Rose woke with the sun and dressed, leaving the quiet attic space before wandering the upper halls of the manor. Grand upper rooms opened onto wide halls with wood wainscoting, quaint tables featuring Ming vases and artwork she was sure were at least 150 years older than her, and in some places even older.

She peered down the tall, stately windows in each wing, taking in the foggy grounds, the lake in the distance, and the greenhouses next to it. She’d be there later today.

There was a quick step and the trot of dog feet. Rose looked up to find a tall man, his face in the papers he held, moving with impatience with each step. It was as if the things he was reading were offending him.

He passed her, his brown hunting dog trotting after him.

“You’re late!” he shouted.

Rose searched for a wall clock. Had hours really passed? Hustling, she made her way down the grand staircase to the lower floors, where personnel were cleaning up the breakfast room.

Rose, feeling the essence of time put a firm hand of pressure on her, raced to the all-staff meeting in the second-floor library. Then, after filling out employee forms, she checked for another wall clock and, not finding a single working clock in the building, made a mental note to purchase a watch as she raced to the greenhouses.

At the greenhouses, she found her mentor and direct manager, Dr. Osmund Felix, or Felix as he preferred. She stood at the back of the team. In front of him, flanking him were the two other full-time staff members, and facing him were the team of six they had for the next three months. Most were there to work the land into shape. Rose was the only one tasked with cataloging. It was by far the largest job. Doctor Felix had dark brown skin and thick, wind-blown white hair.

The team was given an overview of the estate and then promptly set to work, save for Rose.

As the greenhouse emptied, Felix reached for her hand, “Rose, yes? We met at your interview.”

She shook his hand. “Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you again and to be here. Thank you for hiring me.”

He had a brilliant smile that radiated endless joy, “How are you settling in?”

He wore a canvas vest with pockets on every square inch, a pencil in his left breast pocket, and a small notepad in the other. Heavy-duty work pants and rubber boots called wellies, that looked as if they’d been swept clean each time he walked into the greenhouses.

“It’s been a whirlwind morning; I’d love to get right to work. It sounds like I’ll have a large task to accomplish.”

“Yes! You do, however,” his warm eyes gave her a conspiratorial smile, “Because of the enormity of your task and our discussions during your interview, I’d like to take you on a tour of the grounds, and you can compare us to Castle Laoch.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I’m curious to hear your opinion.”

An hour later, in the estate SUV that was something of a military vehicle mixed with an urban SUV, they sat on the outer road looking down at the estate in the distance. The entire property was visible from their vantage point.

Rare, clear, cornflower-blue skies opened above them as light clouds moved out and into the distance over the blue line of water that sat on the far horizon. “Magnificent,” Rose breathed.

Felix was pleased, “I’ve been head gardener here for over forty years. Thank you, your thoughts mirror my own.”

He lowered the tailgate, set up a kerosene stove, and filled a kettle with water from a jug for tea.

The view, to the untrained eye, looked like gold-and-green wild pastures dotted with trees and stands of oak. But Rose saw the minutiae.

“The trees near the manor’s eastern flank. Are there fruiting trees in there?”

“Oh, yes.” Felix pointed, “That stretch used to have a full orchard. Two hundred years or so ago, in the glory days of the estate, there were rows of apples, pears, cherries, and fruiting shrubs. This estate was rich in spices, gold, and food. These forests were filled with boar, pheasants and deer. The lakes: trout, carp, and sturgeon. The lord at the time permitted his people to hunt with special permission, unheard of back then when poachers were hanged.”

Rose imagined a magnanimous lord, loved by his subjects, a virile wife, and ten kids, with a herd of dogs that reveled in the land's abundance and wealth.

“Much of it was squandered away by the time our current lords were in short pants. The eldest, though,” he said and looked out to the far field where it seemed to have been mowed short like a sports field, “Ethan will see us through. He’s a good lad, a touch of a hothead, but it served him well on the pitch.”

Rose was curious. “He must be very proud of his heritage,” she said, and was surprised to see the sadness in Felix’s gaze before he shuttered it behind his usual kind expression.

“Oh, I don’t know if proud is the right word. We won’t talk about things that are none of my business, but I will tell you that if there is a lad out there on that patch of grass,” he said, the awe in his voice, “defying the laws of physics with a football, that will be Ethan. Most lads and lasses come out to putter around and blow off steam, but you’ll know it when it’s him. He makes ye want to stop and stare.”

“You sound proud of him. Are you two close?”

“He was my former lord’s son. Now he’s my lord and a good man.” Rose thought it sounded like a traditional way of things, to be benevolent to the one who inherited. But there was something more. It was as if the lord was someone he was proud of, indeed, like a son.

At the back of the rig, Felix opened a wooden crate that had ‘finest whisky’ charred into the pine and retrieved two ceramic mugs and a well-loved and lightly chipped kettle. Out of a stoppered crockery jar, he scooped black tea and spices of star anise, cracked green cardamom pods, and little black BBs of peppercorns and put them into the teapot. As the hot water performed its alchemy, the spices perfumed the air, warming Rose with its aroma. 

