A Rose Before Dying (5 page)

However, his embarrassment faded as he
remembered his purpose.

A life could be saved if he interpreted
Rosa Collina fastigiata
properly.

How many people named Collins lived in
London? Unless the clue rested with the English name, Flat-Flowered
Hill Rose. Did this blossom point to a
location
instead of a
person?

Time was slipping away.

He said goodbye. Walking at random, he
considered.

Did he have enough information to stop a
murderer?

A chill tensed his shoulders.

It didn’t feel like enough. Not nearly
enough.

When Lord Castlemoor left, Ariadne Wellfleet
let out a sigh of relief. He seemed kind enough with warm brown
eyes and thick, curly dark brown hair, but she wasn’t convinced
about his honesty. He seemed far too tense about the name of the
rose for it to be a simple wager.

Of course, some men were foolish enough to
risk entire fortunes over the most trivial matters. She hoped he
was not one of those. Despite her wariness, she’d warmed to his
awkward humor and understated self-assurance.

The child stirred as Ariadne stared toward
the door, reminding her of the most peculiar aspect of Lord
Castlemoor’s visit.

Why would anyone pick up an orphan girl in
the middle of the road and deposit her with an unknown woman?

Then again, why had she agreed to take
her?

One of them was clearly a lunatic.

She knelt and looked into Rose’s clear blue
eyes. “Where did you meet Lord Castlemoor?”

Rose stuck her dirt-encrusted thumb into her
mouth and sucked vigorously.

“The man who brought you here—where did you
meet him?” She gently grasped Rose’s hands and held them clasped in
front of her. Ariadne wanted to think well of Lord Castlemoor, but
she tensed, fearing the worst.

What man would take a young girl off the
streets of London unless he had a reason?
A horrible
reason.

“Thar.” The child tilted her head in the
direction of the door.

“Outside? In the street?”

She nodded.

“When?”

“Now.”

“Just now. That is, a few minutes ago?”

Another vigorous nod.

“Are you sure? You’ve never seen him
before?”

“Naw.” She paused and then added in a rush,
“He saved me from the ‘orse.”

“A horse?”

“Yes. Ask Harry—he’d seen him save me. He
were ever so brave!”

“Harry? Who’s this Harry? Is he your
father?”

“Naw. Him’s me friend.”

“Harry is your friend,” Ariadne corrected
automatically. So perhaps Lord Castlemoor had told the truth after
all. Odd.

“That’s what I said. Him’s me friend. You
want’ter meet ‘im, then?” She tugged at Ariadne’s hand.

“No—not at the moment. What we need to do now
is get you a bath, something to eat, and a bed.”

“Bath?” Rose’s attention fastened on the word
like a prisoner listening to the sound of a cell door swinging
shut. “Wotcher mean,
bath
?”

“I mean a
bath
.” Ariadne suppressed a
strong desire to laugh. “Complete with soap and water.”

The little girl shifted her feet uneasily and
eyed the door. “I’d best be goin’, then.”

At that, Ariadne did laugh. “I’m very sorry,
Rose, but this is your new home. And don’t forget, you’ll have a
lovely, hot meal right after your bath—”

“I’d rather ‘ave it now.”

“I’m sure you would.” Despite Rose’s
reluctance, Ariadne pulled her firmly along until she located the
butler lounging in his small room just off the wide entryway. “Mr.
Abbott, please take Rose to Emily. Ask her to give the child a bath
and then a hot supper before sending her to bed.”

“She’s to stay, Miss?”

“Certainly.” Ariadne straightened her
shoulders to show the confidence and authority she was far from
feeling. “She’ll be of great assistance to Emily. And Mrs.
Holdfirth.”

“Mrs. Holdfirth?” His brows rose.

Ariadne had difficulty maintaining her cool
air of certainty. They both knew that the Rosewell cook, Mrs.
Holdfirth, viewed all changes to her domain as cause for alarm and
potential grounds for quitting. Although she was only in her early
forties, she routinely swore that she was ready to join her
daughter at her cottage in Bath and do for her there, where she
could drink the healing waters and enjoy the comforts of
semi-retirement.

While most of the staff at Rosewell had come
to believe Mrs. Holdfirth would never keep her promise and leave,
Ariadne was not so certain. She recalled with dread the Christmas
before her father passed away.

