The gardener’s posture shifted, his shoulders easing a fraction and his grip on the spade loosening. “Most folk wouldn’t know Tarrabeth from ground ivy,” he muttered.
Aoife bit back a smile. “I’m not most folk.”
“That so?” He stepped closer, still wary but no longer bristling. Up close, he was younger than she first thought, with sun-marked skin and a beard threaded with gold. “Well… if you know what it is, you know it’s not to be handled lightly.”
“I do know,” Aoife said, crouching for a better look at the plant. “Three leaves for tea. More than that and it can cause stomach cramps and vomiting.”
The gardener murmured something she couldn’t make out, approval perhaps. He hesitated, then set the spade aside. “All right. Careful, mind.”
She reached in and pinched off a few leaves. “Thank you.”
He scratched the side of his beard, studying her. “Where d’ya learn about Tarrabeth then?”
Aoife laughed under her breath. “I learnt from my mother. And she from hers.”
“Ah,” he nodded, bending to pinch a stray weed from the soil. “They taught you well.”
She watched the neat, efficient movement of his hands. “You keep this garden beautifully.”
“Try to. Hard work this time of year.” He brushed a bit of soil from his palm. Aoife could imagine the hours of work it took to keep falling leaves off the pristine lawns.
Her gaze drifted to a reddened patch on his hand, angry, as though rubbed raw by rope or caught on wire.
Without thinking, she asked, “Does that itch?”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“Your hand,” she said, pointing lightly. “It looks sore.”
He curled the hand instinctively, hiding the worst of it. “Now and then. Had it on and off for years. Flares up sometimes. Goes away again soon enough.”
“I can make you an ointment for it,” Aoife said. “If you’ll spare me a few sprigs of wigwort.”
He smiled faintly, then stepped over the border and cut a few sprigs for her. “His lordship likes the gardens to be trimmed regularly. No one will notice if a little goes astray.”
She thanked him and tucked the herbs into a hidden pocket in the deep folds of her dress.
As she returned to the house, Aoife considered what else she needed. Oil, of course, she had brought a little with her as well as the pestle and mortar she’d need to grind the herbs. It was then that she stopped in her tracks. Halverton had confiscated the lot. Perhaps the footman hadn’t disposed of everything yet. She’d have to find him and ask.
Aoife started in the breakfast room, but was unsurprised not to find him there, given that breakfast had finished almost an hour ago. She tried the dining room, the sitting room, but not only could she not find the footman Halverton had given her things to, she couldn’t find any members of staff at all. A soft rustle of fabric came from one of the side corridors, but if anyone had been there, they’d vanished by the time she turned the corner.
Looking for a member of staff was a nice excuse to explore, and Aoife tried every corridor and every door. She found the house had a half-dozen unused bedrooms. A few locked doors. A cupboard full of bedding, another of towels. But she didn’t find a single member of staff.
It wasn’t until she returned to the bottom of the house that she spotted one of the footmen adjusting the grandfather clock in the entrance hall. She tried to look calm and not like she’d finally won a game of hide and seek with Eoin and Maire.
The footman glanced at her as she approached, her footsteps loud in the echo-filled entrance hall.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name at breakfast,” she said.
He looked at her silently. “James, miss,” he replied curtly, returning to his work.
“I was wondering if you could help me retrieve my things?”
“Your things?”
“Yes, the bag Lord Halverton gave you yesterday. There were a few items in there that I need and I was hoping you could tell me where to find them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
