down the street. She wasn’t sure if she was flattered or distressed by his interest in her, but either way a strong interest in learning more about William Carmody grew.

  Hattie might be able to answer some of her questions.

  Chapter Three

  “Thank you for the lovely bouquet of roses, William, and for coming to visit. But, have you listened to a word I’ve said this past quarter hour?” Mother berated him over the third course of dinner.

  “Yes, I have. But I’ve nothing to say on the matter,” Will replied, as courteously as he could manage. She would not be happy with his answer, for all she wanted to hear was that he would further explore one of the marital prospects she suggested.

  His mother set down her fork and offered her full regard. “Which means, I suppose, that you will not attend Lady Smyth’s party and meet Miss Belinda Blake. You will not even make an attempt to enter social life, which you might find you enjoy after all.” Her voice pitched higher as she concluded, “You will not befriend a fine young woman like Miss Belinda or her visiting cousin from Derby, Miss Elizabeth Chesterfield.”

  “Mother, would you have me agree to attend only to make an excuse and bow out later? For that is what will happen if you keep insisting. I do not enjoy these sorts of events or engaging in desultory conversation with women with whom I have nothing in common.”

  Unless the woman happened to be Miss Rose Gardener. He could not pinpoint what it was about her that had immediately seized his attention. It was not merely her pretty face, for he had seen plenty of those in his lifetime. There was something about her joyful demeanor, the way she carried herself, and how she spoke that attracted him beyond all reason. Will wanted to return to the shop simply to listen to her voice. She might speak on any subject and he would be enthralled.

  Mother engaged Father in their argument. “Horace! Tell him he ought to go.”

  He looked up from his empty bowl with a gruff, “Hmph.” His hazel eyes, a mirror of Will’s own, darted back and forth between son and wife. “Best do as your mother bids. She is generally right about this sort of thing. It is time you were married and started a family. It’s what one does… isn’t it.”

  Will sighed. “Very well. I will attend Lady Smyth’s party and meet these young ladies, but do not expect me to stay for long.”

  “A respectable length. You must dance and chat with each of them. Do make an effort, William.” With her goal accomplished, his mother’s harangue subsided, and she spoke more gently. “I comprehend your anxiety in social situations, dear. If you feel ill at ease, find a topic of interest to the lady and allow her to do the talking. It will remove the onus of carrying the conversation from you.”

  Good advice. He would be sure to apply it next time he went to the florist’s. Rather than fumbling for something clever to say, he would discover a topic of interest to Miss Gardener. Guy had mentioned her devotion to the suffrage cause. That should do the trick. As it was a cause he agreed with, it should be easy to concur with what she said.

  The rest of the meal passed uneventfully. As usual, Mother spoke of her garden club and her prize-winning roses. Will suggested she might try Rose Gardener’s Florist for any supplies she might require for her hobby.

  “Why in the world would I go all the way into the city, when everything I need is available in the village?”

  Father suddenly interrupted. “Your mother wants the tennis court dug up and turned into a water garden. Rupert and Virginia don’t care about anything other than their horses, but I thought you or Penelope might have an opinion as you both play on occasion.”

  “I’d prefer the court remain since Guy and I use it, but I don’t live here. You’ve given me the London house for my own. That in itself is generous enough. Mother should do as she likes.”

  “Of course, you must have a say. I told you he would mind, Gwyneth. Find another spot to locate your pond.”

  “Waterscape,” she corrected. “A profusion of fountains, one spilling into the next, and culminating in a pond with water lilies. But if William wants the court, naturally we shall keep it.”

  A passing thought galvanized him. “Mother, might I transplant one or two of your rosebushes to the conservatory in the London house?”

  She laughed. “Don’t be silly. One does not transplant fully mature bushes without risk of killing them. And the conservatory is in no condition to house anything. You
must be aware the panes need glazing and a new radiator system ought to be installed. Good gracious, do you pay no attention to your surroundings?”

  Truth be told, the most important room in the house was his precious library, which he had expanded into an adjacent room to house his collection. Will had hardly noticed the conservatory falling into disrepair. After having electricity installed throughout the house, he’d neglected any further home improvements.

  “I’m afraid I have been derelict in my duties. I haven’t cared for the house as well as I ought. I shall do better.”

  Beginning with the conservatory. Tomorrow he would hire workers to bring it up to snuff then ask Miss Gardener for advice on filling it with growing things. He would create an opportunity to communicate with her often for a legitimate reason.

  Eager to drive home and begin planning, Will pushed his chair away from the table. “I am sorry. I shan’t be able to stay for a game of whist this evening. Do you mind?”

  His mother’s eyes widened. “Good heavens, we haven’t yet finished our meal. Cook made your favorite dessert. It would be too unkind to disappoint her.”

  So Will remained, hardly tasting one mouthful of the lemon merengue that had been his favorite as a child. Perhaps he might plant a lemon or orange tree in the conservatory. He could almost smell citrus trees growing safe under glass in the dead of winter. Horticulture had just become his new passion. He would dive deeply into the books he’d recently purchased so he might speak intelligently with Miss Gardener.

  It wasn’t until he had driven home and entered the silence of his bachelor house that Will paused to consider the reasoning behind his new venture. Did he honestly believe Miss Gardener would become enamored of him simply because he asked her a few questions about plants? She was a beautiful young woman and he a stodgy bookworm, hardly the romantic hero of a girl’s fancy. The pair of them together would be like an ostrich with a dove—ridiculous and improbable.