The Gardener Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jenny.

 
     
    Chapter Three
    “Papa, smell those roses!”
    “Mmmm, yes, dear. The scent is lovely.” The gray-haired man semi-dozing in one corner of the carriage opened an eye to see his grown daughter hanging her head out the window in a hoydenish manner his late wife would have frowned on. He could not bring himself to chasten her, however.
    Abigail had grown up in quiet Cambridge, Massachusetts, and her eagerness to visit her father's homeland was infectious. He loved his daughter's honesty and vivacity. Those qualities were just what this ancient island nation needed, Mr. Miles Woodbury thought. Let Abigail shake up their dignified, noble hosts with her fresh enthusiasm. He only wished he looked forward to their visit to Blackgrave Manor as much as she did.
    Mr. Woodbury discreetly rubbed his aching bones. The wide gravel road leading up to the imposing manor house was fully a mile long, shaded by trees some hundred feet tall, and flanked by rosebushes flaunting every color—crimson, pink, white, and yellow. It really was a spectacular display, he thought with grudging admiration. He only wished the trip from London had not been so long and tiring, and that he could soon return to his comfortable chair behind his desk at home with his Greek and Latin texts.
    *     *     *
    Abigail finally drew in her head, brushing a stray strand of chestnut hair under her new straw hat, and settled by her father. On the other side of the carriage lounged her father's cousin, clad in silks and lace, his wig done in elaborate curls.
    Sir Anatole Corbus lifted a languid hand to his mouth and yawned. “Why the surprise?" he asked her. "Did not you know Blackgrave Manor is known for its gardens? They're quite famous, among people who care about such things." His slow drawl indicated that he did not. Anatole made a habit of not caring too much about anything.
    Abigail studied her relative without affection. Anatole had grown up with the best of everything at his large estate in the West Indies: the most magnificent house, the most fashionable clothing, the most attentive servants. Perhaps it all paled after a time. But she could not imagine being bored like her cousin, ever . Not when there was so much to do in the world, so much to learn and discover. England, especially, fascinated her, since she had never before left Massachusetts.
    As if reading her critical thoughts about him, Anatole smiled unpleasantly at her, and she quickly looked away. She had met her father's relative for the first time upon their arrival in England, and a more disagreeable man she had never known. He had all the failures of his class—arrogance, cold-heartedness, and a sense of God-given superiority—and few, if any, of its virtues. Not only had Anatole been a British officer in the war for American independency (a fact she and her father did their best to overlook in the interest of family relations), but he was the perfect example of an English nobleman who was interested in little besides fox hunting and horse races.
    Her father could not have been more different. Miles Woodbury rarely took his nose out of his ancient history books except when something happened in the real world too important to ignore ... such as a bloody revolution for independence, or the death of his beloved wife.
    Abigail pulled her thoughts away from that painful memory. Her mother's passing was still too new, too raw. One of the reasons for the trip was to distract her father from his loss. The other reason was to give Abigail time to consider Benjamin Pinckney's proposal of marriage.
    So far, the trip to England had accomplished at least two of their goals. Despite occasional tensions between the two cousins, her father had been brought out of his self-imposed isolation, and Abigail was enjoying the new experiences she had always yearned for. As for Benjamin's proposal, the very fact that she had not brought herself to consider it was in itself an answer. In fact, she