That year, her father had hired a girl to
help Mrs. Holdfirth during the holidays. Three days before
Christmas, Mrs. Holdfirth disappeared without warning. The family
panicked, having invited several guests for the season. Ariadne
vividly remembered their desperate—and miserably cold—trip to Bath
to bring back the smug and triumphant cook who saw this as
incontrovertible proof of the power she wielded.

But as Ariadne’s father said with tired
reluctance, one could live without a great many things, but one
couldn’t live a decent life without a good cook. He gave Mrs.
Holdfirth a generous raise and never attempted to make any changes
to the staff thereafter.

She sincerely hoped Mrs. Holdfirth would not
view Rose as another excuse to demand a raise Ariadne could ill
afford. Running a huge house took a great deal of ingenuity and
funds. There was scarcely enough left over at the end of the month
to buy a new handkerchief.

“I’m sure Mrs. Holdfirth will appreciate
another pair of hands,” she said with an overly bright smile.

Mr. Abbott shook his head glumly. “Yes,
Miss.”

He took Rose by the hand and the pair of them
tottered off down the hallway to the green baize door dividing the
servants’ territory from the rest of the house. Ariadne watched
them go, wishing she was the sort of woman who could blithely say
“no” and be believed by earls.

“Miss Wellfleet?” Mr. Gibson, her master
gardener, stepped in from the outer door. “Sorry to trouble you,
but Mr. Tunnes is here. Wants his ‘Rose de Meaux’ I expect.”

“Oh, dear.” She hesitated, torn between
offending one of her best customers by not going out to greet him,
or avoiding the man whose red hair was unfortunately the perfect
complement to his temper.

“I’ll take care of him, Miss. He’s in a
tearin’ hurry. No mood to stop for a chat.”

Relieved, she placed a hand over her heart
and smiled. “Thank you. And give him one of the chrysanthemums—my
compliments.”

“A mum?” His eyes widened. “You want to hand
him one of our mums? No charge?”

“Yes. Free. Our compliments.”

“But he’s—he’s…” He stuttered to a halt.

“A good customer? Is that what you were
trying to say?”

“I was not! He’s a horse’s—”

“Yes?” Her voice wobbled over a hastily
suppressed giggle. “A horse’s what?”

“Never mind. If you want to waste your stock
on fools, how can I stop you?” He turned his shoulder and stalked
away, muttering under his breath.

“Indeed.” She watched him carefully shut the
greenhouse door despite the fact that his body was literally
quivering with aggravation.

Returning to the workbench, she set to work,
carefully repotting seedlings from a cross between her favorite
Cabbage rose,
Rosa centifolia,
and the Bourbon rose,
Rosa
borboniana
. She didn’t have any great expectations, but if any
of the seedlings looked promising, she could propagate it and sell
the resulting roses through Mr. Lee’s Vineyard nursery. While she
never expected to surpass her father’s contributions to the world
of horticulture, she loved roses enough to hope that her small
efforts would not be completely wasted.

And if this worked, perhaps she would next
attempt a cross between European roses and the China roses. The
remontant Chinas bloomed all summer, a quality the fuller, fragrant
European varieties lacked, and Mr. Champneys had already managed a
cross between the musk rose and China to create the Noisettes now
propagated by Louis and Philippe Noisette in France. If she could
create a remontant rose with the lovely full flower cherished by
the English, she would leave behind a legacy that would be enjoyed
by generations to come.

Many had tried. So far, few had
succeeded.

Yet.

But first she had to become an expert at the
techniques—she could not expect to run before she could even crawl.
And many gardeners appreciated the beautiful European roses, even
if they did not rebloom. A new variety would sell well even if it
only bloomed once. All she had to do was find one amongst all her
seedlings that was healthy and had a lush, fragrant bloom with a
slightly different color, her favorite murrey-purple, perhaps.

“Miss Wellfleet!” Mrs. Holdfirth entered the
glass house, pushing Rose in front of her. “What is the meaning of
this? If you please!”

Rose eyed Ariadne with a glum expression on
her face. Her cheeks glowed red from a fresh, and apparently
vigorous, scrubbing, and her hair hung in damp curls around her
face. From the depths of the house, someone had managed to find a
pale blue dress that hung awkwardly on the child’s thin frame.

“I believe she means to be a child. Unless
I’m much mistaken.”

