Follow the Heart (8 page)

Andrew examined the overview map of the estate’s several thousand acres, more than half of which were given to cultivation and livestock. Sir Anthony had complained to Andrew more than once about how much more the estate could be producing in foodstuffs and animals if only they had an easier, more economical way of getting it all to market.

Mindful of the passing minutes, Andrew pulled out his watch. He gathered the plans and maps, effectively ending Christopher’s lecture on railway technology.

“Mr. Dearing, I have an appointment at eleven o’clock with Sir Anthony. If you are not occupied, I would invite you to attend him with me and explain your idea of a spur line to the estate.”

The American straightened from the edge of Tom’s desk where he’d perched. “Tell Sir Anthony? But I have no firm figures or estimates. Without knowing the laws—or even who owns the land between Wakesdown and the rail line, or the railway’s laws concerning spurs—I don’t know if it can be done.”

Andrew tucked the papers and maps in his canvas bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I know. But I believe Sir Anthony would be pleased to entertain the idea, even if it turns out to be impossible.” He raised his brows. “So will you come?”

Dearing grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go.”

Andrew buttoned his coat and tugged his gloves on, then led the way back through the field, which would become a hedge maze in a few months, toward the manor.

Approaching the house, Andrew hesitated.

“What’s the matter?” Dearing stopped.

How honest could he be with a relation—and guest—of the people in the big house? Andrew decided to take a risk on the friendship Dearing seemed eager to offer. “I have entered Wakesdown through the front door only once—six months ago, when I first came to be interviewed by Sir Anthony. And then I was allowed to enter that way only because Mr. Paxton was with me.”

“They make you use the servants’ entrance?” A hint of scorn laced Christopher’s voice. Andrew wasn’t certain if it was meant for him or for the Buchanans.

He shrugged. “It is appropriate. I am neither family nor guest. I am a hireling, of no higher stature than any other person in Sir Anthony Buchanan’s employ. Lower than many, in point of fact.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Andrew tried to find an example Dearing would understand. “The housekeeper must run the entire household staff—dozens of maids and men—as well as manage the household finances. Surely she is of much higher importance than a man who, a scant two years ago, was nothing more than an undergardener at Chatsworth when Mr. Paxton made me his apprentice.”

He shifted the strap of his bag to a more secure position on his shoulder. Someone who grew up with wealth and privileges could never understand.

Dearing swept the vista of the enormous Georgian facade of the east wing of the manor with a frank, appraising gaze. He looked back at Andrew. “Well, as I am nothing more than a poor relation without employment, I should not be eligible to enter the door trod by you and the housekeeper. But I shall take it as a reminder to pursue my quest for employment with all due passion so I may be worthy to count myself as one of your peers.” He swept into a deep, groveling bow.

At first Andrew was affronted, believing himself mocked. But when Dearing rose, grinning, Andrew’s ire eased and he found the humor in Dearing’s words.

Andrew led him down the path leading to the lowest level of the house—one not visible from the front—and in through the gate leading to the kitchen courtyard.

Yes, even if the spur rail line turned out to be impossible, the discussion of it would allow him to spend time with another man of passion for building and innovation. Dare he think of Christopher Dearing as an equal—as a friend?

Christopher hadn’t been this nervous since his final examinations at Yale. He followed Andrew from the kitchens and into the main part of the house, wishing he’d never stepped into the building at the end of the rows of greenhouses. As much as he longed to make friends here, the thought of telling his uncle about his crazy, ill-conceived idea made him wish he’d avoided the landscape architect.

Sir Anthony answered Andrew’s knock with a booming, “Enter.”

Andrew turned and gave Christopher a tight smile before opening the heavy door into the study. Unlike the bright library at the front of the manor, where Christopher had spent most of the past few days, the study was dark—walls lined with mahogany paneling and shelves holding hundreds of books, with only two windows on either side of the massive, heavy desk at which Sir Anthony sat.

He looked up, his creased forehead easing as he smiled at them. “Andrew, Christopher. Do come in.” He motioned them to two of the four club chairs flanking the crackling fireplace.

While Sir Anthony had seemed affable in all of their interactions so far, now that Christopher faced him in his capacity of landlord and potential patron—and Andrew’s employer—his uncle looked severe and imposing.

Andrew launched into his explanation of the changes marked on the plans for the new hothouse, then for the gardens and plantings.

“Which is why I asked Mr. Dearing to come with me.” Andrew straightened from leaning over the maps spread on Sir Anthony’s desk.

The baronet looked at Christopher with undisguised curiosity.

Christopher cleared his throat. “It was merely an idea—a fancy, really—and may not be feasible.”

“Do not apologize for wild dreams, Christopher. How many advances would have been lost if the inventors had been afraid of expressing their fancies?”

While Christopher didn’t believe he was an innovator, he appreciated his uncle’s attitude. He took a deep breath and pictured himself back in the head gardener’s lodge. He explained spur lines and showed Sir Anthony three likely places—relatively flat and close to the main line into Oxford—where a Wakesdown spur could possibly be built.

Sir Anthony was silent for a long moment after Christopher finished, tracing the routes Christopher had detailed with his finger.

Finally, the baronet straightened. “I understand your concerns as to why this might not be possible. But I want you to work on this. I will inform my steward you are to have whatever resources required to get the land surveyed or to acquire information or permits or anything else you need.”

He turned and perched on the edge of his desk. “Andrew, do you return to London soon?”

“Within the next few weeks, to order and gather materials for the gardens.”

