The Countess Conspiracy
Page 17

That he had a back garden, and one of this size, had been a matter of the utmost necessity. He had needed space—space where he might retreat and speak with a woman without any of his servants discerning that he had done so. Today, he walked through the gap in the hedge that surrounded the outdoor terrace, whistling merrily. He went past the shed that had been converted into an office, the greenhouse that he used to bamboozle visitors. He slid behind a pair of bushes that nestled up against the back wall. From there, it was a matter of opening the hidden gate and sliding through.
That gate opened onto a dark alley. Calling it an alley exaggerated its status. The space was nothing more than an abbreviated gap between two walls, formed because fifty years ago, one homeowner had wanted a garden wall of brick, while his neighbor wished for one of stone. This gap, scarcely two feet wide, was cluttered with old leaves and—because it had been a while since they were both in London—three months’ worth of cobwebs. Twenty-four yards down this uncomfortable passage, in the other wall—the wall of brick, not the wall of stone—stood another gate, this one overgrown with ivy.
Sebastian made his way there. Ivy creepers had wrapped little tendrils around the iron gate; he clipped the strands free, and stepped into the lion’s den. Otherwise known as Violet’s back garden.
Long ago, they’d chosen a simple code.
Farewell meant I’m not available today.
Until next time meant I’ll be in my garden until three. There were fifty-two other possibilities, and they all came down to the same thing. I don’t have time for you any longer meant that Violet had wanted to meet with him this evening.
What could happen? Sebastian couldn’t guess.
The view of Violet’s house was blocked by a tall screen of lime trees, one that helped preserve their privacy. Violet’s London greenhouse wasn’t as large as the one on her Cambridge property—a few hundred square feet. A sign on the door proclaimed: The countess is NOT to be bothered except in the cases of Death, Disembowelment, the Apocalypse, or the Arrival of her Mother.
Sebastian ignored this dire warning and stepped inside. The entry was a mere pace or two wide, but there was enough room for him to shrug into a smock, find a pair of gloves, and check himself for insects. When he’d done so, he passed through the second door.
A set of wheeled shelves stood on either side. These were crammed with hundreds of miniature clay pots scarcely higher than his thumb. Each of them was marked; the ones nearest him read CD101, CD102.
Sawhorses elevated massive beds of soil waist-high. They stretched from where Sebastian stood down to the end of the greenhouse.
Violet stood at the far end before one of the beds. She wore a white gardening smock over her dark gown and dark gloves over her hands. Her hair was covered by a white cap.
She didn’t look up when Sebastian entered. He wasn’t even sure that she’d made note of him, although he hadn’t tried to be quiet.
They’d done this a thousand times—met in the greenhouse while Violet planted or made markers on orangewood sticks, explaining to him what she was doing and why. In order to play her, he’d had to understand every step she completed.
Today, she had one of her notebooks open in front of her. She was wielding a needle—a long, thin piece of metal, not so different from the knitting needles she carried in her bag—to transfer pollen from one flower to another. There was a grace to her movements—the quiet grace of a woman performing a task she enjoyed.
His throat tightened.
He’d been imagining this moment ever since he saw her in the park earlier. It had been weeks since they’d argued with each other in Cambridge. He’d missed her, missed her so much that he’d wanted to find her and apologize for everything, to just put all his uncomfortable emotions back where they had come from, ignoring them for another six months. It wouldn’t do any good, though; they’d only return.
He was used to feeling more than Violet did. He was resigned to it, in fact. Possibly even at peace with it. But he didn’t know what to do with a world where she felt nothing at all.
He’d missed her madly, and he wasn’t even sure that she had noticed he’d been gone. She hadn’t noticed his arrival, after all.
He came up behind her. He knew better than to interrupt her in the middle of her work, so he stood back and watched.
It would be odd to say that Violet was a mystery to him. He knew her better than he knew anyone. When she smiled, he usually knew the joke that had tickled her imagination. When she bit her lip, he knew what she wasn’t saying. And yet there were some things—so many things—that he couldn’t make sense of.
She reached to her side, picked up a little bag made of parchment paper, and slipped this over the head of the flower. She tied this all in place with a silk thread, picked up her pen, and made a notation in her book.
AX212: cross of BD114 with TR718.
She’d made ten thousand such notations over the years: crossing plants one with the other, transferring pollen by hand, noting parentage, covering the fertilized flowers with parchment bags so as to make sure that she gathered all resulting seed.
She folded her arms and stared off into the distance. Sebastian didn’t know what she was seeing or why her brows furrowed the way they did. He didn’t even know if she was aware of his presence. Sometimes, she wasn’t.
Finally she spoke. “My sister thinks I’m difficult.”
He took a step forward to stand next to her, letting his hands trail in the soil. It was loose and friable, a perfect blend of black dirt and decaying woodchips, slightly moist against his fingers. It smelled of earth and humus.
“Your sister is right,” he finally said.
“I’m not difficult,” Violet said. “I’m simple. I like good books and clever conversation and being left alone much of the time.” She took the needle she’d used and set it in a bucket—one overflowing with a dozen other such needles. She unwrapped gauze from the next needle and bent over a new plant. “How does that make me difficult? I make sense. I don’t talk about my feelings, of course, but then, I don’t want to.” She shrugged. “So that’s reasonable.”
Sebastian smiled despite himself, a smile that felt bitter even to him. “God, no,” he said, looking up at the ceiling of the greenhouse. “Not feelings. Heaven forbid that you have anything so messy.”
Her face was bowed to the plant and her shoulders stilled. “I have feelings.” She spoke stiffly. “I just don’t talk about them. What’s the point? Talking never changes them.”