Leaving it to steep, Felix pulled out another, smaller wooden box and from it removed a ceramic dish of sugar cubes and a corked glass bottle of cream.

She stood with Felix in companionable silence, taking in the full breadth of the estate.

“Does this area get much grazing?”

“Goodness, no.” He took out a packet of cookies that Rose had come to hear called biscuits. Felix elaborated, “There is an inordinate amount of Crusader’s grass in the fields; the late lord had declared sometime, oh about fifty years ago, these fields be sheep-free.”

“Mm?” Rose wasn’t sure of the name Crusader’s grass. Or what would possess a man who likely relied on sheep’s wool for income to stop sheep production. “Was he an environmentally minded man? Did he want to return the pastures to their natural habitats?”

“He declared it as if concerned for sheep - Crusader’s grass is difficult to digest for the sheep - but it’s my understanding that the late gentleman had once stepped in a dung pile and promptly declared Blackhart Estate sheep-free.”

“Oh.” Rose thought that said a lot about the late Lord’s character.

Felix changed the subject and held up a cup. “Milky tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

With her mug in her hands. She blew across the surface and played the game that she so often did: name that species. Below, she could see fruit trees, oaks and pines in the distance, then moved to the larger towering shrubs until she was naming species in the pasture before her.

Cup in one hand Rose waded into the pasture and squatted, she rubbed the stems between her fingers.

“This is, sedge.”

“It ‘tis. It is falsely named Crusader’s grass.”

“Ah, so that’s the plant.” A memory tickled forward, “Crusader’s grass, it got its name from where it originated, correct? Originally native to Persia? Supposedly famous for following the Crusaders home.”

Felix smiled, “Yes, that’s only half of the story, but let us finish up here and head back down. I want to show you the kitchen gardens before we lose the light, and I’ll tell you the rest.”

They finished their cups while discussing what was to be appraised for the sale. The land size had already been confirmed several years back when a large lot was exchanged with the neighbor several hectares away, a Lord Nutall. So Rose would be appraising the gardens and logging in the custom-bred roses for an enterprising future buyer.

With tea done and tucked away, Felix and Rose drove back down. The tall pasture grass brushed the undercarriage of the SUV.

“The sedge in the pastures, or Crusader’s grass, has an old legend tied to it. It tells the story of one of the first sons of Blackhart, who set out on the Crusades with King Richard. Legend has it he returned with his men, bloody and laden with gold from plundering across the continent. Once he arrived, he promptly died when his boots touched Blackhart soil.”

“Oh, disease?”

“Bad luck.”

“Just bad luck?” she asked as the vehicle dipped in and out of potholes.

“The first Blackhart is rumored to be in the foundation of Blackhart Manor. Not every generation was touched by the curse. It’s said that the Crusader’s grass holds the curse within its roots, and when it reveals its secrets, those who witness it will have a year of good luck. It is up to those witnesses to use the good luck to make amends, and the year can be prolonged for a generation.”

“Reveals its secrets...” Rose repeated, thinking that was overly vague.

“As head gardener, it has been one of those legends I’ve heard for years, but in all my time here, the crusader's grass has told me nothing save for when sheep graze on it, they get an upset stomach.”

Down off the hill and back at the manor. At the now-shaded eastern flank the wide wood kitchen door stood open, letting in the light and fresh air. The kitchen gardens were six rows deep, with rich black soil, planted with fluffy, leafy greens of kale and the end-of-season lettuces, reds of chard, and the last of the harvest of every tomato she knew. Woven wicker edging had been installed to keep the most unruly of the vegetables and herbs back and within its borders, save for an errant cucumber vine that spilled over and into another bed. On the far side, a plump, russet-colored gourd sat heavy in the middle of the brick walkway.

“While these gardens here - both the vegetable beds on this side of the willow fence and the walled-in herb garden on the other side - are part of the estate, they do not need to be cataloged other than their size, which I have done. Come, let me introduce you to the kitchen staff.”

Rose stepped into the bustling kitchen, which had been renovated sometime in the late 1800s. The walls were white stucco, making the dark beams high above stand out like railroad tracks in the snow.

The main work table was being stacked with lunch items as Felix came through with a “Hello!”

Under his breath, he pointed out a stout woman with a blunt cut blonde bob, “That’s Mary, the head chef. Thanks to her, we will never go hungry.”

Through the kitchen and down a dark hallway, Felix pointed to the pictures on the wall. Most were sepia with age and had been taken over the last fifty years.

