Rose Gardner's Florist (The Providence Street Shops #2) - Bonnie Dee Page 0,18
he could join the beetle, which had disappeared into a crack. He’d made a fool of himself by speaking so openly, veering like a wind vane from nearly mute to revealing far too much about his feelings.
“Mr. Carmody, I must admit to feeling flattered by your words, although I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve them. I’m merely a common girl from Spitalfields with nothing special to recommend me. I am not on a par with you in any way.” Rose added gently, “I would like to be your friend, but I believe it is best we maintain a professional distance while working on your conservatory project.”
“Yes, of course.” Will quickly backpedaled, humiliated that she now knew his romantic intent. “Your friendship would be sufficient. I would never expect more than that.”
He inhaled slowly, burying his disappointment. If he did not quickly change the tone of the conversation, an excruciating evening lay before them. “Tell me more about this night-blooming jasmine. I am intrigued.”
Rose plunged into the subject with apparent relief. “Outdoors, they may grow as high as eight feet with a circumference of three feet, but potting and pruning will keep them from taking up too much space. Still, I know you are more interested in the citrus trees, so they must be our first priority with all other plantings serving to complement them.”
Before Will could ask further questions, Reardon arrived to announce supper. Will offered to escort Rose to the table, trying not to thrill at the touch of her hand on his arm.
In the library annex, Guy and Hattie joined their walk toward the dining room from which delicious scents wafted.
“You must show Rose your books after the meal,” Hattie said. “What a widely varied collection.”
“What subjects are of special interest to you, Mr. Carmody?” Rose enquired.
“I am particularly partial to books about the lives of daring explorers or forward-thinking scientists such as Galileo. Also any sort of history. One feels a greater connection to all that went before.”
“History certainly makes one aware of the brevity of life,” Guy chimed in as he held Hattie’s chair. “One must seize the day whenever possible. No point in postponing important matters.” He patted Hattie’s shoulders before taking his seat.
The suggestion beneath his words was obvious. Will knew Hardy eagerly awaited a matrimonial date, which his betrothed seemed reluctant to set.
Rose must know it too, because she diverted the conversation. “What lovely table settings. Your home is so—” Antiquated, ancient, Will thought. “—impressive. I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time.”
Rose seemed enchanted rather than dismayed by the venerable décor. “This chandelier is breathtaking.” She gazed at the fixture draped with crystal pendants suspended above the table.
The pale column of her throat made Will’s breath catch.
“One of my forebears brought it from France during the Seven Years’ War. Of course it was never wired for gas lights, let alone electric, so it is never used.”
“I can imagine the glory of it with all the candles lit.”
When she dropped her gaze to his, Will wished he’d bothered to have the chandelier polished to a shine and fresh candles lit. If the glow would please her, it would be worth the effort.
As one course after another was served, Rose complimented each dish and savored them with such relish it reminded Will he ought to express his appreciation to Mrs. Wilder. He took her culinary skill for granted, when not many housekeepers could wear a cook’s hat as well.
He considered Rose’s impoverished childhood and wondered what meals she would have eaten—or done without. Her life had been so different from his privileged existence. In all his years of living in London, he had never ventured to Spitalfields. Perhaps a visit to view firsthand how the other half lived was overdue.
“Mr. Carmody, I understand you tutor university students,” Rose said. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes, I do. I had thought at one time I might become a professor, but realized I would not feel comfortable facing a room full of students. Private lessons are easier.”
“And better for those who are struggling. I understand lecture halls are often full to capacity and the pace is fast. I know I would need more time to absorb a new concept.”
Will longed to know how Rose had gained the education she possessed, for working class girls scarcely attended school. Aside from occasional lapses, Rose’s grammar and accent were impeccable—perhaps Hattie’s influence. But he could not ask such a personal question.