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Megan laughed. “We are used to helping out at home. After all, I’m just a cit, don’t forget, and Jessamine is but a poor vicar’s daughter.”

Captain Forrester said immediately, “Well, you both outrank me, who am nothing but an orphan rescued from the streets.” He spoke the words simply as if unashamed of his origins. “It’s only by God’s grace that I have anything to call my own at the ripe old age of seven-and-twenty and can appear as a gentleman.”

Jessamine stole a look at Mr. Marfleet. “It seems you are the only one of gentle birth among us.”

“And if he’s gone off to India as missionary,” Megan put in, “he has lived poorer than any of us.”

They laughed. “He’s the only saint among us then,” the captain added.

“Saint Marfleet.” Megan bowed her head his way.

Mr. Marfleet looked truly pained at the joke. “Please, I’m no saint.”

Jessamine’s heart squeezed with compassion. She knew what it was like as a vicar’s daughter to be expected to be “good.” “Why don’t we continue our tour? I don’t know about all of you, but I need to walk off some of this food. It seems we’ve only seen one side of the park.” She inquired of Mr. Marfleet, “What about the other side?”

He looked at her with gratitude, and she felt a spurt of pleasure well up in her chest. She turned away, not wanting to feel more than a casual goodwill toward him.

15

L
ancelot stared at Miss Barry, sensing her withdrawal. Up to that moment, she’d seemed so amiable. He had not dreamed the outing to Kew would go so well. She was all he could desire in a companion, enjoying the plants and trees as much as he.

As the others teased him about being a saint, she was the one who’d sensed how uncomfortable the undeserved praise made him. But when he’d tried to convey his thanks, she’d turned away from him.

“There is a very nice walk along the river—the remains of Capability Brown’s landscaping,” he told them, attempting to regain her interest in the tour of the park.

As they displayed their willingness to continue the walk, he picked up the basket and took it back to the barouche. When he returned, they continued on their way. This time the walk led them through a thicker wood. In a clearing the ladies both gasped at the sight of a timbered Elizabethan cottage with a thatched roof.

“This is Queen Charlotte’s cottage,” he told them. “The king had it built for her in the middle of the last century.”

It was fenced off from the public so they enjoyed the field of bluebells growing in a sunny meadow surrounding it. Butterflies fluttered among the flowers, and bees hovered over the blue mass.

Lancelot then led them to a path along the banks of the Thames. “This is called the Hollow Walk. It will take us back to where we began, where we can finish our day with a tour of the botanical gardens.”

“What a perfect time of year to visit Kew,” Miss Barry said, admiring the profusion of white blossoms covering a thick laurel hedge along the path.

“Yes. I enjoy it any time of year, but for an avid gardener, spring and early summer are best, I must admit.”

Miss Phillips and Captain Forrester moved ahead of them on the path, and Lancelot began to relax again, seeing Miss Barry’s enjoyment in her surroundings.

After a few moments of companionable silence, he glanced sidelong at her. “You are enjoying yourself?”

“I can’t think of a better day I’ve had since arriving in London.”

He was gratified by her words, which seemed heartfelt. Without thinking, he patted her hand in the crook of his arm. “I’m glad. It’s worth more than one visit. There is too much to see for one day.”

“I can well believe that.”

His hopes rose that perhaps she would agree to come with him again, though he remained silent for now.

They arrived at the unfinished castle they had seen from across the river and rejoined Miss Phillips and Captain Forrester, who were standing admiring it. “How sad to see it so empty,” Miss Phillips said. “It could be from a gothic novel.”

“The Prince Regent has not been interested in completing the palace his father started some years ago,” Lancelot explained.

“I’m afraid the government isn’t disposed to spend any more money on palaces, not when we were at war so many years,” Captain Forrester said. “Carlton House and the Royal Pavilion have strained the national coffers sufficiently.”

“I’ve heard the king already spent a hundred thousand pounds on this one,” Lancelot added.

The captain whistled.

