Follow the Heart (11 page)

Kate’s breath caught in her throat. The blue print on a light gray organdy fabric was just the type of palette she liked—and the types of colors she’d been afraid her cousins would not allow her to continue wearing.

Caddy helped her into the dress. The pleats of the bodice fanned from her waist up and over her shoulders—making her waist appear even smaller, and giving a demure slope to her shoulders. The double-tiered bell sleeves dropped away dramatically from her elbows, with blue-and-gray silk fringe emphasizing the width of them. The demure check pattern of the bodice gave way to an intricate block-printed floral motif in the double-tiered skirt. White undersleeves and a lace collar finished the look.

The dress fit as if made for Kate. “Oh, Caddy . . . it’s exquisite.”

“It’s a wool organdy, so it will serve you for much of the year.” Caddy fluffed the skirt over the petticoats, then stepped aside to admire her handiwork. “Thankfully, I had not yet gotten around to hemming the bottom, so with a narrow hem, it will be perfect for your height. If you like it, it is yours. I cannot imagine anyone doing it better justice than you.”

Kate eyed herself critically in the mirror. With her hair swooped back at the sides into a cascade of curls in the back, a more feminine shape to her figure, and a beautifully made gown, a new sense of confidence filled her—something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

The woman looking back at her in the mirror, with her blue eyes and oval face, would be able to capture the attention of any man she set her sights on. This was Katharine Dearing.

If only Andrew Lawton could see her like this.

No. She could not allow herself any more indulgent thoughts about him. Beginning tomorrow, she would be introduced to English society, and she must begin her quest for a husband. A
wealthy
husband. And if he were not as good looking as Andrew, or if he did not share her love of the outdoors and green, growing things, well, then, that was a regret she would have to learn to live with. For the regret of knowing her family suffered through her selfishness was one she could not live with.

While one of Caddy’s assistants hemmed the gray-and-blue dress and the other worked on taking in the waists of three of Kate’s existing gowns, Kate and Caddy picked out fabrics and notions for new dresses, including a ball gown that Caddy promised would be ready for a fitting by the beginning of next week.

Caddy had just finished fastening the hooks at the back of Kate’s newly altered day dress when the Wakesdown driver knocked on the door. Thanking the seamstress profusely, Kate draped herself in her navy wool cloak and hurried out to the carriage. As usual, Dorcas gave a friendly greeting while Edith acted as if she resented the necessity of stopping to pick Kate up on the way home.

By the time they got back to Wakesdown, the clouds eased and strips of sunlight filtered through. Eager to get out of doors, Kate did not bother changing clothes, but only replaced her shoes with her old, comfortable walking boots and headed out into the grounds.

Before she realized what she was doing, she found herself stopping beside the scrubby little boxwood. She smiled over the fact that it still stood—though the leaves remaining on it were mostly brown.

“You realize now, certainly, why the shrub cannot remain.”

Kate drew in a breath of cold air until her lungs felt fit to burst. With as pleasant an expression as she could muster, and ignoring the pounding flutter in her chest and heat in her cheeks at his deep voice, she turned. “Good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Lawton.”

He doffed his round felt hat. “I do apologize. Good afternoon, Miss Dearing.”

“Tell me, Mr. Lawton, do you wait here every day just to see if I will come by?”

Andrew Lawton’s thick brows raised a fraction. Once again, Kate found herself mesmerized by his eyes, unable to draw her gaze away. How had she never noticed before the chip of brown in the green iris of his left eye? She leaned forward as if to step closer to examine his eyes more carefully, to ensure her own did not play tricks on her, but managed to stop herself before doing so.

“Waiting for you? No. Truthfully, I had come to finish the job you interrupted.”

“That was days ago. Why have you not completed the job before now?”

Andrew looked away, but the rising color in his planed cheeks wasn’t just from the chill mid-February wind.

He tapped the point of the long-handled spade against the gravel path.

Kate couldn’t hide her amusement, guessing the reason for his embarrassment. “Did you leave the shrub at my request?”

He turned his gaze heavenward before heaving a sigh and giving her a pointed look. “Yes, Miss Dearing. I found myself unable to dig the shrub up again—though it has no place in the design for this section of the park. But now—”

“But now it is dying and a blight to anyone’s gaze. Here—give me the shovel.” She reached for it.

He stared at her mittened hand, brow furrowed. “Give you the spade? Whatever for?”

Kate allowed a derisive sound to escape her throat. “What for? Why, to dig up this dead shrub, of course. I replanted it; therefore, I should be the one to dig it up again.”

When Andrew did not seem inclined to give her the tool, Kate stepped forward and took it from him, waiting until she turned her back to him before smiling. Though physically on his feet, the way he reeled from her surprising action had figuratively knocked him to the ground, more than making up for the embarrassing position in which she’d found herself the first time the boxwood shrub had come between them.

Andrew stood back and watched as Kate set her mittened hands just so on the wooden handle and set the tip of the spade at an angle to the root of the shrub. A booted foot—by no means small and dainty—appeared from under the voluminous skirt and petticoats, like a bee emerging from a June rose.

His amusement turned to surprise when she pushed the blade into the hard ground with more force than he’d expected her to possess. With at least as much skill as the gardener’s young apprentices, Kate made short work of loosening the soil around the bush. Andrew moved forward to offer assistance only when she’d dug sufficiently for the boxwood to start listing to the side. He held it straight so she could finish what she’d started.

He didn’t realize how firm a grasp he had on the branches until the roots gave way and he reeled backward, taking several steps to regain his balance without ending up on the ground.

Finally he gave up on balance—and dignity—and let gravity have its way with him. The cold, hard ground rose up to meet him as he fell back, the bush landing in his lap.