Mrs. Holdfirth’s gray eyes grew slatey. “And
what am I to do with a child?”

“Teach her to bake,” Ariadne replied with
more levity than she should. “During the afternoons, of course. I
shall be teaching her to read and write in the mornings. Of
course.”

Mrs. Holdfirth’s square face grew bleak. “You
wish me to teach her to
bake
?”

“I thought you wanted more help in the
kitchen, and that you would appreciate having an apprentice.” She
paused to let the cook consider the elevation in status that having
an apprentice would bring. Then she added, “Most
male
chefs
require an apprentice. To assist them. I assumed…” She shrugged.
“If I was mistaken, please let me know.”

Mrs. Holdfirth sucked in a deep breath. No
one could say she wasn’t the equal—or better—of the fancy French
chefs so many hired instead of a decent Englishman—or woman. “She’s
too young—”

“She will most assuredly get older.”

Twisting to escape the cook’s stern grip,
Rose stepped forward. “Can I have a bun? Please?”

“Didn’t you get a meal?” Ariadne’s brows
rose.

“Yeah. But I’d like another bun. Them’s ever
so nice. With butter.”

A series of emotions ranging from pride to
annoyance suffused the cook’s face. “She had a plate of stew
already. She’s a greedy little thing.” And yet, despite her words,
her heavily veined hand gently moved over Rose’s fine, pale brown
hair as if to smooth away her harsh words.

“Indeed. And she appears to appreciate your
cooking, Mrs. Holdfirth. As we all do. Have we any buns left?”

“Perhaps,” the cook replied grudgingly. “I’ll
send a tray.” With that, she turned on her stout heel and stalked
out, leaving Rose staring at Ariadne as if she had never seen her
before.

“Would you like to help me?” Ariadne turned
to the table and delicately shook loose a few more seedlings from
the wooden tray where they had sprouted. “I’m making new
roses.”

“Roses?” The child took a step forward, her
blue eyes flashing with curiosity. “Like me?”

“Rose bushes. Here—watch what I do and see if
you can help me. We pick up each tiny plant—be careful, they’re
delicate—and poke a finger into the dirt in one of these larger
pots.” She pointed to a series of five-inch pots arrayed on the
bench in front of her. “Tuck the plant’s roots—those white hairs at
the bottom—into the soil and gently press the dirt around them.
See?” She held up a pot containing one of the tiny seedlings.

“Why’re there so many?” Rose stood next to
the table and clasped her hands solemnly behind her back as if
afraid to touch anything.

“Well, they’re, um,
seedlings
. That
is, they’re new roses. I don’t know what they will look like when
they grow older. So we plant a lot of them in hopes that one or two
will be beautiful new roses.”

“You think some’ll die, then? So’s you’ve
lots so some’ll live?” she asked with surprising and sad maturity.
“Harry says that’s why there’re so many children. ‘Cause you never
know, do you? Some’ll die.”

“Yes.” She hugged Rose briefly before
carefully placing a few seedlings and pots within reach of her tiny
fingers.

Rose didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she
watched Ariadne for a few minutes. Then, with intense
concentration, she picked up one of her seedlings. Biting her
tongue between her teeth, she made a hole in the soil with her
index finger and planted it.

“Is that it, then?” she asked.

“Perfect. You did very well, Rose.”

Encouraged, Rose picked up a second tiny
plant and pressed it into an awaiting pot. They had almost finished
when a man strode into the greenhouse from the garden door. Close
upon his heels rushed Mr. Gibson.

“Miss Wellfleet!” Mr. Gibson called. He
increased his pace until he was nearly running to circle around the
first man. “I’m sorry—he got past me, Miss, when I was helping that
Mr. Tunnes with his plant.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Gibson.” Ariadne wiped
her hands on the towel lying at her elbow and turned to face the
intruder. “Mr. Phillips. This is unexpected.” She pointedly gazed
over his shoulder at the garden door. He’d clearly come through the
back of the house since Mr. Abbott had orders to say she was not at
home.

Mr. Phillips smiled, although his gray eyes
hardened. He flicked a disdainful glance at Rose before fixing a
bold stare on Ariadne’s face. “I am pleased to see you looking so
well despite your labors in the garden. You should leave such work
to Mr. Gibson—it’s what he’s paid for.” When she didn’t comment, he
asked abruptly, “Who is that urchin?”