Almost Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page A

parents’ death when she was eleven years old had been a dark time for her, but Robert had been there to comfort her and cheer her and promise her that everything would soon look bright again. Robert was eight years older than she, and although he was actually her half-brother her mother’s son by her first marriage – Elizabeth had loved and relied on him for as long as she could remember. Her parents had been gone so often that they had seemed more like beautiful visitors who flitted in and out of her life three or four times a year, bringing her presents and then vanishing soon after in a wave of gay good-byes.
    Except for the loss of her parents, Elizabeth’s childhood had been very pleasant indeed. Her sunny disposition had made her a favorite with all the servants, who doted on her. Cook gave her sweets; the butler taught her to play chess; Aaron, the head coachman, taught her to play whist, and years later he taught her to use a pistol should the occasion ever occur when she needed to protect herself.
    But of all her “friends” at Havenhurst, the one with whom Elizabeth spent the most time was Oliver, the head gardener who’d come to Havenhurst when she was eleven. A quiet man with gentle eyes, Oliver labored in Havenhurst’s greenhouse and flowerbeds, talking softly to his cuttings and plants. “Plants need affection,” he’d explained when she surprised him one day in the greenhouse, speaking encouragements to a wilting violet, “just like people. Go ahead,” he’d invited her, nodding toward the drooping violet, “give that pretty violet an encouragin’ word.”
    Elizabeth had felt a little foolish, but she had done as instructed, for Oliver’s expertise as a gardener was unquestionable Havenhurst’s gardens had improved dramatically in the months since he’d come there. And so she had leaned toward the violet and earnestly told it. “I hope you are soon completely recovered and your old lovely self again!” Then she had stepped back and waited expectantly for the yellowing drooping leaves to lift toward the sun.
    “I’ve given her a dose of my special medicine,” Oliver said as be carefully moved the potted plant to the benches where be kept all his ailing patients. “In a few days, you come back and see if she isn’t anxious to show you how much better she feels.” Oliver, Elizabeth later realized, regarded all flowering plants as “she,” while all others were “he”.
    The very next day Elizabeth went to the greenhouse, but the violet looked as miserable as ever. Five days later she’d all but forgotten the plant and had merely gone to the greenhouse to share some tarts with Oliver.
    “You’ve a friend over there waiting to see you, missy,” he told her.
    Elizabeth had wandered over to the table with the ailing plants and discovered the violet, its delicate flowers standing sturdily on fragile little stems, its leaves perked up. “Oliver!” she’d cried delightedly. “How did you do that?”
    “ ‘Twas your kind words and a bit o’ my medicine what pulled her through,” he said, and because he could see the glimmerings of genuine fascination – or perhaps because he wished to distract the newly orphaned girl from her woes he’d taken her through the greenhouse, naming the plants and showing her grafts he was trying to make. Afterward he’d asked if she would like a small garden for her own, and when Elizabeth nodded they’d strolled through the seedlings in the greenhouse, beginning to plan what flowers she ought to plant.
    That day marked the beginning of Elizabeth’s enduring love affair with growing things. Working at Oliver’s side, an apron tied around her waist to protect her dress, she learned all he could tell her of his “medicines” and mulches and attempts to graft one plant to another.
    And when Oliver had taught her all he knew, Elizabeth began to teach him, for she had a distinct advantage. Elizabeth could read, and Havenhurst’s library had been