“This is the heart of the home.” He pointed again, this time at a more recent set of photos, “This is Ethan and Cassius as young lads home from school.” The blond boys, one tall and one thin, both in kilts, held smiles, but the dark circles beneath their eyes spoke of sleepless nights. She touched the glass as a strange urge to hold those little boys’ hands mixed inside her; she recognized then that bit of darkness Felix had mentioned before. Life hadn’t always been a botanist’s dream there at Blackhart Manor. Felix continued. “And here’s Mary winning an award for her baking. And then Ethan again when he won his championship—oh.” Felix stood, looking at the spot on the wall where the Lord was supposed to be. The square where the frame had once sat was white, and the surrounding area was off-white. He shook off the mystery. “Well… Never mind. Let us move on back through the grounds to the greenhouses.”

At the end of the hall, he grasped the handle of the old oak door there and shouldered it open with a metal-on-metal screech. Rose passed by one last room. Inside a fire within the fireplace crackled and a man was seated behind a wall of monitors. It was a clash of modern technology amongst the ancient stones. She thought she heard epithet after epithet coming from within.

“Who is that man?” Rose asked as they stepped out into the fading afternoon, “I think I saw him with his dog the other day.”

“Yes, well, the accounts have him in a rather foul mood. He’s not to be disturbed.”

“Ah, got it.” Rose thought the finances for such an ancient, beautiful wreck would make anyone cross.

They took the rear service road, Felix pointing to boundaries, old planting projects, and areas that were top priorities. “Tomorrow, I’ll have you start with the easiest of projects, the eastern orchard between the kitchen and the new pitch.”

“Pitch?”

“Soccer field.”

As they passed a pile of slate roofing tiles and scaffolding, the lake in the distance came into view. The south side was mostly pastures, with walking trails zig-zagging through the gentle slopes before ambling down to the lake shore.

“Those slate roofing tiles back there,” Rose pointed, “Do you think the roof will be sound this winter?”

He made a Scottish sound from the back of his throat that sounded like och. “They’re coming down now faster than we can put them back up. But not to worry, Lord Blackhart will see to it.”

From everything she witnessed, she hoped the new Lord Blackhart had a stronger constitution than his predecessor. He’d need it for the enormity of the project he’d inherited.

The morning had dawned clear and bright, another warm day was in the making. The morning fog was being sucked back up into the forest, and with his cell to his ear, Ethan absently listened to the messages left for him about the bids for work he’d requested. Hair still wet from his rushed shower after his morning run, he caught up on his missed calls. The bids were in numbers so astronomical that they made him want to break something. He stood at the window in the dank apothecary room, looking through the orchard to the pitch. Once the dew dried, it would be prime for training.

Jasper, his German shorthaired pointer that Cassius had bought but never bonded to was the vision of a good boy curled up by the fire. His slumber was only for show; he was resting so that he could follow Ethan the rest of the afternoon. Ethan hated the thought of the animal cooped up in the manor all day and began taking him on runs with him. 

Movement in the orchard caught his eye. Was it that buck from the hills? He half-listened to another bid figure of £ 1.2 million. After hearing that gut-punching cost, he focused on the movement in the shadows.

The buck, no, a woman stepped out then. A black notebook thing was cradled in one arm as she moved through the grass to the next tree. Her head was bent to her task. Her hair the color of midnight and crows was braided and hung down her back. She had things in the braid, colorful, tiny things that looked to be flowers. He couldn’t be sure at his distance. And balancing on her lips was a long blade of grass. She looked up, and bits of pink and white flowers fell out of her hair before she stepped behind the next tree.

She seemed chaotic. Ethan waited. What was she logging? Was that one of Felix’s crew? Why did she have things in her hair? Did she know she had things in her hair?

He watched her observe the tree tops before making notations.

As she waited for her device, her fingers absently plucked another flower, tucked it in her plait, and with a flick, her braid was once again at her back. In only a few steps, the flower tumbled out. The urge to go to the orchard and return it to her overwhelmed him. Did she know it was gone? Did she care? Why did she seem so…content?

He crashed back to earth as the voice from his next message on his phone told him the bid from the plumber would be seven thousand pounds. Relief flooded through Ethan, and he went to his desk, putting the woman of the trees to the back of his mind, and grabbed a pencil. He was scribbling a note and waited for the voice to say what number to ring them at. Only they clarified the seven thousand was for just replacing two lavatory toilets and the respective piping that were currently out of service. To replace all plumbing and take the manor up to code it was going to cost him seven figures.

Ethan cursed and tossed the phone down. He didn’t want to hear anymore. He put his palms to his face and scrubbed. Back at the window, he searched. Was she still there?

The orchard was empty at first glance, but then once more, like a doe in the forest, she stepped out from behind a tree, this time at the far side of the orchard where the shadows were deeper. He watched her tap things on the device in her hand and wait. Her hand petted the tall grass that had sent up seed stalks. She pulled and, absently, lifted her hand into the breeze, sprinkling seeds out. He’d never done that before; children did that, didn’t they? Ethan looked down at his hand. What would that feel like, all those slippery seeds falling from his fingertips?