From the way Kate tried—and failed—to hide her amusement at his situation, he knew his downfall had the desired effect. Her indignity had been recompensed in kind.

He pushed himself to his feet, leaving the shrub on the ground, and brushed the dirt from his trousers.

Katharine stacked her hands atop the spade’s long handle and rested her chin on them. “I do hope you aren’t injured, Mr. Lawton.” A lilt of laughter laced her voice.

“Do not worry about me, Miss Dearing, I come from a hearty stock.”

“As your chosen career is a physically demanding one, I have no doubt that it would take much more than a stubborn bush to knock you off your feet.”

He examined her expression closely, finding not simply humor but understanding and camaraderie in her blue eyes.

“My brother tells me you have quite a plan for the gardens and park.”

Andrew looked down and shook the loose dirt from the boxwood’s roots. From their previous conversations, he knew Miss Dearing had a different idea than he on what comprised beauty in nature. Was she baiting him, or would she be able to see how order and structure created the perfect showcase for nature’s true beauty?

He tossed the skeleton of the shrub onto the sledge he’d brought with him for that purpose, then turned back to Miss Dearing. “I would be more than happy to show you my plans for the park and gardens, either on paper or by touring you around and explaining the designs for each area.” He gave a slight bow. “I am at your service anytime.”

Katharine gave a slight curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Lawton. I shall remember your invitation, and when I have time I would enjoy a tour of the grounds.” She glanced over his shoulder and grimaced, then looked back at him, stretching the spade toward him.

He took the tool and looked over his shoulder also. A housemaid scurried toward them down the path.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I’m being summoned.” Katharine inclined her head, stepped back onto the gravel path, and hurried away to intercept the maid who had no doubt been dispatched to find her.

Andrew watched her depart until he realized just how much he liked watching the sway of her full skirt, even with her long cloak obscuring her figure. He lay the shovel onto the sledge, capturing a few branches of the bush under it to keep it from falling off. Once again he had found himself captivated by the American woman. And once again he had to remind himself that he was in no position to act on his feelings.

No matter how much he liked Katharine Dearing, he must—and would—conquer this attraction.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Y
ou’re supposed to be educating me—making sure I’m ready to go off to finishing school. And all the girls there will laugh at me if I don’t at least know a few basic dances.”

Sighing, Nora closed the book of French verse she’d been trying for the past half hour to get Florie to recite. “What dances do you think you need to know before you go off to finishing school, where you will have dancing lessons?”

“The waltz, certainly, as that is said to be the queen’s favorite. And then . . . a minuet and a quadrille?”

At almost fifteen years old, Florie probably should know the steps of those dances most popular at the balls she would be attending in just a few years’ time when she made her debut. Nora had learned those and many more as a student at Mrs. Timperleigh’s Seminary for Deserving Young Women when she was Florie’s age.

Not that an opportunity to use that knowledge had ever presented itself to Nora, who had progressed from the classroom to teaching at Mrs. Timperleigh’s to becoming governess to Dorcas and Florie the year before Dorcas went off to finishing school in London.

Nora set the book on the table and stood, holding her hands out to Florie. “Very well. The waltz is a three-step figure—”

“Not in here!” Florie looked disdainfully around the schoolroom. “Besides, what will we do for music?”

Nora dropped her hands to her sides. “I cannot very well show you the steps and provide music.”

“That’s true. You have not the voice for singing.”

From anyone else, the comment would have been insulting. But the grin that Florie gave her made Nora laugh. Florie had long ago given up trying to learn to sing.

“I have an idea.” Florie dashed from the room with a whirl and a flare of skirts and ankles.

“Miss Florie—” Nora followed her young charge as fast as she could walk. Obviously, they needed to repeat the lesson on decorum and the speed at which a lady moved.

Every time Nora rounded a corner, it was just in time to see the pink ruffle at the bottom of Florie’s skirt disappear around the next. She slowed when she reached a corridor and did not seeing the young woman ahead of her.

Voices came from a room ahead on the left moments before Florie exited, pulling Christopher Dearing by the wrist behind her. Florie did not pause—in her stride or her speech—as she passed Nora in the hallway.

Face burning, Nora lowered her eyes, unable to hold Mr. Dearing’s confused gaze. She followed them downstairs, through the gallery and morning room to the music room.

“Miss Woodriff will play for us and you can show me the steps to the waltz.” Florie pulled her cousin into the middle of the room.

Embarrassment trickled down into Nora’s stomach, where it solidified as a knot of horror. Her talent at the piano hardly surpassed her talent for singing. And Florie wanted Nora to play in front of Christopher Dearing? The self-assured American who now stood in the middle of the room in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, looking devastatingly handsome?

“Miss Florence, I do not think it prudent to impose upon Mr. Dearing’s time—”

“Oh, he doesn’t mind, do you Cousin Christopher?” Florie beamed up at him. It wasn’t an expression of infatuation, but one that bespoke high esteem.

“I—no, I don’t mind at all, Cousin Florie.” He grinned down at the fourteen-year-old, and Nora’s skin tingled. He turned to look at Nora. “Although if Miss Woodriff does not believe this to be a good idea, I will respect her decision.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dearing, I—”

“She thinks it’s a wonderful idea.” Florie pulled on her cousin’s sleeve to regain his attention.

Heart pounding so hard she could feel it pulsing in the tip of her nose, Nora made her way to the piano. Unlike Florie and the older Buchanan sisters, Nora could not play from memory, so she stepped to the bookcase beside the instrument to choose a piece of music. She found “Bouquets” by Johann Strauss and carried it to the piano, at least familiar with the main melody of the waltz.