A Blossom of Love

  A Sweet Historical Romance

  Emily Murdoch

  To Tom and Lily.

  You may not have your own Laken Weston, but here’s a literary version for you to adore!

  Thank you for the love and friendship that you give us.

  And always, Joshua.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  This Sweet Grove series has come to an end, but it would never have started without Melissa Storm. What an author! What a woman! What a friend!

  Mary, Gordon, and Haydon have been unendingly supportive, and without my mother and grandmother’s love of plants, much of this book would not have existed. I may not have green fingers in reality, but hopefully this literary version will blossom with a fragrance just as sweet.

  To the creator of all things that blossom, in their own good time: thank you.

  Chapter One

  “Ouch!” Abigail stared at the bramble caught around her ankle. There were beads of blood staining her gown, and it hurt.

  Kneeling, she pulled a strip of clean cotton from her wicker basket – it never hurt to take medical supplies with her into the herb garden – and tied it neatly around the scratch.

  “There,” she said to herself, pushing a blonde wisp of hair back behind her ears. “Soonest seen, soonest mended.”

  It was unlucky she had been hurt so early in the morning when she had planned to spend the entire spring day in the herb garden. The brisk wind was whipping up the sweet scents of her little patch of earth, and it had rained all week, keeping the keen gardener inside.

  But today, all had changed. The sun, though not overly warm, had finally appeared to dazzle the Texan soil, and Abigail had explained to her sister Mariana hurriedly that they would not be taking their walk today.

  Her garden needed her.

  It was nice to be needed. Few did, of course, in Sweet Grove. Her four siblings were all married now, some for years, and two of her sisters-in-law were with child. For the youngest of the Bryant brood, always quiet, always hoping not to be noticed, it was the perfect little town: just the family, and a few others who were moving closer: a blacksmith, a farrier and his family just up the hill.

  Abigail Bryant, if she was hard pressed to describe herself, would have blushed and dissembled, and that would have been enough. Happier in her garden than with people, better with plants than with conversation.

  “Sage,” she muttered to herself. “Elizabeth asked for sage.”

  There was no knowing what request would come from the family each day, and as Abigail trotted along the path she had made herself, she noted some of the fennel was drying out. It would not do for anything to die early in the season.

  “Good morning, Abigail.”

  She twisted violently to see who had spoken, and her scratched ankle cried out in pain.

  “Gerald,” she said with relief, and sagged slightly. “It is you.”

  Her sister Mariana’s husband smiled at her, with a quizzical lift of his eyebrow. “Were you expecting anyone?”

  Abigail laughed awkwardly. “No, no. You just startled me, that was all.”

  She blushed, as she knew she would. It was frustrating, always coloring at the slightest thing, but it was impossible to control, and she no longer attempted it. She would be surprised, or she would be shy, or she would be embarrassed, and as though it had been waiting impatiently in the wings, the dark red color would rush back into her cheeks.

  “I came by to ask a favor,” said Gerald, stepping over the little fence marking out the herb garden and striding towards her with a piece of paper in her hands. “I have just run out of one of my preferred remedies, and I do not think I have the sufficient ingredients to make more.”

  Abigail smiled. “There is nothing better that I enjoy than being useful, Gerald; what is on your list?”

  The first four items were pedestrian, the next two a little unusual, but Abigail had some growing near the back. And then:

  “Sweet cicely,” said Gerald slowly. “At least, that is I think how you pronounce it.”

  “Sweet cicely?” Abigail repeated slowly. “I have never heard of it – let me see?”

  Her brother-in-law held out the piece of paper, and she stared at the scrawl. “Gerald, your handwriting really is awful, you know?”

  Gerald laughed. “You get into the habit of writing quickly, and without Mariana to keep a check on it, I am afraid it rather has run to ruin.”

  Abigail blushed slightly, but this time it was out of pleasure, rather than embarrassment. It did her soul good to see Gerald laugh about such things. Her sister Mariana’s blindness would have prevented most men from even speaking to her.

  “I am sorry, Gerald, I do not know that one,” she said sadly. “In truth, I have never heard of it. ‘Tis not a herb in any of my books, either; and it is most essential?”

  “Without it, the medicine may as well be honey water,” said Gerald, and his shoulders slumped. “No matter, Abigail, I had thought it would be a long shot, but I had to ask.”

  “Sweet cicely,” Abigail repeated slowly, trying to get her tongue around the unusual word. “I do not think anyone even in El Seco may have heard of it, but it would be worth a try.”

  “I have.”

  Abigail jumped. It was a man’s voice – and a voice she did not know. A tall dark figure was lurking behind a tree, and in that split second, she grasped her herb cutting knife a little too sharply.

  * * *

  Laken Weston was hidden by a tall wide tree. Not that he was hiding; no sir! He was no sort of man to dissemble and hide – but as he had completed his business with Jonathan, the eldest of the Bryant family and, truth be told, probably the most in love with this orchard of theirs, he had been striding down the street when he heard a voice.