He looked back up, and she was gone again, hidden behind a wide old tree as his phone rang. He picked up his cell and, instead of crushing it like he wanted to, he, with a soul-rending sigh, returned to his brutal reality.

Rose moved to yet another fruiting tree and remarked on how long cherries would stay on the tree there in Scotland. The tablet had informed her that, unlike their American counterpart, Scottish cherries were the latest producing variety in the northern hemisphere. The pears and apples still clung to their branches but were mostly food for the birds now. The rest had fallen and made a sickly-sweet pulp under her boots. Rose knew that in the orchard’s prime, the trees would have been manicured for optimal growth and fruit production, but as Rose stepped through the aged lichen-covered trees, it was apparent that it hadn’t happened for at least half a century. Checking the lichen-covered tree’s bark and then leaves before deciding on its species, she saw two plump red drupes the birds missed. She smiled and set her things down and found a foothold as thrushes called and sang. Up onto a low branch, Rose plucked the cherries and gave a tentative bite. Bitter cherries were also in fashion for pies and their winter-hardy attributes a hundred years ago. Those tasted like she imagined a thousand lemon rinds would.

But the one in her hand had a blinding fresh, sweet cherry tang, and its juices spilled out over her lip. Rose closed her eyes and sucked up the sweet syrupy juice before popping the entire fruit into her mouth. She checked the other for bug holes and did the same.

“Ugh, you gorgeous, succulent fruit,” she murmured. 

Rose, seated in the crotch of the tree, recorded the data before scouring the tree for more cherries found a group higher up reachable by an easy climb. She lifted her shirt hem, making a little hammock for the fruit, and began to fill it. There was enough, she thought, up in the tree’s canopy that she should return the next day with a basket.

By the time she finished for the day, Rose had only cataloged a third of the orchard’s trees and set out to the kitchen with purple-stained fingers and a shirt full of cherries.

Through the eastern kitchen gardens, the smell of fat and simmering onions greeted her before she stepped through the doors. Head chef, Mary, and her two sous chefs.

“’Allo there, newcomer. What have you got for us?”

The massive rectangular room had buzzing energy about it as the sous chefs chopped and folded fillings into little dumplings.

Diffuse light from the high afternoon sun reflected through the north-facing windows, reflecting off the hanging copper pots. The massive double oak doors stood open to the garden, letting cool air into the hot kitchen.

Rose saddled up to the only open space at the prep table closest to her and set her cherries down.

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt—” Rose caught an escaping cherry and added it back to the pile. “Look what I found in the orchard today.”  Rose wouldn’t have attempted to bother any other busy individual with fruit, but it had been her experience that chefs were innately curious about good fresh produce. And if the state of the orchard was any hint, Mary hadn’t seen these cherries…ever.

“Hi hon,” Mary had yet to look up, “Can it wait until—oh!” Mary’s eyes were glued to the pile, “Where’d ye find them?!” She turned the stove to low and came to inspect. She picked one up, pressed it, smelled it, then popped it into her mouth. Around the juicy bite she smiled, “Oh aye, fresher than I’ve had in years. Is this from the old orchard, then?”

“They are.”

Mary picked up two more, “Heads up!” and tossed them to the sous chefs.

The room was suddenly silent as cherries were being eaten, analyzed, then resoundingly declared: “Delicious!”

To Rose, “Any more of these beauties?”

“There are; I just need a basket.”

Mary went to the wall where market baskets were hung, and took down the largest one.

“Are cherries any good to cook with?” Rose asked hiding her smile.

The other ladies chortled, “Any good?! Lovey, leave ‘em here and come back tomorrow and you be the judge.”

Rose gave the room a keen smile, “Excellent. My plan is working.”

Mary handed her the basket, “If you bring produce as beautiful as this to our door, I’ll add a table right next to the laird’s. Yer a prize. Remind me of your name, love?”

 “Rose.”

Mary took in Rose and she wasn’t sure but felt as if Mary was sizing her up for something more than just her abilities to bring in more cherries.

“Ye have a way about ye, Rose. A bright light—thank ye for delighting us. Come back tomorrow and I’ll pay ye back in kind, all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ethan put the last figure into the spreadsheet and checked the sum total at the bottom, and groaned. He pushed back from his desk and felt the hollow pit of his stomach call for food and his backside call for movement. With the oppressive task of figuring out which item was more important: a roof, a set of working loos, or a solid foundation, he went down the hall into the kitchen, where Mary, Rae, and Caroline were laughing.

“Oh aye, there he is. ‘Allo there.” Mary said, “Got a rumbly-tumbles in your belly?”

He grinned at Mary. She had two boys of her own, and even though they were teens, every man younger than her was her son. She’d been the one thing Edmond had done right. Hired a professional chef and let her be. Something he was going to do for as long as he could.

“I do, Mary, I do,” and spotted a crimson pile of fruit spilling over the long table and made his way to it.