“It’s a good thing there are sheep around to keep the grass tidy,” Miss Phillips said as they turned away from the lonely castle. “Imagine how forlorn it would appear if the yard around it were left to wrack and ruin.”

Next they passed a pair of red-coated soldiers standing guard at a small gatehouse in front of Kew Palace, the three-story red brick structure with three Dutch gables across the roof. “There’s a pretty formal garden at the rear, but it is for the queen’s private enjoyment,” Lancelot told them as they paused to admire the palace a moment.

They had made a full tour of the park and now arrived at a brick-walled area.

“The physic garden and arboretum are in there,” Lancelot said. “If you are not too tired, I can give you a tour and show you some of the exotic plants. There are over five thousand specimens, many started from the seeds brought back from all over the world.”

They marveled at the number.

“Shall we?” he asked.

“As amazing as that sounds,” Captain Forrester said with a smile, “I should very much like to see this Archimedes’ screw you were telling us about earlier. I feel if I’ve seen one tree, I’ve seen them all.” His grin broadened. “You may be an amateur botanist, but I fancy myself a frustrated engineer. I find it fascinating that all these gardens are watered by this one pump.”

Feeling a sense of relief that he would be able to show the botanical gardens to Miss Barry alone, Lancelot pointed to the east. “It is over that way, not far from the orangery we passed.”

Captain Forrester turned to Miss Phillips. “Care to accompany me, or do you prefer the exotic plants in the physic garden?”

“I shall accompany you to this engineering marvel, and perhaps we can still see some of the gardens before we leave?” She lifted an inquiring brow to Lancelot.

He agreed readily. “I shall inform the gardener on duty to allow you entry. I’d be glad to show you the most valuable species before we go.”

The afternoon had waned, and Lancelot knew they needed to be getting back in the next hour or so. As soon as Captain Forrester and Miss Phillips had walked off, Lancelot led Miss Barry to the walled garden area.

He spoke to an older man at the gate who greeted him in recognition and waved them through with a curious look at Miss Barry.

She stopped as soon as they’d entered the garden. “It’s enormous! I never imagined . . .” Her gaze roamed over neat beds of labeled plants. “I’ve never seen botanical gardens so immense.”

He felt almost a pride of ownership. “The biggest in the world to my knowledge, though the Germans have started a garden to rival it. This one is about nine acres.”

“Goodness, we’ll scarcely get to see a portion of it.”

“We can always come back,” he said, warmed with the notion of returning with her.

“Oh yes, I should like that.”

Encouraged by her enthusiasm, he began walking toward the beds. “I thought you might like to see how decorative the herbs are.”

They walked along the paths between the beds. She stooped down to peer at the various metal plaques stuck in the soil, though the names were all in Latin. She’d worn her spectacles on this outing—a fact he had refrained from commenting on but which had pleased him. It showed him she was interested in seeing everything clearly and that she did not feel embarrassed wearing them in front of him.

She stopped before a bush with spindly yellow flowers.
“Hamamelis virginiana.”

“Witch hazel from the American colonies.”

She touched a rough leaf. “Yes, I recognize it.”

Many of the herbs were beginning to flower; others had the fresh,
bright shoots of new growth. There were a couple of weathered wooden benches beneath some apple and crabapple trees.

But she ignored these and continued examining the different plants. “Seeing so many varieties puts my own herb garden back home to shame. We have but the most ordinary herbs.”

“You don’t have the advantage of having world travelers bringing back every species they find.”

She smiled and conceded his point.

“It’s a pity I can’t show you the physic garden in Chelsea. It, too, has a fine collection.” He wrinkled his brow. “Unfortunately, ladies are not permitted to enter its hallowed acreage.”

She made a face. “How archaic. Is it run by monks?”

“No, just men of science,” he said with a smile.

“I would think they would be more progressive.”

“Perhaps not in everything.” When she returned his smile, he said, “Would you like to see some of the things Dr. Banks has brought back?”

“Oh yes.”

“We’ll go to the arboretum portion of the gardens just beyond the Temple of the Sun over there.”

