Follow the Heart (24 page)

She turned around and returned to the house. She needed to finish the letter to Maud and the girls. And nothing she would see out here would take her mind off of Andrew.

In the orangery, she stopped beside one of the tables and picked up an aster blossom that had fallen. Half the petals let go and fluttered to the floor. She pulled the rest of them off and stared at the velvety yellow stamen. How could the flower still look so cheerful with all its petals gone?

Could she feign cheerfulness when she felt like a part of her was missing?

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, something she’d heard at church came out of the cobwebs and demanded her attention.

“Therefore I say to you, Be not anxious for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than food, and the body than raiment? . . . Consider the lilies of the field how they grow? . . . Therefore be not anxious, saying, What shall we eat? or what shall we drink? or, with what shall we be clothed? . . . For your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.”

She was almost certain they were words spoken by Christ, and most likely from the Sermon on the Mount, one of the passages the minister at their church in Philadelphia preached from often. And she wanted to take them to heart, to trust in them fully.

But she’d seen beautifully arrayed lilies choked out by weeds, decimated by disease. The irony was that the lilies most likely to thrive and grow were those in cultivated, carefully pruned gardens—the type of disciplined landscape Andrew was so fond of and Kate railed against.

Determined to make herself stop thinking about Andrew, she dropped the stem back onto the table and brushed her gloves against the outside of her brown cloak. At the door into the conservatory, she came to an abrupt halt.

Lord Thynne—Stephen—looked up from his book, then jumped to his feet from the chaise on which he’d been lounging. “Katharine! I thought you had gone with the others.”

“The others?”

“The rest of the young women walked out with the shooting party directly after breakfast. I assumed you would be joining them since you enjoy walking so much.” Somehow, he managed to smile without moving his mouth at all. His eyes expressed most of his emotions.

The sense of dread she’d felt on entering the breakfast room returned. “I was not aware they were walking out with the men. Why did you not go with them?”

“Alas, I am no shooter. ’Tis a sport I have never enjoyed.” He used one finger to hold his place in the book. “I am surprised no one told you of the shooting party.”

Kate pressed her lips together and collected her thoughts before continuing. “The other ladies left the breakfast room as I arrived.” Had that been what Dorcas wished to say to her? To invite Kate to walk out with them, before Edith stopped her? “It is just as well.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I have an engagement in a few minutes anyway.”

Stephen’s light blue eyes clouded. “An engagement? Not an assignation, I hope.” His effort at effecting a joking tone failed.

An accomplished flirt would try to stoke his jealousy further. Coquettishness just wasn’t in her nature. “No, my lord—Stephen. I am to meet Miss Woodriff and Miss Florence Buchanan in the orangery for a lesson on plants and flowers.”

Stephen set the book down on his abandoned seat. “May I attend also? I know everything about cotton, but nothing about decorative plants. And if I am to make Greymere a home, I need to know about these things.”

She wanted to deny him. The time she spent with Nora and Florie was precious to her—some of the rare moments in this house in which she did not feel she had to put on airs or be too cautious of what she said and how she said it. But how could she say no to the highest-ranking person for miles around? “Of course you may.”

Before Kate had to do more than discuss the weather with Lord Thynne, Nora arrived with Florie trailing behind. The young woman had her nose buried in a book, something Kate envied. She’d always wanted to be a reader, but the printed word held no attraction the way plants and flowers did.

When Florie looked up and saw Stephen Brightwell, Kate looked away from the knowing gleam in her cousin’s blue eyes. “My lord, you remember my cousin, Miss Florence Buchanan.”

From the corner of her eye, she watched Florie give her best court curtsy—she had been practicing with Dorcas in preparation for Dorcas’s upcoming presentation. “My lord, it is a great privilege to make your acquaintance again.”

Stephen bowed low. “Miss Florence, a pleasure.”

“And this is Miss Florence’s governess, Miss Woodriff.”

Nora gave a much more proper curtsy and “my lord,” and Stephen inclined his head to her with a pleasant greeting.

“Lord Thynne is going to attend Miss Florie’s lesson with us.” Again Kate avoided eye contact with Florie. “If you will follow me into the orangery, we shall begin.”

Although Nora usually stood beside Florie and asked just as many questions as the young student while she sketched the various plants, today the governess stood a few paces behind her pupil and silently took notes, occasionally straining her neck to get a good view of the shape of a leaf or the number of petals on a flower. Kate was about to encourage her to come forward when she realized Nora’s actions were a direct result of Stephen’s presence. She did not want to embarrass the governess, so she let Nora do things her way—after all, Nora knew the rules of English society much better than Kate did.

Stephen was as attentive as Nora, but not nearly as inquisitive. He listened, repeated the Latin names a few times, then clasped his hands behind his back and listened to Kate. For her part, she tried to focus on Florie, but with Stephen’s pale eyes affixed to her the entire time, she had a hard time concentrating.

She wished she could get him to go away and leave her alone. Certainly, he was a nice enough man. Thoughtful. Considerate. Well read. Concerned about the political situation in America—something no one else in England she’d met so far had shown the least interest in.

If she had never met Andrew Lawton, she might find Stephen’s attentions flattering. But she had met Andrew. And more and more, she feared he might have ruined her for any other man.

After two days in Sir Anthony’s London home, Christopher bypassed the empty formal dining room on the main floor and made his way down to the kitchen in the basement of the grand townhouse.

“Good morning.” He grinned at the look of shock on the faces of Andrew and the kitchen staff.

The cook turned from the enormous iron stove, a wooden spoon in her hand wielded like a sword. “You oughtn’t be down here, Mr. Dearing. You should be upstairs, taking your breakfast in the dining room. Sir Anthony would fire me certain if he found out I let you set foot down here.”