Mary’s back was to him, stirring onions on the stove, “Aye, well, we’ve plenty cold cuts left over from lunch, or if you’re in the mind to, I can have a hot lunch made?”

He reached for a handful of cherries and Mary swiveled around tut-tutting, “Och, no ye don’t. Hands off, ye wee bairn,” and swatted the air with her spoon.

Ethan dodged her with a cluster of fruit in his hand. He shoved them into his mouth and plucked the stems. Calling him a wee bairn was something she never grew out of doing, even when he hit north of six feet and could feel his shoulders brush the frame of the narrow doorways in the manor.

She put her hands on her hips in her white chef’s linens and gave him a mother’s scolding glare.

Sweet and heady juices exploded in his mouth, “Holy hell,” he said, and leaned over his other hand, spitting out the pits before going to the sink with them.

“Gorgeous, are they not?”

“Mmm,” was all Ethan could manage as he eyed the rest. They were good, and he was hungry. “Not bad,” he said and eyed another handful.

Mary pointed her finger at him, “No, don’t you dare; Ms. Rose just came and dropped these off, and I’ve promised her baked treats with them tomorrow. If ye can wait just a half a second, I can make ye something.”

Rose? He didn’t know that name, but there were nearly a hundred new names at Blackhart Manor now.

Mischief played in Mary’s eyes. “I see you don’t know her, do you? You should if you want more of these for your greedy belly. She’s out collecting data for Felix in the orchard. Took my biggest basket with her today. I expect we’ll see more tomorrow, but they’re all promised. You’ll have to put in your own order. Go on now, I’m sure you’ll find her in the greenhouses,” she said and grinned.

Ethan put two and two together. The woman with flowers in her hair was named Rose. With the sweetness of the cherries still on his tongue, he said, “Rose.” Then, “You said she was just here?”

“Aye, just dropped these off not a minute before you arrived.”

Ethan stepped out the side door and into the kitchen gardens, his head on a swivel, looking through the tall bean vines, then out around the walls and to the path leading up to the orchard. He followed it and got to the corner and saw nothing, save for the odd bird or two flying lazily high up in the sun-warmed sky. He followed the footpath up to the manor’s edge and then saw her tuck around the opposite corner, a tiny bouquet of flowers in her hand.

He took one step and checked himself; what was he about to do? Run after her? Then say what? Hello, I’ve been watching you from my window all day. Why are there flowers in your hair? Why do you seem content? Gimme fruit.

Or worse, she’d recognize him.

He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands to clear his thoughts. He’d only be here for another handful of months, then he could move on.

He walked the short path back to the kitchen for a meal, then he would go back to his office, where he could resume his corporal punishment for having been born first. Or if he was lucky, a crow could murder him with a slate tile before he got there.

The library was stuffy the following morning; the newly hired personnel were there in every available high-back and cushioned chair. The only windows with the ability to open were up two stories and required a sliding ladder to get to them. Rose begged a breeze to come in as she sat shoulder to shoulder with Della on the edge of a study table at the back. Sweaters and jackets were being pulled off as the smell of old paper, ink and humanity got heavier.

A blond, tall man strode in and to the front of the room. He looked natural there in front of a crowd. He smiled, and Della breathed out a low whistle. “Hello, Cassius Blackhart.”

Rose had forgotten, in all the deluge of plants she’d been in, what the name of the Lord was. “Oh, is that the Lord Blackhart? He seems like the fancy man I was expecting.”

“Him? Och, no. That’s his little brother, and” Della whistled low, “he’s something out of a Greek tragedy,” she said, holding her thumb up and closing one eye. Aye, Apollo, come to stand before us all. Better than any pic I’ve seen of him.”

Rose looked between her and the dapper man who was now smiling at a woman in the front row before scouring the room. He seemed like an actor upon his stage.

“I mean right?” Della asked.

“I, I suppose so? He’s very blond and symmetrical.”

“Symmetrical…” she tried out, “Yeah…” then turned her thumb sideways.

The man spoke up, “Listen up, my name is Cassius Blackhart, and this is my home. My brother, who couldn’t be here today, and I own this place, we live here, eat here, and fuck here — kidding, we’re celibate —”

Della snorted at the joke.

“So please treat this home with care, that means when you shite in the toilet and back it up, because the plumbing is over a century old, don’t just walk away. Find Marty, specifically—Marty, please stand,” he said and gestured at the man in a dark blue jumpsuit who waved morosely at the crowd, “And he will fix it. Or he will find someone to fix it. Regarding the exterior siding, the south face is being replaced. Don’t walk under the scaffolding, and don’t climb it unless you’re working on it or have a death wish.”