She scarcely spared a glance at the round, colonnaded Grecian temple with a domed roof, her attention on the various trees and shrubs planted beyond it.

“Here is something your father would doubtless recognize.” He stopped at a flowering bush. “
Paeonia moutan
, tree peony, a native bush of China first introduced to England from one of the first collectors commissioned by Dr. Banks at the end of the last century.”

“It’s beautiful.” She touched one of its large pink blossoms so like a cabbage rose.

“It has become very popular in Europe since its introduction.”

“I can well believe it. My father has planted several bushes.”

They examined the varieties around them. “They have followed a very scientific arrangement of plants as you may have noticed, the
different species of the same genus and family arranged together,” he pointed out to her.

“Yes, I noticed that in the herbarium.”

“Here is another ornamental bush.
Hydrangea hortensis.
First named by Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus and brought over from Japan by another of Banks’s collectors, in the late 1780s.”

She smiled at the beautiful pink clusters. “I adore hydrangeas. We have one in our garden, though we must protect it from the cold.”

“Yes, they cover this one in winter.” He motioned her forward. “Come, there are more plants in the glasshouses.” They reached the first greenhouse and he held the door open for her.

He showed her the pretty pink flowers of the fuchsia first introduced by Banks, as well as other plants from New Holland and New Zealand from the voyage of Captain Cook.

“This is one of the most exotic looking,
Strelitzia reginae
, or bird of paradise.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, gingerly touching one of its sharp, pointed leaves. “It truly looks like a waterbird ready to take off in flight.”

He enjoyed watching her pleasure at each new exotic plant. It was like seeing them for the first time himself.

Eager to see her reaction to one of Sir Banks’s most illustrious acquisitions, he led her to the glasshouse that was full of pools of water.

She looked around in wonder. “Are they water lilies?”

He smiled at what most people surmised when they first saw these waxy, pale, pinkish-white flowers floating on the water among lush green foliage. “I saw many of these in India. They call it the ‘sacred bean.’”

She raised her eyebrows in question.

“The lotus flower,” he said, watching her.

She drew in her breath, drawing closer to the water. “I have heard of it but have never seen one.”

“Banks brought back the first samples in the 1780s after his trip with Captain Cook.”

He took her to the final glasshouse, where Miss Barry gasped in awe. It was full of palm trees of every height. The sunlight overhead felt hot through the glass, the air thick and moist around them.

“In winter all these houses are heated from a marvelous system called the Great Stove.” He smiled. “Captain Forrester will want to see that, I’m sure.”

“Indeed.” She touched several of the tree trunks. “They are so different in texture, some smooth, others as rough and shaggy as burlap.”

“Yes, there are many varieties.”

At last they came to a corner filled with a vine that covered one glass wall. He stood silent, watching to see if she would recognize the small, star-shaped flowers.

She bent down to a small cluster and sniffed. “It’s jasmine.”

“
Jasminum
,” he murmured the Latin name.

She turned around with a smile and nearly bumped into him. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you so close.”

Lancelot stared down at her, feeling his heart begin to thud. Her lips were half parted, her green eyes staring up at him through her spectacles, wide and filled with the same wonder she had shown for the plants. Was it now for him?

His gaze moved downward to her pert nose and half-parted lips. The warm air around him enveloped them, making breathing difficult. The blood pounded at his temples, and he felt powerless to step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice came out hoarse and reedy. He cleared his throat.

“You—didn’t.” She shook her head imperceptibly then moistened her lips, deepening their rosy hue. He felt like a hummingbird drawn by the nectar of a red-shaded flower.

He inclined his head closer to her, feeling as if the two of them were wrapped in a warm cocoon of steam. Nothing else existed
outside of it. Before he could decide whether to remove his spectacles, he closed the gap between them, and his lips touched hers. To his surprise, there was no clashing of spectacles. She closed her eyes and seemed to sway toward him.

Her lips were soft and pliant. He deepened the pressure against them, marveling at how perfectly they molded to each other.

He held her by her arms, her body touching his. The scent of jasmine filled his lungs, intoxicating him, making him want more.