  It was like . . . music, he supposed. There was something melodic about it, something gentle and lilting. It hung on the breeze like gossamer, and it stopped him in his tracks.

  That was not a voice he recognized. None of the Bryants spoke that softly, surely. Craning his neck, Laken had seen a tall, dark man talking with a woman and holding what looked like a medical bag.

  That woman was Abigail Bryant.

  Laken almost laughed aloud. Abigail Bryant, but not as he had remembered her. By goodness, the last time he had been here in Sweet Grove – saving that rather awkward moment when he had tempted a gambler back into his addiction, but Laken swept aside the memory – was five years ago.

  Five years ago, Abigail had been sixteen; a mere child, someone who nervously blushed at the thought of a stranger coming here.

  A child no longer. Abigail must be one and twenty, and though still a petite woman, she was a woman. Her hair was properly pinned, and she spoke – hesitatingly, to be sure – but she spoke with the stranger.

  He had never heard her speak before. Curious beyond belief, Laken lingered behind the tree, a natural hiding point, and listened.

  “. . . have never heard of it,” she was saying, eyes downcast and voice anxious. “‘Tis not a herb in any of my books, either; and it is most essential?”

  “Without it, the medicine may as well be honey water,” said the man, and the disappointment was visible in his shoulders. “No matter, Abigail, I had thought it would be a long shot, but I had to ask.”

  “Sweet cicely,” Abigail repeated. “I do not think anyone even in El Seco may have heard of it, but it would be worth a try.”

  “I have.”

  The two looked around, and for a split second, Laken almost did too, to see who had spoken those words. And then he realized his own lips had moved.

  He laughed and strode forwards. “I have, Miss Bryant. ‘Tis a rare herb, I will not deny it, but there are those with the seeds, and I would be happy to sell them to you.”

  Abigail, as he had known she would, was now blushing furiously, and his unexpected presence seemed to have struck her dumb.

  “Good morning,” said the man. “I am Doctor Gerald Anderson, and you are?”

  “Ah, you are Mariana’s husband – welcome!” Laken grinned jovially. “I am glad to meet you, sir, for I have heard much about you, of course, from Jonathan. How did you manage to get old Mrs Jonathan pregnant, then?”

  Abigail blushed even more at his words, and Laken could see his rough demeanor did not sit well with the doctor. It was not one that many of the Bryant family appreciated, though Laken never took any offence by it. He was who he was. He would not be ashamed.

  “A private matter,” Doctor Anderson said curtly, “as you can imagine; a sensitive one. You will forgive me for giving no details.”

  “Are you in earnest?”

  These four words came softly, and Laken marveled once more to hear little Abigail Bryant speak.

  “You know, it is astounding, after so many years – what, a decade? – of travelling through Sweet Grove, to finally hear you speak!” Laken grinned at her and received nothing but a fiery blush back.

  “And you are, sir?” The doctor’s tone was blunt, but Laken was not cowed by it.

  “Laken. Laken Weston.” He grinned at them both, and saw with interest that Abigail could
not meet his gaze. “I am a travelling trader, sir, some call tinker, but I prefer adventurer. I pass through Sweet Grove nigh on twice a year.”

  “Indeed,” said Doctor Anderson curtly. “Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Good day, sir.”

  The rebuff was obvious, and for the first time in the conversation, Laken felt a little wrong footed. The Bryants had become accustomed to him by now; why, even that time when he had frightened Elizabeth in the kitchen had been forgotten, and if Phoebe could forgive him for almost ruining her now husband . . .

  “I – I am in earnest,” he said, and was surprised to find his tone reflected his words. “I do know Sweet cicely, and am well placed to sell you some seeds, if you have need of it.”

  “But we do,” Abigail said quickly, and the color in her cheeks started to fade as she forgot her own embarrassment. “Do you know the toothache plant, and epazote, and perilla?”

  Laken thought quickly. “All save the last, Miss Bryant.”

  Perhaps a little civility wouldn’t go amiss here, after all. This sounded like a sale rather than a conversation, and even the doctor’s ears had perked up.

  “And you have the seeds for them?” He stared at Laken with incredibly sharp eyes.

  Laken nodded. “I warn you though, Miss Bryant, they are mighty hard to grow, and you may just find yourself unable to keep them alive through the dry summer.”

  And then Abigail did something Laken could never have predicted. She smiled.

  “I thank you for your kind warning, Mr Weston, but I am quite handy in the garden.” She even laughed gently. “There are few things I cannot keep alive, even if I do not know the name of them!”

  Laken’s jaw fell open. She was captivating; when all consciousness fell away from her, she radiated joy. There was no one else like her. This was something different – something unique.

  “. . . dollars?”

  My goodness, thought Laken. Abigail Bryant. Who would ever have guessed it? No great beauty as a child, no genius of intellect, but there was something there. What was it?

  “Mr Weston, can you hear me?”

  Laken blinked. Abigail was now waving a hand in front of his face and giggling. Even Doctor Anderson had an amused expression on his face.