His list of items went on; Rose noticed Della had pulled her postcard-sized sketch pad from her bag and, with a graphite pencil, was swiping his likeness onto the textured card stock. He was just about six feet tall and had the physique of a man who ate while moving, if he ate at all. Dark brown eyes, like those of agates and hemlock bark, that matched the tweed jacket he wore, looked out from above hollow cheeks. A tweed jacket that on any other man would seem like a shtick, but on him, he made it seem as though it was fashion week and tweed was on the menu. With his model-like body, it fit his shoulders on par, and when he pushed the sides back to shove his hands into his pockets, it showed a flat abdomen and fitted pants that screamed tailor-made.

Rose looked back to Della’s sketch as Cassius continued the meeting. She’d captured his likeness with startling accuracy, but within the depths of his eyes, she’d been heavy with the side of the pencil. It made him seem burdened and hungry for sleep. Like the boy in the photograph she saw the day before, and not the jovial creature that was playing to the crowd like a succubus feeding.

“Now,” Cassius continued, “Each week, you will need to get me your time sheets to get paid; if not, you won’t. If you have a problem with this, see your group manager; if not, find my brother, Ethan, and he’ll gladly help you, as in put his foot to your ass. If you’ve not met him, just do a web search for egotistical footballer and you’ll find him.” He grinned at the crowd, visibly enjoying the reaction it elicited.

The young men next to Rose snickered and murmured amongst themselves. She heard a generalized hush chanting something that sounded like Ethan Blackhart, rip your heart out, fuck your guard up, get the lead out!  

Della leaned over, “Rumor has it he’s not even here. Instead, he’s off living on Crete, making his brother do all the dirty work. Rich as sin.”

Rose nodded. Professional athletes, she could only imagine, must all be very rich, if what she saw online was any indication of their careers.

Cassius dismissed them and, like a tug through water, made his way through the crowd. He caught Rose’s eye and held his finger up, indicating he wanted a word with her. He was smiling and sloughing off people with questions like water off his prow.

Della smiled at some thought and stashed her work, “He saw those across the room,” she said nodding at Rose’s décolletage.

“Awe, hell,” Rose said, understanding their allure. While she loved their curvature, she didn’t like their instant admirers. She shouldered her satchel and cursed the v-neck of her white undershirt. Despite her best efforts, her flannel couldn’t do the work of fitting comfortably at her shoulders and cover her chest.

“Stall for me,” she said to Della and searched for a delicate way to exit. He could email her if he had an honest question.

The main doors were crowded with people mingling and discussing the direction their projects were taking, and then she eyed the rear doors.

“Stall? It’ll be my pleasure.”

Rose squeezed by Della as his voice brushed past her neck, “Pardon me,” came like extra-rich vanilla cream and was purposefully sensual. Rose winced and stopped. She looked up in askance to the hammered tin ceiling before turning around with a polite smile.

“Yes?”

At a distance, Cassius was a good-looking man. Up close, he lost some of his mystique. Rose couldn’t tell why, but there was something about his countenance that felt needy.

“I didn’t catch your name?” he said and held out his hand.

Rose shook his, “Rose Rosario, botanist team.”

His hand lingered softly on hers before bringing it to his mouth and gently kissed her knuckles.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Rose. How has your time here been so far? Is there anything I can do to make your stay any more pleasurable?”

Rose absently wiped his kiss off on her jeans and said kindly, “No, thank you.” Before he could continue, she said, “I’m ever so grateful for the opportunity to work here. I just love my work so much that I must be off to do it immediately. Not a second to lose. Thank you and goodbye.”

Della stuck her hand out, effectively putting herself between Cassius and Rose.

 “Hi, I’m Della her roommate, I may not have her rack but I have a few suggestions on how you can make my stay more pleasurable.” Then, “For example, do ye want to get naked with me sometime and discuss the atrocities of the Byzantine Empire?”

Rose was well into the crowd and couldn’t hear his answer, but she smiled anyway as she made her way toward the greenhouses. Della was gold.

Rose entered the greenhouses through a light morning drizzle still smiling from Della’s dark come-on to Head of Household Affairs Cassius Blackhart. As the humid warmth of the greenhouse enveloped her, Rose heard Felix at the front in the glass domed conservatory. She made her way toward him, the gravel crunching beneath her brown leather work boots. Watery sunlight and the heavy scent of recent fertilizer application and crushed foliage weighed the air as she ducked beneath broad green fronds.

Felix was in the conservatory sitting area. A bearded, broad-shouldered man with a top knot that reminded her of the grumpy man who told her she was late the first day. The same dog was at his feet. He sat at the rickety, ornate iron table across from a smiling Felix, who had his usual gear on and, this time, a pencil tucked behind his ear. The sun's rays, which peeked through the drizzle, were absorbed by the tall plants and emerald-green vines crawling up beneath the glass dome, giving the room spots of crystalline light on the pebbled gravel.

She settled her things down on the far bench between two large feathery lady ferns, which reached up over her head, and gave Felix a brief smile.

