Blythe glanced out the kitchen window and was startled to see Luke loading suitcases into the trunk of Chloe's Jaguar, now parked to the rear of the castle. The striking blond woman had donned a beige Burberry trench coat lined in a muted tan-and-burgundy-colored tartan. Her hair had returned to its sophisticated chignon, and she looked like a member of the royal family about to return to Kensington Palace after a weekend at Balmoral.
Blythe gazed down at her blue jeans. The cuffs were ringed with mud.
Meanwhile, Luke's two Labradors padded in anxious circles around Chloe's car. Blythe caught Mrs. Quiller's eye as she shifted her attention back to their snug little group.
"Mrs. Acton-Scott will have rain on the trip up to London this evenin', I'm afeard," Mrs. Q commented in her elongated Cornish speech.
"Perhaps she'll be stayin' over to St. Austell, with her parents, afore she go up-country," her husband suggested.
"No… she's a-headed back to her flat, I know that," the housekeeper asserted sagely. "She'd always rather be stayin' here than with her parents." She put a gentle hand on Richard's shoulder. "Be a fine gentleman, and run out to say your good-byes, there's a good lad."
Reluctantly Richard rose and tramped loudly down the servants' hallway and out the rear door, banging his hand against the wooden wainscoting every few feet.
Blythe couldn't resist witnessing the departure of Richard's godmother. She watched the boy emerge from the back door and dutifully kiss Chloe's cheek. Luke did likewise and handed his houseguest into the driver's side of the car. Father and son stood side by side and waved as the Jaguar rolled past Barton Hall's rounded west turret and headed down the shaded drive.
Then Blythe watched as Richard slipped his hand into his father's. He began to talk to him excitedly. More than a little curious, Blythe continued to observe their exchange, oddly gratified to see that Luke had paused to give his son his full attention. He nodded several times, and then the pair disappeared inside the door. Soon Blythe could hear them, along with the two dogs, approaching the kitchen.
"Have you saved a cup for me?" Luke asked, smiling at the congenial group sitting around Mrs. Quiller's table. Derek and Beryl wagged their tails enthusiastically to punctuate their master's request.
"I've just put the kettle back on, sir," responded his housekeeper. "Let me get you a cup."
"Would it be too much trouble to bring it through to the sitting room?"
"Of course not," Mrs. Q replied cheerfully, reaching for a small tray.
"Blythe… do you have a minute to continue our chat about the garden? I want to hear about the rest of your scheme."
"She's made some drawings, Father," Richard volunteered.
"Yes, you mentioned that," Luke said, glancing at the sketchpad resting on the table near Blythe's teacup. "Well, I'd very much like to see what this world-famous landscape designer has been up to."
"World-famous?" Blythe laughed. "The only two things I designed professionally before I went into the movie business were a cactus garden and a fish pond for friends. Hold your praise until you see what I can do."
"I want to come too!" Richard demanded.
"Dicken has had some awfully good ideas about where to put the parsley," Blythe put in quickly.
For an instant Luke hesitated. The expression on his face at first seemed to welcome the notion of allowing his son to participate in their discussion. Then a look of resolve invaded his features, and he directed Richard to remain with the Quillers while he, Blythe, and his two dogs decamped for the sitting room.
CHAPTER 6
Another cup?" Luke asked Blythe as Mrs. Q did her vanishing act with her tray, exiting into the pantry behind the movable bookcase.
"No, thanks…" she replied, watching as Luke poured himself some tea.
Blythe couldn't get over Richard's crestfallen look when Luke refused his request to allow the boy to join them. She was continually amazed how this surprisingly easygoing Englishman would suddenly assume the stance that his son was better seen than heard. On the other hand, the companionship of his dogs, Beryl and Derek, was always welcome. At the moment the Labradors were curled up in front of the fireplace, snoring.
"So?" her host was saying, smiling wryly. "What's the rest of the scheme you were about to tell me when you first proposed we turn this hallowed family legacy into a commercial nursery?"
"We're talking about just the gardens themselves, and the adjacent properties," Blythe corrected him.
"And the pony stables… for the gardening classes."
"You only keep three ponies there," Blythe replied. "Can't you stash them in the old piggery?"
"Done!" Luke snapped his fingers, his eyes alight with humor. He really could be quite charming, she thought, as he tilted his head against the wing-backed chair and looked at her with an amused expression. He pointed at her sketchbook and grinned engagingly, saying, "Why do I think, Ms. BartonStowe, that you've got something else up your sleeve?"
"Because I do," she said matter-of-factly. She whipped open her pad and showed him her blueprint for the entire proposed operation. "Barton Hall Nurseries—"
"Nurseries?" he interrupted. "Plural?"
"I'll get to that in a minute," she replied. "What I propose," she announced, pausing for emphasis, "is a combined commercial enterprise, educational center, and cultural institute. If we can pull this off, Luke, the Inland Revenue will eventually get off your back."
"Well, that would be a blessing."
"You sound skeptical, but hear me out."
He took a long, scalding sip of tea and shook his head ruefully.
"No wonder you Bartons made such a success of it in America. You've got such amazing optimism and energy…"
"Quiet," she commanded. "I'm serious. You use the existing plants and shrubs in your twenty-five acres as your basic growing stock and your showroom, so to speak. We'll develop an Internet and catalogue business as we go along, but first, real, live customers can wander the grounds with a shopping list that we provide them, ticking off the types of plants they would like to have in their own gardens." She pointed to a series of areas shaded lavender that she'd drawn next to the existing garden. "Over here are the growing areas: A, B, C, D, away from the public's eye. That's where the smaller plants you sell are raised." She pointed to another section of her master plan, shaded green. "No one goes beyond this hedge, here, guaranteeing the privacy of the castle itself. Next to the growing areas is a rockery, plus a section for sales to the trade—other nurseries and large public gardens like the ones at Trelissick and Glendurgan."
