Follow the Heart (7 page)

Though only Christopher and the Buchanans would be at table, Kate dreaded this dinner as much as those her father and Maud held for which the dining table had to be extended to seat more than twenty. She had a healthy appetite, but her stepmother’s admonitions to “eat like a lady” in front of others kept Kate’s stomach growling at meals taken in public. And though the Buchanans were blood relations, they were also strangers whose good opinion of her could be the making or death of her future here.

The butler called everyone into the dining room shortly after Kate arrived downstairs. She knew enough to hang back and allow her cousins to precede her into the dining room. Even as a young girl, she’d been taught by her mother how much emphasis the English put on arranging everything by social rank, even for something as simple as processing into the dining room. Sir Anthony took Edith’s arm, and, with a shy giggle, Dorcas took Christopher’s.

The youngest Buchanan sister hooked her arm through Kate’s. “I think you should probably walk in ahead of me, as you are an adult, but let us go in together, and then we do not have to dither about whether you or I have precedence.”

“I believe that is a wonderful idea, Cousin”—her heart caught in her throat a moment before the name popped into her memory—“Florence.” Kate towered over her youngest cousin, though Florence stood a few inches taller than her elder sisters.

“It’s Florie, please, Cousin Kate.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. No one in this household called her Kate, except . . . “I take it you have been talking to my brother about me.”

“Not about you, no, but we were the first two to arrive in the sitting room and he called you Kate. Is it all right if I call you that as well? Katharine seems too formal.”

Florie reminded Kate forcefully of her little sisters; and, as she did with them, she let the young woman have her way. “Of course, you may call me Kate.”

Kate nodded her thanks to the footman who held her chair. The superfluous length of the dining table made the party of six seem even smaller, all seated at one end with Sir Anthony at the head, Christopher and Dorcas to his right, Edith, Kate, and Florie to his left.

To be polite, Kate sampled a little of each dish, and found most of it to her liking. When she noted that Dorcas and Florie ate heartily, she too ate until satisfied.

Christopher and Sir Anthony spoke of railways and factories and, as Kate anticipated, ended up talking about the Great Exhibition—Christopher’s favorite topic since arriving in England.

“What you must understand, dear boy, is that the Exhibition threatens the peace and prosperity of London—of all England, in fact. Why, just think of the thousands upon thousands of people thronging into London, blocking up traffic, filling the city center in unwashed masses. I have already prepared my house staff to guard the doors and windows around the clock to protect against the thievery certain to be happening.” Sir Anthony motioned for the butler to refill his wineglass.

Obviously crestfallen, Christopher sputtered a moment. “But . . . think of all there will be to see and learn . . .”

“And then there is the construction of the building itself. Crystal Palace, indeed. Why, one strong storm and it shall shatter and fall to the ground. No, we shall not be attending, not I nor my daughters, for fear of our lives. And if you and your sister are wise, you will follow our example.”

Dorcas heaved a dramatic sigh. “This is my debut season—and it will be ruined by this spectacle conceived and put on by a foreigner.”

Kate frowned. “I thought Prince Albert was the driving force behind the Exhibition.”

Edith pressed her napkin to her lips, then pinned Kate with a pitying gaze. “He is the foreigner of whom Dorcas speaks.”

“Prince Albert is German, Katharine, and he never allows anyone to forget it.” Sir Anthony’s voice held a trace of disdain. “He believes himself—indeed all Germans—to be superior to the English. It is even rumored he is a spy for the emperor of Russia and his uncle, King Leopold of Belgium.”

“I have heard that he and the queen both champion the rights of the working class and campaign for the abolishment of slavery.” Several speakers whose lectures Kate attended in Philadelphia supported their abolitionist and social-reform platforms with the example of how the leaders of Britain also fought for the same things.

Sir Anthony made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort. “And they forget that it is with the aristocracy and land holders of this country that the power lies.” He sighed and held up his hand when Kate took a breath to respond. “My dear, we in England have seen too much revolution, too many heads lost amongst our European cousins over the ideas you so freely espouse in America—the rights and conditions of the working class, political access for the common man, voting rights, and the like. You would do well to remember sentiments flow in different directions here.”