“I would like Christopher to travel with you—to meet Mr. Paxton and his colleagues. We must do all we can to assist this young man in establishing himself here, since he was pulled away from what I am certain would have been a stellar career in America.”

Heat crawled up Christopher’s throat to his face. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Sir Anthony smiled and rounded his desk to sit in the well-worn leather chair behind it. “And should this venture not come to fruition, I am certain that the contacts you make through Joseph Paxton, as well as others you will come into contact with in the course of your research, will be beneficial in securing you employment that suits your social standing.”

Christopher started to frown, but quickly hid it. Something that suited his social standing? What exactly did that mean? Something suited for a poor relation here only to sponge off wealthy relatives until they were able to get rid of him by forcing him into a somewhat respectable job, of which they would not have to speak or think?

Sir Anthony continued. “We must be discerning and ensure you take a position only if it is suitable for a member of the Buchanan family. For though you bear a different surname, I will never forget that your mother was my dear sister, even if our father did sever all ties with her when she married. Did you know, Christopher, that Louisa and I shared a nursery and then a governess until my twelfth year? She was only a year younger than I, and she was my dearest and closest friend. But when she met Graham Dearing, there was no reasoning with her. Our father tried every argument he could think of. But Louisa was in love.”

Christopher perched on the high arm of one of the chairs flanking the fireplace. “Had you no other siblings?”

Sir Anthony tapped his steepled fingers against his chin, his eyes glazed over with memories. “None. Our mother died when we were quite young, and our father’s second and third wives gave him no children.” His gaze snapped up to Christopher as if in sudden realization. “You have younger siblings from your father’s second marriage, do you not?”

Christopher nodded. “Three sisters.”

Sir Anthony grimaced. “All the more burden for you and Katharine, then. Boys do not create as much expense to raise as girls, I believe. My wife died when Florence was but a babe in arms. My two eldest, my sons, seemed to cost very little—a new suit of clothes here or there. Schooling, naturally. But my daughters . . .” He shook his head with a grimace. “Always wanting new gowns, shoes, hats, the latest fripperies and fobs. If a seamstress tells them something is fashionable, they must have it. I am certain your father, with four daughters, must feel the same pinch, especially now.”

Christopher wondered how much his uncle was able to sympathize with the Dearings’ situation. With a baronetcy and a family legacy of wealth, land, influence, and power going back generations, the Buchanans had never wanted for anything. The Dearings’ money hadn’t come into the family until late in Christopher’s grandfather’s life. Before the coming of the railroad, the Dearings had been nothing more than farmers and lumber and fur merchants, trying to carve out a life in the wilds of Pennsylvania.

Christopher glanced at Andrew, who stood as far away as the small room would allow, hands clasped behind his back, looking as if he’d blend into the bookcases behind him if he could.

Christopher rose and started rolling up the maps, and he and Andrew made their farewells.

“Ah, Christopher, one more thing,” Sir Anthony said as Christopher was about to exit.

He turned to face his uncle.

“Do not forget that the ball in your and your sister’s honor is in a week. Please make use of my tailor in town. Morency can arrange for a carriage to take you this afternoon.” Sir Anthony nodded in a way that brooked no opposition.

Christopher exchanged a glance with Andrew. As if the other man understood what Christopher must say, he took the maps and excused himself, disappearing down the dim hallway.

Christopher stepped back into the study. “Sir Anthony, while I appreciate your kindness in allowing my use of the carriage, I must decline the offer. I cannot . . . I have not the money for a new suit of clothes for the ball.”

Sir Anthony’s expression changed from curious to sympathetic. “I should have made myself clearer. It is my understanding from my valet, who has spoken with the man serving you, that you have no suit of clothes appropriately formal for such an event. Therefore, you
will
go to my tailor to be fit for the new suit I have already ordered and purchased for you. It has only to be altered for your specific measurements before it will be ready to wear.”

Christopher opened his mouth to protest, but Sir Anthony held up his hand with a sigh. “I understand your American pragmatism and unwillingness to accept charity from others, especially we English. However, by agreeing to have you in my home and to take you publicly by the hand before society, I have also agreed to do what is necessary to make certain you—and your sister—look like members of my family. It will not do for Katharine, in her quest to find a wealthy husband, if either of you look anything less than aristocratic, would it?”

“But the clothing we brought with us is almost new, and it served us just fine at the last balls we attended.”

One side of Sir Anthony’s mouth quirked up. “Yes, well . . . in America, I am certain you were the height of fashion. But you are no longer in America. You are in England. Styles and sensibilities are different here.”

Christopher’s shoulders sagged with the burden of charity.

“Once you have established yourself in a career, you may repay me if you like. Until then, however, please allow me to care for you as for my own children. I would not have agreed to your father’s request if I had not been willing to do so.”

Though it rankled every American nerve in his body to accept such charity, Christopher nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your mother would have had it no other way.”

Christopher must take his word for that, since he had few clear memories of her. Inclining his head, he once again made his farewell, this time making it to the other side of the door without being recalled. The click of the latch shot through him like a spike through a rail.

He was certain Andrew had returned outside, most likely to the gardeners’ lodge, from whence he likely conducted most of his work. But Christopher couldn’t face him right now—knowing that Andrew had correctly interpreted the meaning behind Sir Anthony’s words.

Instead, he headed upstairs, taking the marble steps two at a time. He counted the doors on the right-hand side of the hallway until he came to the fifth, at which he stopped and knocked.