Flowers for the Gardener Read online

  Flowers for the Gardener

  By Sharon Maria Bidwell

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Sharon Maria Bidwell

  ISBN 9781634866194

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Flowers for the Gardener

  By Sharon Maria Bidwell

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  This was not the time to have anything dying in the house. To Rich, the wilted flowers in the vase desecrated the table and represented love lost. He caught Rosie’s gaze and gave the arrangement a single nod. To his relief, she received the message and exchanged the glass jar with a jug of orange juice fast as a magician. If his mother saw, she said not a word. Good.

  The spectre of death made the air grow heavy and unpleasant; suffocating, murderous to the appetite. A selfish, unwelcome thought came to mind: if his father had passed before he signed the final accounts, it complicated matters.

  No point worrying; simply another problem for him to add to a long list. In the event it proved necessary, he would call the office as soon as nine o’clock rolled around, but better first to check the pile of paperwork through which he still needed to wade. Due to bereavement and procrastination, the workload grew, but not one folder accompanied him to breakfast by reason of avoiding his mother’s wrath.

  “Your French toast.”

  Rosie’s voice brought Rich back to the more urgent topic of food as she placed a plate in front of him on the table. Ahhh…As much as he adored the woman’s cooking, the aroma of the dark, fresh brew of most-excellent coffee she poured into a cup at his side captured his interest more. A suppressed yawn strained his jaw—he required caffeine. When she set the coffee pot back on its stand, he summoned enough energy to express his gratitude. “Thanks for going to the trouble.”

  “No problem, Rich.”

  He returned Rosie’s smile, caught sight of his mother’s face, and froze in the brittle glaze of an icy stare. What annoyed the matriarch this time? The too-familiar expression she pulled always made him want to be anywhere but near her.

  Enough seconds passed for him to reach for the milk before truth dawned. The ice queen’s dagger-like shards didn’t spear in his direction. The shredding gaze targeted Rosie. His mother’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips spoke of her indecision to speak. Her ensuing complaint shattered his hope for a convivial meal.

  “We use full Christian names in this house, Rosamund.”

  Tired of such shit, Rich opened his mouth to object, but not a single word issued. He sipped his drink while he sought an appropriate remark, but nothing materialised as he put down the cup. The steam from the Java heated his skin to an uncomfortable degree by the time he took a finger from the rim.

  His mother’s remark appeared to stump Rosie. “Y-Yes…Ruby. My apologies, Richard.” The woman’s dark gaze flicked his way, right eye—obscured from his mother’s view by the angle of Rosie’s face—winked. “Will that be everything?”

  “Yes, thank you, Rosie.” Rich displayed an over-the-top show of teeth, ignoring his mother’s sigh.

  “She’s called Rosamund,” his mother admonished when Rosie took her leave. “Don’t encourage her.”

  “Because the staff should understand their place.”

  “Not at all. We let them use our first names. What more do you want?”

  The effort of biting back a retort hurt, but he felt too tired to voice his opinions. What to say? No way to explain why he preferred Rosie’s company, or his wish to eat in the kitchen with her. Otherwise, he preferred the smaller space so often referred to as the breakfast nook. He didn’t eat there because of his mother’s objections. She consumed every meal in the formal dining room and expected an identical level of proper behaviour from everyone under the same roof. Anyone not working for the family, at least—she expected ‘menials’ to maintain a different set of rules.

  To his regret, his mother hadn’t finished. “I’m not for shortening names, as you know. But…Rich. Ugh. What an awful contraction.”

  “Better than Dick. In any case, it’s why you chose the name, isn’t it? Rich-ard. Bloody suitable, considering our status.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “How is Sapphire?” Rich enquired after his sister to underline the point.

  Mother’s jaw tightened. She shook her head. “I will not get into this with you. I will never understand the youth of today. There are people starving. People who would love to own a fraction of our possessions. People who must fend for themselves.”

  “You mean people who don’t retain servants.”

  She stirred her tea, surprising him; he wouldn’t put it past her to call Rosie back to do that, too.

  “Their being hired help does not make them servants.”

  “Political correctness. Rrrruby—” he rolled the R, “—there’s no need to pretend when it’s just you and me.”

  A sharp sniff of rebuke followed. “You may view me as colonial, but everyone is a product of…”

  Her voice became a familiar drone, though an occasional snippet slithered into his eardrum. Best education. Advantages. Given the finest of everything. In an attempt to block the noise, he concentrated on the excellent breakfast prepared by Rosie. Alas, the dish, in part ordered because Mother didn’t approve of egg-soaked bread, lost his interest. The act of defiance now marred the flavour.

  “Why do you wish to punish us for our wealth?”

  A fine question. Difficult to explain. “I’m not referring to the money. It’s the attitude.”