“Hello,” she said as Felix and his guest paused their conversation. The man bowed his head finding his clasped hands in his lap interesting. “I’ll get to the far greenhouse this morning and log the plants there while it’s still cool. Then, when it dries up, I’ll finish the orchard this afternoon. Fingers crossed.”

“Sure, yes of course. Rose…” Felix said as he pushed out of his seat and held his hand up toward his guest, “let me introduce you to—”

“That’s OK, old man. I’m leaving.” The man pushed back, making Rose realize he was easily over six feet, and as he reached to shake her hand, his reach was just as long. “Nice to meet you.”

Rose closed the distance and clasped his. His was firm and gripped her hand tight. She gave him an equal squeeze back, but before she could say ‘nice to meet you,’ he’d let her go and ducked his head again, pushing in his chair as if it were a fine Chippendale set and he in a grand dining room, “Felix,” he said.

Despite his brevity, though, Rose had made eye contact. She firmly believed you could see the intent in all animals if you just caught a glimpse of them looking back. Even though their contact had been for the shiest second, something had stirred in their depths. Something that made her want to turn him back around to see what exactly it was. His gaze was a curious blend of color. Ocean blue around the outside of the irises and brown as tidal rocks near his pupils. His nose had been broken more than once, giving it a craggy edge like that of a rock outcropping. Reddish black lashes and brows darkened his appearance, and his high cheekbones were covered by a thick beard that reminded her of bears.

His black t-shirt seemed to be from a time before his muscles had arrived. It fit his bones but pulled tight across his biceps and chest before relaxing into a graceful fall to the button of his faded blue jeans.

Felix just sighed as the man’s dog followed behind him as he left through a glass conservatory door. A door Rose hadn’t realized existed until that moment.

Through the hazy, rippled glass of the conservatory, the man who seemed to be unruly in appearance moved with athletic fluidity. She hadn’t meant to stare at his rear as he left, but the way his jeans fit, Rose thought it was her scientific duty to mentally record this specimen. His stride was smooth and purposeful, like a puma moving through the foliage, light-footed and agile. The capital ‘t’ of his shoulders to the balls of his feet spoke of power and dark caves where light didn’t penetrate.

And Rose wondered what lived in that cave of darkness?

Felix pulled her attention back. “I’m sorry, Rose, he tends to be more polite…”

“That’s okay,” she said and gave the older man a smile, shaking off the feeling that she had met that dark creature in a lifetime before. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your time with your friend. I assume he’s the accountant in the apothecary room?”

“Yes. Well, yes,” he ended lamely as if he wanted to explain but just gave up, “Now, let’s have a look at the plan for today, shall we?”

With a smile, she let the grumpy accountant with ocean rock gaze and a broken nose fade to the background.

The talk with Felix had been decent. It answered some questions but opened a whole lot more of them. Specifically, right at the end, when he shook the hand of the woman he’d been watching in the orchard. Felix had been idly weaving her into every aspect of the greenhouse he was reporting on to Ethan. ‘The new botanist has been very helpful with the identification of exterior plantings.’ ‘She is a veritable walking botanical encyclopedia.’ ‘We’ll stay ahead of schedule, I’m sure. Our new botanist is swiftly getting acclimated, and her understanding of the manor and associated species is quite comprehensive.’

He hadn’t asked her any of the questions he’d had while watching her from his window. In fact, he shook her hand, and his mind had gone blank when their skin had touched. She had reminded him of someone or a memory of another time. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black. What made them so dark? And they had taken his measurement. He’d been analyzed before; years of being on the pitch made him immune to scrutiny, but this was different; she hadn’t so much as taken his assessment, but rather crawled into his mind, and had a look around.

He coughed. Why was his chest tightening?

The ghost of her grip was still there in his hand and for the first time in a long time, he felt a gust of fresh air into the stale attic of his mind. He’d bet the manor she had no fucking clue who he was. Either his beard was finally thick enough, or she was the one human on earth whom he could be plain-faced, and she’d not know or care who he was.

Goddamn it, he thought, of all the times to meet someone he might actually like to get to know. The house would sell soon, and he could get away from it all.

“Huh.” For the first time, the thought of leaving didn’t fill him with immediate relief.

Steam rose from the damp grassy lawns and pastures, and water droplets winked like Swarovski crystals on flower petals, signaling to Rose that it was time to head back out into the orchard.

With a large basket and her chunky black tablet, Rose set to work recording the last of the fruit species and plucking the best of the residual fruit for the kitchen. She took a break once the basket was full. Tucking the tablet into the rear of her jeans, she carried the heavy basket down the low hill to the kitchen.

The kitchen gardens sparkled, too, with the morning rain. Clear fat droplets of water puddled in the apex of the zucchini leaves and off the tips of the cucumber vines. She pushed into a bustling kitchen.

Along the central wooden prep tables, stacks of food trays were being ushered out the interior door and up into the dining room to feed the hungry employees who gathered there.

