Celeste raised her eyebrows. “Why does the Duke keep him on, then?”
“Warner was a wedding gift from the Duchess to the Duke. She said he needed someone who could turn him out in style.”
“I can’t imagine the Duke being other than in style.”
“Well, Celeste, it would seem that there is style and then there is Style. The Duke always dressed well enough by our standards. But the Duchess is ambitious. She wants to make a Name for herself in London.”
“So the Duke has to dress to suit her?” Celeste bristled with mild indignation of behalf of her employer.
“I would never have it heard that I said so.”
Celeste laughed. “I have not heard it yet. I must go. Gran’ther Tim is likely wondering if something has happened to me by now.”
“’Deed he is,” Gran’ther Tim came in from the garden door into the kitchen. “I was about to send David and Betty to see what had become of you, but here you are havin’ a rare old clishmaclaver with Miss Sedgewick.”
Miss Sedgewick wagged a finger at the old gardener. “Go along with ye now, yer an old clishbag yersel’ now and again.”
Gran’ther Tim spread a hand over his chest, in pretended horror. “Me? Why I am the soul of discretion. Never a word of gossip would come from these lips. But I’ll own I do like a juicy story, that I do.”
Martha laughed at his antics. “Go on, Celeste. I’ll keep an ear out for Her Grace and send someone up if she rings.”
Celeste followed Gran’ther Tim out to his wheelbarrow where Betty and David stood waiting.
“So’s we’s for the orangeries t’day,” Gran’ther Tim said. “’is grace don’t wan’ none o’ you lot sinkin’ in the bog t’day. ‘e’s got ‘nough on ‘is mind. ‘e don’t need to be havin’ to take Gertrude out ta sniff out any more lackwits as go wanderin’ in there.”
“Will there be enough plants for the Duke’s study and the house, Gran’ther Tim?” Celeste asked.
“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout that, none,” the old gardener said. “The late Duke, our present Duke’s father, loved his flowers. We’s got all kinds o’ blossoms an’ ferns. One thing ‘bout gardenin’ indoors, you can pick how warm or wet it is. Not like gardenin’ outside where it’s God’s weather or tha Wee Folk you gots to worrit over.”
Celeste managed to keep her face straight over this mixing of the gospel and folklore, even when Betty glanced at David and rolled her eyes at him.
Gran’ther Tim caught them at it, even so. “Now, David, din’ Mr. Hammonds, as is your own Granda, rebuke ye roundly this very morn fer disrespect? An’ here ye are encouragin’ tha lassie ta do likewise.”
Apparently, this was too much for Betty McGuire, who burst into giggles.
David Hammonds said, “Sorry, Gran’ther Tim.”
Celeste, who had been admiring tables of luscious blooms in a section of the orangery that had been partitioned off with lattice, thought she should distract the three of them before both David and Betty should be “rebuked roundly” by Gran’ther Tim.
“Gran’ther Tim, what are these lovely blooms over here? Is there a special reason why they are shut off from the other parts of the orangery?”
“Ah, well, now, Miss Singer, we grows that lot for the apothecary over at the Gentle Sisters. You’ll not be wantin’ none o’ that lot for yer boo-kays. Purty as they are, they’s stuff in there would strike ye dead just fer touchin’ it thout gloves.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. Whatever could the apothecary use such things for?”
“Ye see, they’s some of ‘em that if done up right can help instead o’ hurt. Fer instance, see those purty purple un’ yella flowers over there? That’s monkshood. Some calls it wolfsbane, cause it was used to kill wolves. But most folks don’ use it fer that cause it’ll kill just about anything else, too. The teeniest bit, though, can help a failing heart or ease joint pains.”
“But if it’s not used right?”
“It’ll kill ye deader ‘n’ anything. And not a purty death. I don’ let no one ‘cept myself tend it, an’ I wears gloves and a long-sleeved shirt that I wash out mysel’.”
“And that trumpet shaped purple blossom?”
“That’s nightshade, Miss Singer. You’ll not be wanting that either.”
“I’m glad we didn’t come in here without a guide. Where should we look?”
“Come on over here.” Gran’ther Tim led the way to a curtain made of coarsely woven fibers interspersed with tiny translucent panes of something that looked like glass. He gently pulled the curtain aside. A cloud of warm, moist air escaped. “This is the hothouse, where we keeps the orchids, African violets, rose crosses, and tha like.”