  The air splintered. Rich swore the sound of ice cracking filled the room as he visualised falling into frigid water, a sheet of crystals solidifying, defying attempts to hammer free. Fists—clenched beneath the table against his thighs—stung as he pummelled a freezing blockade. Lungs laboured as though he were drowning.

  “You’re so bloody ungrateful.”

  The sheer depth of her tone caused a weight to form in his chest. Could she be right? Yes and no. Why reside i
n what one of the local agents described as a Grade II hilltop mansion of ambassadorial proportions with commanding views when they gained no pleasure from living here?

  What would his mother say if she knew an estate agent had viewed the place? The man left with strict instructions to contact no one but Rich. Better yet, to await his call, though the telephone conversation might not happen for several months, if at all. Rich wanted to make many changes now he was in charge, but doubted ditching the house was one to which mother would agree. Not yet, anyway. Not that he expected her to agree with any of his proposals.

  He shifted, backside polishing the burgundy velvet material of the gilt chair. The dining suite looked awful, much as the rest of the Gardener mansion. Similar to the people within its walls.

  “I’m finished.” The reference might be to breakfast, this particular discussion, or their relationship. Ruby set down her cup and pushed back her chair. “As you made Rosamund prepare such a God-awful concoction, I insist you consume it. The hens didn’t lay those eggs for them to go in the bin.”

  She stopped by his side. “I realise what you think of me but I never approve of waste though we can afford to throw food.”

  A sudden comical image arose of him and his mother pelting grub at each other over the dinner table. No way could he prevent his lips curling.

  “I’m glad you find me amusing although how you can smile…” She paused, left hand fluttering—a wounded butterfly. “It’s only been…” She broke off again, but Rich didn’t need her to complete the sentence. His mother intended to say, It’s only been a couple of weeks.

  “I’m well aware. I’m sorry Dad died. I hurt, too. Especially as I didn’t make it back in time.” There were things he would never now say to his father. Could be for the best. Maybe not. No way ever to be certain, but the greatest injury remained open: never having the chance to say goodbye. “Doesn’t mean I should, or always can control my emotions. Wonderful and terrible things take us by surprise. Shouldn’t mean we never smile again.”

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare.” The quiet retort disturbed him. Better a shout. This response, the suppressed fury, at least revealed a clearer and more honest sign of her true feelings. His mother had shed nothing more than a single tear at the funeral. One drop dabbed away as though her eye ducts shamed her. “Don’t tell me how long to grieve.”

  “That’s not…I didn’t mean…” The protest slithered away and expired. How could she think he laughed at her grief or disapproved? What he feared was his mother’s inclination to mourn in silence, to wear black for a year, or five, or ten, bottling up her emotions. The nine-bedroom house lacked the lustre of life when his father lived. Now…the weight of the estate condemned those who remained to premature burial. Rich wanted his mother to live. His saying so would only upset her, so he opted for silence.

  * * * *

  Unable to bare the oppressive atmosphere any longer and unsure whether he could stomach the French toast, Rich slipped out into the garden. Breakfast lay hidden, wrapped in several layers of tissue-napkins in a pocket.

  Goodness knew where to throw the damn thing, but the mess was impossible to carry around on account of the risk of grease seeping into his trousers. Out of view of the house, he pulled the moist bundle free, and marched along, transporting his unwanted meal to he knew not where. Rich cut out back, across the patio, and the lawn, and ducked under the trees.

  Shit, but the air soon lost any trace of warmth in the shade. The wind threatened to cut the back of his throat open and leached the heat out of him. Stupid not to fetch an overcoat, but the desperation to ditch the scraps, and to escape the stifling confines of the house, put weather last on his agenda. He should turn back but the time required to seize a jacket would no doubt be enough for the smuggled-out food to stain his clothes.

  Should he first dispose of the evidence, or hurry inside? If he grabbed a coat, he could return to his walk, which he now desired, and take the time to enjoy a stroll. Not once since his return had he walked these paths. The icy breeze helped to calm, if not ease, his mind, or at least blocked any thoughts unrelated to the concern of freezing to death. If he dressed appropriately, a half hour ramble might relieve tension. The one thing he still liked about Oxshott was the views. The five acres of land with the mansion was like owning a piece of countryside.

  No bins on the grounds gave him a single solution: to bury the toast. A spot beneath a hedgerow with soft soil would do. Should be easy.

  So much for that idea. Not fingers or stone created more than a shallow trench and made a mess of his hands. He tucked the bread into the narrow gap he created before shovelling dirt over the leftovers. That presented the problem of having nothing to hand but leaves and sticks to wipe off mud and dig out the sludge under his nails.

  “Most people bury treasure not food.”

  Rich shot up and spun, ready to accuse the speaker of spying. Every sentence he came up with died.