Mary was wiping her hands on a white towel at her waist, a smile on her face as she approached, “Look at that! My goodness, I’ll have you put them next to the sink for me.”

Rae and Caroline put the last of the fried pasties on top of the serving trays and rushed them out.

“You’ll have to move, my lord,” Mary said, pointing to the corner sink. Rose’s attention followed. The man with the top knot and beard shoved an entire tartlet into his mouth.

He dusted his hands and moved to the side, his gaze keen on her, unlike the greenhouse earlier.

Mary spoke, “It’s a good thing you’re here, this one was taking advantage of the lunch rush to abscond with the cherry tartlets we made for ye.”

He gave Mary a kind smile. The smile lightly split his bearded face, softening his countenance and making his features kind, if also a touch mischievous. The sight of the towering accountant’s joy made Rose’s insides feel like they were rolling down a mountain.

He pushed off the sink and offered Rose a hand. “Let me help.” His Scots was like a low rumble of distant thunder. He took the heavy baskets from her and placed them next to the sink.

“Thanks,” she said to his broad back. Then she asked Mary, “These are the tartlets from the cherries I brought in?”

The accountant already had another in hand. Mary tut-tutted and smacked the back of his hand, plopping the tart back down onto the plate. He gave her a full grin, then picked up the plate, making Mary’s eyes go wide.

“Those are not for you!”

He held them for just a moment before reaching the plate out to Rose, “These are for you.”

Rose absorbed the glint of joyous chaos in his gaze before finding her voice and picking up a tart.

“Hi. Yes. Thank you.”

The tart was crisp and buttery, with a deep ruby, jelly-like filling. A single fall leaf made from pastry dotted the center. 

Mary encouraged her, “You'd better be taking both. There were six to start with until this lout arrived and began filling his hollow leg.” Mary scolded him, but Rose was keen to the undertone. There was a bond there, as if the man were her own son.

Rose took a bite. When the tiny tart threatened to crumble, she shoved the rest in. The flaky, sweet pastry melted across her tongue, and Rose closed her eyes against the sumptuous onslaught. The crust was rich and buttery, with spikes of salt piercing the sharp sweetness of the baked cherries. They were the ideation of what a cherry pie in miniature was.

Rose couldn’t help but let a groan escape as pleasure swam through her senses. She opened her eyes. “Ms. Mary. That’s by far the best thing I’ve had in all my life. You are a wonder, and I love you.”

Mary beamed, “So you like them then?” and gave her a wink, “This tired manor’s orchard cherries are still good, then, aye?”

The last question was directed at the accountant as if there had been a previous conversation and she was proving a point.

Rose gave her a closed-mouth grin in answer to her first question. As she finished her bite, she said, “From the orchard to this? This place is filled with gold.” Then smiled at the man who was Felix’s grumpy friend and swallowed, “I can see why you ate all the others. Shall we half this last one?”

Ethan in his prior life had seen just about every pornographic thing the online world had to offer, but watching Rose eat the cherry tart Mary had made was the pinnacle of erotic. Or, he mused, he had been in his office for far too long.

Mary’s cooking was good, but she was like a mother to him, so he was simply happy. The dark-haired woman before him wasn’t just a woman. She was some kind of nymph oddity, he thought, either from her being American or from another planet altogether. And it gave her the power of zero reservations.

And it was a pleasure to watch. He had nowhere near the balls to enjoy anything to such extremes, except for rage.

He held fast to the sink behind him. He wanted to ask her where she learned to have the audacity to enjoy life like she did. And he most definitely shouldn’t do what he desired which was to pick the last one off the plate and slip it into her mouth. He’d touch her lips if he did that. That would be indecent. Right?

As if reading his mind, she scooped up the last pastry, broke it in half, and offered him one side. His chest tightened again. Fuck. Was she going to feed him?

Rose searched his gaze and, with Mary looking at him as if he’d lost a marble or two, he realized there was a much simpler solution.

He held his hand out to take the piece from her, making sure he didn’t touch her fingertips.

“Thank you,” he said and had the wherewithal to toast her with his half, “Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte,” rolled off her blood red lips as if she were born saying it. She turned to Mary, gave her thanks and a smile. “See you later,” before exiting out the rear steps, holding the half-tartlet in her hand.

Mary waved at her and kept her gaze on the door until it shut, then her gaze went to him. She gave Ethan a stare, her eyes wide like an owl, then started laughing, “You! Cat got your tongue lad?”

“Only if she has long black hair.”

Jasper came tearing into the kitchen, barking at the mention of a cat.

“Och! Out, ye damn dog!” Mary shouted as Jasper pushed out the garden door after the ‘cat.’

“Bye, Mary.”

“I’m not done talking tae ye, young man!”

He shoved the tartlet into his mouth, mumbled, pointed to his full cheeks, and shrugged. 

Mary’s laughter followed him out of the kitchen as she called after him, “Careful lad, ye almost enjoyed yerself in your own home!”