Florian’s Garden (The Regency Lords)

Like the table, everything he owned had first belonged to someone else. He looked around the small room where he lived. A large piece of mirror, salvaged from that same pile as the table, hung on the wall. He had smoothed off the edges, though no one would ever be fooled into thinking it was other than a piece of rubbish. Two worn but sound chairs, cast-offs from a generous householder in Brockhill Village sat on either side of the table. A wide bed, gifted to him by Lord Melcombe himself, after his wife redecorated their home and ousted the old furniture, took up half the room. It took Florian weeks to fashion the mattress from old ticking and new straw, but the task was well worth the effort and the bed was more comfortable than any other he remembered sleeping in during his one and twenty years.

Of course his lodgings were a cast-off as well. A folly, a ruined Roman temple constructed by the present Lord Melcombe’s father, sat in a secluded corner of the Park. Lord Melcombe loathed the building, thinking it a ridiculous piece of pretention, and Florian had been given permission to convert it into a lodging. It had taken two whole months, but after mending the roof and chinking up the gaps in the stonework, it was now a snug little dwelling.

He scarcely minded that he had no fire, at least not most of the year, for there were no drafts or leaks. Best of all, he did not have to share it with anyone else. A bed of his own, in a house of his own—it was a luxury for a lowly apprentice.

But despite his improvements, it would never be anything other than a ruined pile of stone. A hovel. He could not expect anyone to be interested in his attentions. He was poor, it would be months before he earned enough to buy himself a decent Sunday suit so he might present a good appearance. Not that it mattered much, for he was plain, and even worse, of mixed blood, for which he had suffered sneers and insults all his life. On top of all that, he was cripplingly shy, and the thought of speaking to the subject of his secret fantasies made his stomach churn.

He had a half day today, and leave to visit the fair in Brockhill. But his best breeches, threadbare from years of wear, had ripped last Sunday, beyond his mending skills. He could wear work trousers—they were clean enough, and with his Sunday jacket he might pass as presentable.

He sighed, knowing his suit was hopeless.

Although Mr. Wedmore was a groom, his dress was always fastidious.

Staring at his scowling reflection in the mirror, Florian said with distaste, “You are so below him, he won’t even give you the time of day.”

He only half believed that. Mr. Wedmore cast him looks on occasion. Looks that even someone with little experience could translate. And Florian did have some experience. Years ago, one of his uncle’s friends seduced him. That led to a horrible scene when his uncle discovered them. There was the man in the Crown and Feathers, they had spent a wonderful five minutes in an alley. Unfortunately, after he took his jollies, the man called Florian a filthy pervert and blacked his eye. And then there was Samuel Leech, a blue-eyed gentleman in London on business for a fortnight.

After meeting on the street, Sam’s sidelong glances told Florian all he needed to know. A brief few words exchanged. Sam purchased meat pies from a street vendor for them both, which they ate in a nearby park. It was exceedingly small, more of a large flowerbed, but it had a bench they shared as they ate and talked. Sam invited him to the hotel where he resided. Florian ended up staying in that cozy room for much of the next two weeks.

Their time together was nearly magical to Florian. As well as taking him to heights of ecstasy, the older man shared an affection he had never known before. Sam promised to call upon him when he returned to London. Said he would be in town every other month on business.

Sam never came.

It near broke Florian’s heart for a while, until he decided London was not a good place for him. He managed to find a position as apprentice under-gardener on the great estate of Melcombe Park, situated charmingly inside Hampshire’s New Forest. The move gobbled up all his meagre savings from working the grounds at Regency Park, but he had never been more content than during his time living in this tumbledown pile of stone and nurturing his own garden.

Two years, with little prospect for advancement. He was skilled enough now that Mr. Rowell, the head gardener, trusted him to work unsupervised. But while his talents might be superior than his colleagues’, he was still a mere apprentice. And he would continue to be one until one of the under-gardeners left—or died. He placed his head in his work-roughened hands. The hands of a low laborer.

“I am such a fool. Mr. Wedmore will never be interested in keeping company with me.”

No point in moaning about it, though, so he prepared for work. He tidied his bed, washed in cold water from the bucket, and dressed. Grabbing his tools, he stepped into the predawn shadows of the ancient oak grove that surrounded the clearing where his little temple sat.

Taking a deep breath, he stretched luxuriously. He took pleasure in his station in life. It was lonely, but it let him work alongside nature. If he was lucky, today he would see the shy deer who lived nearby, and her month-old fawn.

He passed the stables on his way to the northern pond, hoping to have a glimpse of the handsome under-groom, perhaps exercising a horse. Mr. Wedmore was young, probably not much older than himself.

But his higher status on the servants’ social ladder meant he lived close to the luxury of the big house. He would have hot water for bathing daily, and supped at the table with the house servants. Mr. Wedmore was not given his food at the kitchen door once a week to take back to his quarters and eat alone. Florian heard gossip that the grooms each had a generous private room above the stables. A closed stove kept the stables warm, as well as the body heat of the horses. And, of course, heat rises, which would keep the grooms’ quarters very snug. That must be very nice in the middle of winter.

He did not see Mr. Wedmore on the way to the pond. Perhaps it was better that way.

Florian Feakes, you know there’s no point whatsoever in speaking to him anyway.