  “You just sort of . . . paused,” said Abigail uncertainly. “Are you feeling quite well?”

  “I am happy to examine you, if you should need medical attention.” Doctor Anderson took a step forward, but Laken was concentrating now, and took a step back in turn.

  “Thank you, sir, I am quite well and need no examination,” he said hastily. “My apologies, Miss Bryant, my mind had drifted elsewhere. You were saying, ten dollars for the lot?”

  Doctor Anderson snorted.

  “Ten dollars!” Abigail sounded outraged, and well she might. Laken always started his bidding ridiculously high; he was famous for it. “Surely these seeds are not – no, Mr Weston, I should think a dollar per herb is more than sufficient.”

  Laken allowed his eyes to widen in mock horror. “A dollar – you would rob me at the tune of a dollar a herb? Some of us have to make a living, Miss Bryant, I cannot simply give my wares away!”

  And now, the silence. Laken had mastered the art of selling, and he knew all the essential steps. The ludicrous high price had been stated, the customer had baulked and requested a lower price, which he had mocked.

  Now the silence. It was an art indeed, this part. You could not leave it to linger over long, or the customer would lose interest and believe there was no more capacity for bartering. Interrupt it too soon, and the customer would have the upper hand. No, you had to force them into breaking it themselves, either with a better offer, or with an anxiety that they would lose the product.

  Abigail Bryant did both. “Well, I – I know the herbs are important, and I would be loath to have them close and then slip through my fingers. Perhaps we can . . . can come to an arrangement?”

  Laken smiled. It was too easy, really; he would be on the road in no time, and with a few extra dollars in his pocket for the trouble of a conversation. He could be on the road to San Marcos by morning.

  “Why, of course, Miss Bryant, I would be happy to come to an arrangement!” Laken allowed just a hint of relief to seep into his voice, as though he was worried about losing the sale, and saw the triumphant flush bleed into Abigail’s cheeks.

  She believed she was winning. Of course she did; every customer did. That was the key.

  “We have little money spare,” she was saying, which was Laken’s first inkling that perhaps he had not won this challenge as well as he had thought. “But we have plenty of room; Aaron and Jonathan finished another two houses last week, and they are currently empty.”

  All too late, Laken realized what Abigail was going to say.

  “Stay with us for the summer,” she said brightly. “We will provide meals, and anything you need. You will stay and help me grow the toothache plant and Sweet cicely – you said yourself they needed an expert.”

  “But – but, Miss Bryant, I did not mean – ”

  “And then when the summer is over, you can take half of the herbs that have grown, to sell.” Abigail finished, looking slyly up at him. “You said they were rare. Would not their full-grown forms be worth the few dollars we would owe you?”

  Laken hesitated. On the one hand, the offer was everything he loathed: staying in one place, waking up every morning in the same bed, with the same people. He loved the open road, not the closure of a front door.

  And yet, she was right and she knew it. Those herbs would be worth a small fortune, fully grown; no one bothered to grow them – and he knew how. All he had to do was stick it out for – how long? Four months? It was March now, and growing season would be –

  “I am waiting.”

  Laken started and looked at Abigail. Had such a phrase come from her? It must have done; she was blushing furiously at the daring of her words, but she had said them.

  Abigail Bryant. What a mystery you are, thought Laken. It was almost worth . . .

  He swallowed and made a decision. “You have a deal, Miss Bryant; I will provide the seeds and show you how to care for them. You will give me bed and board, and half the herbs when they are grown.”

  “Capital,” said Doctor Anderson, and Laken jumped. He had barely registered the man still there. “Abigail, I shall expect you for dinner this evening; Mariana has missed your walk. Good morning, Mr Weston.”

  The tall man walked away, and Laken watched him go. Anderson, Anderson . . . there was something about the name he could not remember. Was there not a scandal over a Doctor Anderson?

  “Well then, we are partners.” Abigail’s soft voice rang out in the herb garden, and Laken turned to look back down on her. She was so gentle, and yet there was something running under the surface: some hurt, or some steel she was suppressing. She held out a hand.

  Laken tried hard not to roll his eyes as he went to shake hers. “Partners,” was the only word he managed. Her gaze caught his in an iron grip.

  “And do not even think about leaving before the herbs are ready.”

  His mouth fell open once more at the glint in her expression. “Am I your prisoner?” he joked as their hands fell apart.

  Abigail Bryant picked up a wicker basket and flashed him a brilliant smile as she returned to the house. “Perhaps.”

  Chapter Two

  Abigail tapped her foot on the ground and tried not to sigh aloud – not that there was anyone around to hear her.

  Which was exactly the problem.

  The clocks had all chimed ten around Sweet Grove, windows open to let the cool spring air through to revitalize their homes, and Laken Weston was late.

  Worse than late. He was completely absent, and when Abigail had asked her brother Aaron, who had passed by not long ago, whether he had seen the newcomer to their little town, the only answer he had been able to give her was that a lone figure had been seen leaving Sweet Grove that morning.