Her uncle softened his rebuke with a kind smile. “Now, on to a more pleasant subject. Over the next few days, our guests will be arriving.”

“Guests?” Christopher asked.

“Yes, for the house party. Young men and women of appropriate social standing and wealth will be coming to stay for four weeks of dinners, balls, and entertainment. It is customary in winter, when it is too early to go to London to immerse ourselves in society, to bring society to the country. And this year there will be a ball to honor your arrival in England.” He glanced at Kate to include her.

Kate silently thanked the Lord that the house party had not begun before their arrival, giving her a day or so to acclimate herself to the customs and culture here. She had a lot to learn.

In the sitting room after dinner, Kate entertained Florie and Dorcas by answering their many questions about Philadelphia as best she could. They had a good time teasing her about her accent and trying to mimic it. Edith sat apart from them, a book in her hands and a scowl puckering her brows and lips.

“There is entirely too much laughter coming from this room.”

They all startled, but Sir Anthony entered wearing a wide smile that belied his reprimand, Christopher directly behind him.

“Cousin Christopher, come, sit.” Dorcas tapped the arm of the chair beside her. “Katharine has been telling us about Philadelphia, but she said you attended college near New York City.” She and Florie dived into questioning him about Yale and his years at college and law school.

Sir Anthony sat beside Kate. “Katharine, I hope you are not upset by what I said at dinner. I did not mean to scold you, only to guide you in how our ways are different here than what you might be accustomed to in America.”

Though Kate still struggled to push back the feeling of being an awkward adolescent—always saying the wrong thing and tripping over nothing but shadows—she smiled at Sir Anthony. “Think nothing more of it, Uncle. I am grateful for your guidance, as I do not want my behavior to reflect poorly on you or the Misses Buchanan during my time here.”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled, just as her father’s did. She couldn’t help but smile back. “If you choose your husband wisely, you will most likely find him to being amenable to discussing some matters of politics behind closed doors.”

Her smile twisted into a grimace. “I shall take that as a great compliment, sir.”

He cocked his head, confusion filling his eyes.

She leaned toward him. “The idea that I will have a choice of husband—that there will be more than one man who will ask for my hand in marriage.”

Sir Anthony chuckled. “Tosh. The guests who will be here for the next month have been carefully selected as those who will make suitable husbands.” He now leaned toward Kate, their foreheads almost touching. “Though I will admit that I hope you are not the only young woman of my relation who will be finding a husband amongst them.” His gaze slanted toward Edith, still aloof from the rest of the family, glowering at her book.

Kate bit the inside of her lower lip to keep from speaking. Could it be possible that Miss Edith Buchanan, heiress to a large dowry no doubt, was having trouble securing a husband too? Perhaps the affliction ran in the family.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

A
ndrew smiled every time he passed the replanted boxwood. Seeing Katharine Dearing leaning over it, defending the eyesore, had given him a glimpse at a much different woman from the strangely flirtatious one he’d spent hours with on the train from Liverpool.

And every time he set his spade to the earth to dig the bush up again, the memory of the indignation in her clear blue eyes stopped him.

He hefted the tool over his shoulder, gave the trunk of the shrub a nudge with the toe of his boot, then headed back toward the gardener’s lodge, breaking into a jog when the drizzle turned into a steady rain. He propped the shovel against the wall before entering.

The head gardener greeted him with a smile. “The boxwood still stands?”

Andrew nodded and stepped over to the large fireplace to warm himself. “The boxwood still stands.”

“I can send one of the lads to do it for you, if you like.”

Perhaps that would be a better solution. Andrew sighed. “No, ’tis something I need to do myself.” He pulled off his heavy leather gloves and scrubbed his hands over his cold cheeks. “The new hothouse is completed. I’ve just come from inspecting it, and it is holding steady heat, even in this rain. I will spend the afternoon tagging the plants to be moved, then tomorrow we can work on moving the ornamental plants from the kitchen greenhouses and many from the conservatory into it. Sir Anthony is much desirous of having the plants throughout the house changed for new ones before his guests arrive. And daily fresh floral arrangements as well.”