Christopher held up his hands. “Unless you have failed to notice, I am the only person using any of the rooms above the first level of this house. Even you”—he forced a glare at Andrew, still seated at the heavy, scarred kitchen table—“have abandoned me because you feel you aren’t good enough to eat with me. I’ve made the decision that I will take my meals down here with you so that I don’t lose my mind from silence and boredom.”

“No. I won’t stand for it.” The ample cook stamped her foot and started toward him.

Uncertain if she intended him physical harm—which she might, from the look in her eyes—Christopher backed up into the doorway.

Andrew pushed away from the table and stood, interposing himself between them. “Now, now, Mrs. Coleman. You have been trying to get me out of your kitchen since we arrived. Would it make you happier if I resolved the issue by agreeing to take my meals in the dining room with Mr. Dearing?”

The cook lowered her weapon. “Aye, Mr. Lawton, it would.”

“Very well then.” Andrew scooped up his journal, writing materials, and newspaper. “Mr. Dearing, would you be so kind as to bring the ink bottle?”

Christopher swept it up from the table, then turned and bowed low toward the cook. “I have been wanting to visit you to let you know how much I have enjoyed the food here, Mrs. Coleman. My compliments.”

She shooed him away, but not before he caught the hint of pink in her cheeks.

By the time the food arrived in the breakfast room, Christopher might as well have spent the time by himself, with as taciturn as Andrew had become. London was making his friend terribly withdrawn. The dark circles around his eyes and the downward draw of his mouth couldn’t be ignored.

Christopher shook his head. “You’re just like Kate.”

Andrew’s head snapped up from his plate of kippers and toast. “What?”

Wiping crumbs from his chin with the back of his hand, Christopher cocked his head. “If Kate can’t get outside and putter around in her garden for two days straight, she . . .” He searched for an apt description. “She wilts. Becomes reclusive and silent.”

Andrew shifted his gaze to his plate. “Today shall end our confinement in this house.” He set his fork down and looked at Christopher again. “This morning we shall go to Hyde Park and see the Crystal Palace. The committee is coming out to view it in its finished state—well, its almost-finished state. As they will be given a tour, Mr. Paxton thought that would be the best time for us to view it as well, as part of Mr. Paxton’s group of designers and engineers.”

Christopher could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of seeing the acclaimed palace.

After breakfast, he returned to his room and dressed with care—and much more formally than he had originally planned for the day when he would get to view the site of the forthcoming Great Exhibition. From what he’d read about the engineers and architects on the Exhibition committee, he would be facing representatives from at least three major railway companies today—the Great Northern, Great Western, and Midlands. If he wanted to help his family, and determine the course of his own future, securing the approbation of these men and parlaying that into employment would be his ticket.

Clouds rolled in, and a cold drizzle started when the hack stopped at the gate to Hyde Park. The men guarding the path toward the massive glass-and-iron structure sitting atop a hill made as if to stop them from entering, but then recognized Andrew and waved them through.

Christopher gawked, open-mouthed, at the enormous structure—so long the mist hid the far end of the building. The critics in the newspaper hadn’t lied. The Crystal Palace looked like a giant greenhouse.

“They finished constructing the roof of the transept in January.” Andrew pointed toward the arched nave that bisected the long building.

As an example of modern architecture, the building was marvelous. As a feat of engineering, constructed in just over four months, it bordered on miraculous. Through the paned glass walls, he could see the enormous trees enclosed inside the building—Mr. Paxton’s solution to the public outcry over the other proposed designs, which would have necessitated cutting down ancient elms and oaks.

After several long moments, with the drizzle increasing into rain, Christopher finally pulled his attention away from the building to his companion. Andrew stood looking up at the building—but with a distance in his gaze that made Christopher wonder what he truly saw.

“Shall we go inside?” Christopher asked.

Andrew startled and shook his head as if to clear it. “Sorry. Yes, let’s do go in and get out of this rain.”

Following Andrew, Christopher frowned. This morning, he’d assumed Andrew’s change in manner was due to being in London, shut inside for a couple of days. But perhaps it was something else. Perhaps it was Kate. Christopher wished he were as skilled at drawing information out of people as his sister, for he’d find a way to get Andrew to talk about what was bothering him—and hopefully that would turn Andrew back into the friendly companion whose company Christopher had come to enjoy.

Inside, the Crystal Palace was even grander than from the outside. The glass-and-iron structure soared above the trees—and the sparrows that made the trees their home. And, oddly enough, a troop of soldiers stood in formation on the other side of the massive fountain in the center of the transept.

Christopher caught up with Andrew. “What are the soldiers here for?”

“A demonstration.” Andrew raised his brows in a wait-and-see expression, then led Christopher up to the knot of men milling around the fountain.

“Mr. Paxton.” Andrew singled out a middle-aged man with heavy side whiskers.

“Andrew, dear boy. I hope you brought the plans as you promised.” He clasped Andrew’s elbow when he shook his hand.

Andrew patted the satchel that hung at his side. “I did. May I introduce Christopher Dearing, the acquaintance about whom I wrote you.”

“Yes, yes, the young American railway lawyer.”

Christopher accepted Paxton’s hand in greeting—and was surprised at the older man’s vigorous and firm greeting. “Mr. Paxton, it is a pleasure to meet you. A great pleasure, sir.”

Paxton clamped Christopher’s upper arm and led him around, introducing him to all the other men present. Andrew had not exaggerated in the number of railway companies represented by the august gathering. Indeed, Christopher met a few Andrew had not mentioned.