3. Gardener

Chapter three

Gardener

Derbyshire, England ~ May 1810

G yles Audeley swung a mattock to break up the dirt clods in his new garden bed. The coarse red soil had a good deal of clay in it, and it often took a whole afternoon to plant just three rose bushes. The three he was planting today were replicas of others in the garden—raised from cuttings he had taken last year. He took peculiar pride in having the largest rose garden roundabouts, with over three hundred rose bushes, and he aspired to expand his domain into the largest rose garden in Derbyshire.

He lifted the spade and began to dig the deep hole necessary to house the root ball for the first rose bush. The new bushes would not bloom this summer, of course. It took some time after transplant for a bush to really thrive. But he had high hopes that this was the year for his Sweet-Scented China Rose to bloom. The esteemed botanist Sir Abraham Hume had sent him cuttings for it a year and a half ago, and it was well past time to see the fruit of his labours with that bush.

"Oi there, Mr. Audeley," said a pert voice. Gyles looked up. "Might ye be needin' some help with that diggin'?"

"Hello, Archie," said Gyles, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. Archie Garrick, the nephew of their butler, was tall as a beanstalk, spotted as a toadstool, and as ubiquitous as flies in a cow pasture. A few years younger than Gyles, the fellow had set his heart on entering service at the Audeleys' manor house. But Gyles and his mother had no need for a footman, and they already possessed a coachman and a butler. "No, thank you, I have the digging well in hand."

"Looks like ye have a spade in hand, Mr. Audeley. I could help wi' that, and ye could twiddle yer thumbs and admire yer garden."

Gyles grimaced. Twiddling his thumbs was the last thing he wanted to do in pleasant weather. The smell of the freshly turned earth and the warmth of the air invigorated him like a heady elixir. It was his privilege and pleasure to serve as gardener for his country estate, and he had no intention of turning over his job to Archie Garrick.

"That will be unnecessary." Gyles' foot stamped the spade into the ground again.

"Well then," said Archie, realising his overtures were unlikely to be received that day, "another time, Mr. Audeley. I could fix yer rose garden up right pretty-like. I've been watchin' you trim them, and I know just how's you like them."

Gyles strongly doubted that Archie had any clear concept of how to prune a rose bush, but being a peaceable man, he nodded without argument .

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Mrs. Audeley brought out a pitcher of cool liquid with a glass for her son. He put the spade down and gratefully took a gulp of lemonade. Then, giving the glass back to her, he knelt in the dirt to pull some stones out of the hole he had dug.

His mother lingered, watching him, until she could contain herself no longer. "Gyles! I've thought of the best plan. Should you like to take a house in London at the end of the summer? You would get to see the flowers at Kew Gardens and meet ever so many famous botanists. And I could perchance do some shopping?"

The sun was right behind her, and Gyles squinted upwards while rubbing dirty hands on his old buckskins. London? Shopping? What was this harebrained scheme she had hatched? They'd not been to London for four years…not since Father had died. Following his father's demise, his widowed mother had continued as she had always done, keeping a neat house and a full table and a quiet presence here in the country. He had always supposed she was as content as he was to remain in Derbyshire.

"I daresay you might take a house in London whenever you like, Mother. But I shall stay here in Derbyshire. Otherwise, who would take care of the roses?" The last time he had left his home, he'd only abandoned two dozen rose bushes, but now that Audeley House belonged to him, his garden held even more bushes than the prince's gardens at Carlton House.

"Surely you can find someone to water them," said his mother, with the naive innocence borne of someone who did not garden herself. As if watering were the only thing that must be done! If that were the case, then spotty-faced Archie Garrick would be a proper caretaker. "And besides, you would get to meet Sir Abraham Hume in person."

Gyles rubbed his nose with the cleanest of his knuckles. He was perfectly content with his current level of acquaintance with the botanist. Gyles had first written Sir Abraham two years ago when he had reached the age of majority. They now conducted a regular correspondence by post, but it was immaterial to him whether he ever met the man face to face. He supposed such indifference might stem from growing up as an only child. He was used to his own company, and he never felt the need for companionship that afflicted others so strongly.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mother, but I can't leave Derbyshire during the summer months." He refrained from promising her a London visit during the winter months instead. There was still so much to do with wintering the rose bushes and preparing the ground for spring. He hated the idea of abandoning his garden no matter the season. The last time he had gone to London at the age of nineteen he had obtained some new varieties to cultivate, but his small garden had been in such disarray when he returned, that he disliked the idea of leaving it ever again. And besides, he was currently working on the larger project of writing down all his endeavours with ink on paper. Someday, other rose gardeners would benefit from his record of plantings, prunings, failures, and successes.

"I have high hopes that my Sweet-Scented China Rose will bloom this summer. I'm sorry, Mother, but it just isn't possible for me to go to London."

"I understand." His mother's fleeting look of disappointment lasted an instant, but then she moved on to another idea. "Perhaps we might simply hold a dinner party next month? "

Gyles got to his feet. "Whom would we invite?" This part of Derbyshire was not particularly well populated with families of the gentry. The late Mr. Audeley had been content to lead a staid and boring existence on his land outside of Upper Cross, and they had rarely entertained guests.

"Oh," said Mrs. Audeley, distractedly, "I thought we might have Mr. and Mrs. Brownlee, and the vicar and his wife. And then perhaps Miss Morrison? You like her, don't you?"

Gyles raised an eyebrow. Miss Morrison was a gentlewoman farmer a mile or more down the lane. No doubt his mother supposed that Miss Morrison, with her interest in agriculture, would be a good match for him, but their nearby neighbour was more interested in crop rotation and seed drills than she was in beauty. And although Gyles might deplore society and the metropolis, beauty was as necessary to him as air.

"Miss Morrison is very unexceptionable," said Gyles. "I appreciate her as much as you do, I suppose." It was tepid praise, calculated to give his mother pause.

"Hmm, yes." Mrs. Audeley's eyes melted into a look of resignation. "Well, a dinner party does seem like a good deal of trouble. I shall think of something else."

"Whatever you think best, Mother." Thankful that she was giving up her plans as soon as she had proposed them, Gyles turned his attention back to the soil. He wanted his mother to be happy. He certainly would let her go to town if she were fixed on the idea. He would order her new dresses and bonnets. He would even entertain Miss Morrison at dinner if it gave his mother pleasure. But to leave his garden was a sacrifice of a higher order.

This hole was almost big enough for the root ball of his largest transplant. He would move a few more rocks and then set the plant in place. But as for transplanting himself for a season, he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. He was perfectly content to be a country gentleman with no adventures beyond those afforded by heat, drought, rain, and sunshine.