"Don't they already have flowers?" Luke asked blandly.
"They don't have 'Rebecca,' do they? You told me that your father and grandfather developed that rhododendron just for their amusement. And you can bet those National Trust gardens will want examples of the sexy new varieties you develop: 'Jamaica Inn'… 'Frenchman's Creek.' Why not make Barton Hall Nurseries and their world-famous rhododendrons, azaleas, and camellias a tribute to the local heroine and sell du Maurier's novels at the gift shop and eventually online and in our catalogue businesses—along with fabulous gardening books, great gardening gloves, locally crafted garden pottery, top-of-the-line spades, hoes, pitchforks, hand tools, Wellington boots, how-to CDs and DVDs, seed packets—the works!"
Luke leaned forward to have a closer look at her sketchpad.
"A gift shop… where?"
"In one of the old sheep sheds."
"Of course."
"You can sell large-sized items like statuary, paving stones, and garden furniture in the exercise barn. Once the gardens are up and running, your mail-order and the Internet operations could be housed in the old coach house, here, and the potting sheds and additional display beds would go there." She pointed to an area near the sales shed, which she'd placed in the former icehouse. "The walled kitchen garden at the back of the castle will become primarily an herb garden, and the parsley will be planted exactly there, where your son thinks it should go," she added with measured emphasis.
"At Barton Hall Nurseries," she continued in her best salesperson manner, "the merchandise is labeled 'Plants for Shady Areas' or 'Plants for Sandy Soils,' and so forth, so the untutored customer won't be overwhelmed. You want to attract both the gardening expert and people who love gardens but perhaps know nothing about how to create their own little jewel and want to begin their education with you."
"Me?" Luke protested. "I'll be too busy pulling weeds or hauling manure to serve as the plant professor. That shall be your job."
"I don't mean you personally," she assured him, "but your staff… Quiller, and the people you recruit locally who have gardening knowledge and believe in what you're trying to do here. Plus, I suspect they'll be grateful for a job."
"The villagers," Luke said thoughtfully.
"Right!"
By this time Blythe was nearly breathless. She leaned back against the chintz-covered love seat and immediately felt a dog hair settle on her nose. It was not surprising, since Beryl had rolled over in her sleep and was now resting her muzzle on Blythe's toe.
Crikey! This was tougher than taking a meeting at a film studio
with the 'suits'!
"Any other ideas?" Luke asked, deadpan.
"As a matter of fact
, yesss
!"
Luke laughed at her exaggerated display of enthusiasm.
He really was an extraordinarily attractive man, Blythe thought suddenly as she felt caught in the playful mood that had bloomed between them. She'd bet her last pair of cowboy boots that the man sitting opposite her in his motheaten green Shetland sweater possessed enormous telegenic charm, which he could put to excellent use in a gardening equivalent of the old Julia Child cooking shows or the Barbara Woodhouse dog-training videos.
"Don't keep me in suspense," Luke demanded, his darkblue eyes narrowing in mock solemnity. "Let's hear about this latest terrifying scheme of yours."
"What about the idea of inviting world-renowned gardening experts for weekend seminars? Ecology types, rosarians, the National Trust folks, the prizewinners from the Chelsea Flower Show? You give them a free weekend in the lap of luxury at Barton Hall in exchange for their dog and pony show—"
"Their what?" Luke interrupted.
"Public lectures and question-and-answer sessions," she explained. "They'll present their little talks in the large sitting room, and we'll charge a little fee. Not too much, mind you, so the locals will come, but enough to make our customers think—and rightly so—that the event is important. After the talks, Mrs. Q will serve her drop-dead cream teas, buffet style, in the formal dining room or, on sunny days, out on the terrace facing the sea. That way, you'll get media coverage…"
"You mean in the
Mevagissey Post
and the
Gorran
Haven Gossip
?"
"More like the
London Times
and
House and Garden,"
she retorted. "And by then, we'll have the catalogue and Internet sales up and running so the free publicity will link to our sales sites."
"I take it the lectures and so forth are the 'Cultural Center' part of your plan?" Luke smiled. "But tell me this: How do we entice hordes to come down to our Cornish outpost, or visit our to-be-designed website?"
"It will take time," Blythe acknowledged grudgingly. "But one way to begin to get the word out would be to lease a field on the main highway near St. Austell and have a strictly commercial enterprise there with just the stuff Sunday gardeners need—"
"Ah… now I see… Barton Hall Nurseries—plural."
"—with lots of your leaflets and brochures posted all over the place, telling about what's going on down here. Plus, after we start our national and international advertising campaign, a steady increase in traffic on your website, and in your postal-shopping business should do the trick," she finished, ignoring his teasing.
"Start local…and eventually go global?" he asked with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly!" Blythe replied.
Luke set down his teacup and looked at her steadily.
"There's just one problem," he said. "How do I get the capital to launch this Royal Botannicum?"
"Well, now…" she said with a wide grin. She turned the page of her sketchpad and pointed to a long column of numbers. "I have one… more… idea."
"How did I know that?" Luke asked dryly. "Fire away."
"How would you like a business partner? A silent 'Angel' investor?"
"You?" he asked with an astonished expression.
"We could structure it like a movie deal," she proposed. "I'll provide the up-front money and take points on the back end."
"Points?" he echoed, confused.
"A nice percentage of the profits if the project is in the black within three years. If it doesn't fly, you won't have to pay me back my initial investment… but you will have to deed me Painter's Cottage and the acre it sits on." She folded her hands in her lap and met his glance steadily. "We'd put everything in writing."