  Ethan.

  The man stood around his own height, manner of dress and stance casual. Where the autumnal morning struck Rich not solely with its charm but with a chill, the newcomer leaned on a rake, shirtsleeves rolled up over bulging biceps, jeans caressing slim hips. Brown eyes gazed out from under a heavy fringe of brunette hair. Ethan’s eyes twinkled, or appeared to; a possible trick of the morning sunlight. He smiled as much with his eyes as with his mouth, lips no less full for expanding into a curve.

  Rich’s tongue dried out. His throat closed. Cock swelled. He blinked, amazed to be in lust in the space of a moment.

  “Smells of Rosie’s cooking, that does. Not sure she appreciates her efforts being wasted.”

  Now Ethan mentioned it, redolent evidence scented the air and caused Rich’s stomach to grumble enough to make him regret not having eaten. Belly and cock argued over which need might be the more urgent.

  The man gestured with a flick of his hand to the small burial site.

  “An animal will dig it up, maybe eat it, and, if not, leave traces strewn over the path for your mother to find.”

  Improbable, but judging by his luck…Rich pictured his mother calling him into the dining room, making him take a seat, and presenting him with the evidence. Condemning him—the sentence one of insisting he stay until he ate it, much the same as she once had with any meal he didn’t like when he was a child. The most troubling thing about the vision was he couldn’t be certain whether the soil or a worm, or mould on the eggy bread would change her mind.

  “I won’t ask why you’re hiding food in the garden,” the other man continued. “But if you need shot of it, I suggest you bring it along to the compost heap. May be best if we get you clean, too.”

  We? Images of bowls, warm water, facecloths…blanket baths, stormed Rich’s mind. He shook off the assault. Unable to speak, he nodded, whirled around, and dug up his breakfast. He fell into step beside the man who pushed a wheelbarrow.

  “Toss it in.” Ethan gestured to the leaves and plant cuttings. Rich threw the toast on top.

  The two men walked in silence along the track, Rich’s heart speeding up with every stride. Hard to believe he still felt any attraction for Ethan, but after the first shock of recognition, his libido had perked right up. To think he experienced an instant attraction for someone he once thought of as his nemesis.

  The extensive estate needed someone to help cultivate the land, but, it’s caretaker, William Fields had taken care of the grounds for as long as he could recall. To Rich, as a young boy, the gardener had the appearance of being as aged and constant as the property he tended. The idea the man had a wife and son shocked Rich long ago—Fields appeared too old. Older than Rich imagined, as he later learned, and nothing about that as shocking as the last time he’d seen Ethan Fields.

  Whatever heat remained in his body trickled into Rich’s face.

  “We’re here.” Ethan’s voice broke the trance. They stopped walking, and Rich angled his head away, fearing what Ethan might notice in his expression. Better to
concentrate on the building.

  The term shed belittled the cabin-like structure which put in his mind a day spent hiking in the woods brought to a close by curling up before a blazing fire. An image of Ethan and a rug rose up, turning Rich colder than the weather managed to do. He daren’t envision such thoughts.

  Thank goodness Ethan headed around the back and tipped the wheelbarrow into the compost heap, burying the nibbled slice of French toast under the fresh pile. The passing seconds gave Rich enough respite to remember how to breathe.

  “There’ll be more on top by the end of the day. Buried deep.” Ethan gave him a nod. Reassurance? To indicate he knew what he was talking about? Rich couldn’t be sure. “I’ll store this and we’ll see about getting you clean.”

  Rich nodded, dumb with confusion. They disliked each other, so why be helpful?

  With what appeared a quizzical glance, Ethan went to one side of the hut, to where they stocked the tools. Nothing had changed. Far larger than an average potting shed, the building consisted of two parts. The smaller side was kitted out for storage, while the gardeners kept their clothes, paperwork, tea and coffee making facilities in the principal area. The unit lacked indoor running water, and a toilet. Otherwise, the cabin might be a home from home. A fresh breeze kicked up, blowing in through the open doorway, causing Rich to shudder not from the chill but recollection. Last time he set foot here, Ethan’s father let him wash because of the sound beating he’d received from Ethan.

  Chapter 2

  So Richard Gardener was back. Ethan almost shook his head but the action might provoke Richard, staring at him, to ask for his thoughts. He should inquire what spun through Richard’s mind, instead. Beat the twit at his own mental games. An attempt to control his twitching lips proved harder than keeping his mouth shut. Did a smirk reach his face? Did it show? The man might expect Ethan to suffer contempt more than any other emotion. To call their past relationship fraught would be an understatement. Odd the memory wiped his face clean of expression faster than icy water from the hose. He stepped outside, filled a watering can, and carried the container back into the shed. He poured water into a basin.