“The additional space in the new hothouse will be quite the boon with the extra work a house party generates. And now we can increase production from the kitchen hothouses—a blessing, that, with all the guests to feed.” At the tall worktable in the middle of the room, Tom unrolled Andrew’s initial sketch of his plan for the organization of the plantings in each of the hothouses, including the one yet to be built, which would utilize Joseph Paxton’s sectional glass-and-iron construction innovation.

The three foremen came in from their duties of supervising the undergardeners in the existing greenhouses and joined Andrew and Tom at the table.

All had taken the time Andrew had been in London to familiarize themselves with the new design. Roland shyly presented a piece of paper on which he’d sketched a few suggested improvements. Of the four men he worked with most closely here, Andrew had always believed Roland—youngest of the foremen—to be possessed of the most creative and progressive mind. And while Tom had been reluctant to include the three in the planning stages of the project, none of the young men gave Andrew a moment’s regret for giving them the same opportunity Mr. Paxton had given him.

“Well done, Roland. This will increase the stability in the iron structure and reduce the time spent in construction. If we place an additional door here . . .” Andrew paused when he realized he no longer had the attention of the four gardeners. He looked over his shoulder toward the door, straightened, and turned.

Christopher Dearing stepped forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was exploring the grounds and ducked in out of the rain. I can leave if I’m keeping you from your work.”

“No, Mr. Dearing. Please, do join us.” Andrew motioned him toward the table. “We are reviewing the final plans for a new hothouse. You might find it interesting as an admirer of Mr. Paxton’s work, as it’s inspired by his designs of the conservatories at Chatsworth and his design of the Crystal Palace.”

The younger man’s eyes sparkled with interest, and his long legs made fast work of the space between them. He bent his tall frame over the high table to examine the plans and maps.

“Why so many greenhouses? Does Wakesdown raise produce to sell?” Christopher frowned over the plans.

“No. These”—Andrew indicated the four structures closest to the house—“produce food for the family, their guests, and the house staff during the cold months when it cannot be raised in the outdoor kitchen gardens. These two, and the orangery attached to the manor house, contain exotic flora that would not survive in our cold climate—citrus trees, pineapples, peaches, and ornamental plants and flowers for the young ladies to decorate with. All need much warmer temperatures than what we have in England naturally. So we grow them indoors.”

“But what about these acres here?”

“Sir Anthony does have orchards and grain fields—wheat and rye. There is a mill here.” Andrew pointed at the rendering of the building at the far corner of the property. “The rest is pastureland. Wakesdown uses what they need of the flours and livestock; the remainder is sold at market in Oxford.”

Christopher nodded and studied the chart in silence for a moment. Andrew’s mind bubbled with questions—about America and the opportunities there for someone like him; about how the use of railways could drastically improve the ability of small farms to sell their produce and livestock outside of their local market towns. Conversations started but not explored with any depth on the train several days ago. And the one subject not broached, which Andrew would never allow himself to indulge in—finding out more about Dearing’s sister. Pretty despite her exhaustion when he first met her; stunning when passionately defending a scraggly bush, her gloves and coat caked with mud.

“What you need is a spur line here”—Dearing traced a line on the map of the entire estate—“to connect Wakesdown to the main rail line in Oxford, and you could become one of the leaders in exporting your produce to the rest of England.”

“Could you just imagine?” Foreman Harry leaned closer and traced the line between pastures and fields. “Not loading up the wagons time and time again and taking our goods to market, but just sending it all off in a train car . . . like Granny going to London to see the queen.”

Andrew had to laugh with the others. “It would not be quite so simple, would it, Mr. Dearing?”

Dearing launched into an explanation of spurs and gauges and hand-powered carts, while the three foremen hung on his words—Tom listening with crossed arms and a speculative expression.