Hi there! Thank you so much to Ally for letting me drop in today to tell you about my contribution to our collaborative World Naked Gardening Day project ā Ally and I, plus Holly Day, Nell Iris, and Amy Spector, have all written gay romance novellas based around World Naked Gardening Day, which happens on the first Saturday in May! This year itās the 7th, which is when all our stories will be released!
My story for our project is called The Hermit of Aldershill Manor, a 17,000-word m/m romance between Lionel, a gardener on a historic estate, and Charlie, the newly arrived historian, here to help with the archives. Thereās an unexpected summer storm, and shelter in an old hermitage, and an instant spark, among rain and flowers and green growing things.
I love history and historic gardens, and weāre lucky enough to live near some beautiful examples, like the Huntington Library & Botanical Gardens out here in Southern California, which has a Shakespeare Garden and a Rose Garden and Lily Ponds as well asāover in the libraryāan Ellesmere Chaucer manuscript and a Gutenberg Bible! Thereās something soothing about the gardens: the colors, the scents, and the living history, full of deep roots and present-day delight. So I wanted those emotions to flow throughout Hermit: the sense of connection, of growth, of finding a place thatās simultaneously new and colorful and also laced through with the past and the richness of stories. Charlie and Lionel both love the old manor and its grounds, and share their appreciation for the gardens and for the historyāand, of course, for each other! (Nakedness, after all, was one of our themesā¦)
Thereās also baking. And old books. And tea. (Not all at the same time.) And learning how to wake up next to another person, when youāve been very used to being alone. And did I mention the nakedness? Thereās certainly that, plus a few truly terrible puns about roots and seeds.
Hereās a bit more about Hermit! I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you enjoy all our Naked Gardening storiesāIām so excited to share this project with you all!
The Hermit of Aldershill Manor
Charlie Ash is ready to start a new job and a new life at Aldershill Manor. As a historian, heās thrilled to dive into the estateās archives. Plus, he can move on from the end of his last relationship, when the man heād thought heād marry broke his heart. Heāll find solace in exploring the manorās famous gardensā¦until heās caught in the rain, and found by a gardener.
Lionel Briar enjoys making people happy, as long as he doesnāt have to talk to them. He does not enjoy tourists, small talk, or social obligations. But he does like plants and history and his job, taking care of Aldershillās gardens, helping beauty grow. He likes gently tending the world.
So when Lionel discovers the estateās adorable new historian getting drenched by a summer thunderstorm in his gardens, he offers Charlie shelterā¦a rescue that could bloom into love.
Excerpt
Just around the bend, and up the small rise; the old hermitage beckoned: an eighteenth-century fantasia of ornamental tower-curved stone and climbing roses and tumbling ivy, tucked into a garden corner by the stream. The honeysuckle and irises by the door, drenched in rain, perfumed the afternoon. Old stones welcomed wet feet, going up the shallow steps. Lionel opened the door, tugged Charlie ināthe young man was looking at the tower with wide-eyed delight, as if expecting dragons and princessesāand only then realized that heād done more touching of another person, in the last five minutes, than heād done in the last three years. His hands catching a slim arm when Charlieād slipped, earlier. His hands brushing ungloved fingers, handing over a jacket. His hands resting on Charlieās shoulders, nudging thinness inside. Itād felt right. It still felt right. He didnāt know why. Charlie hadnāt protested being nudged, either. Though he was now gingerly peeling off Lionelās coat, wincing, apologizing. āIāll just stand over here, Iām dripping everywhereā¦ā His hair, darkened by rain, had flattened into treasure-box colors: old gold and shimmering amethyst. āYouāre not a problem. You need to get warm.ā Lionel yanked off his own boots, winced as the tangle of his hair got into his face, shoved it back. āIāll find you some clothes.ā āIāll be right here.ā Charlie waved a hand at him. āWhich is already better than being out there, thanks.ā Lionel did not know how to answer, and so escaped, heart beating faster than it shouldāve done. He felt Charlieās presence at his back as he went. The hermitage had been converted to a residence sometime in the nineteen-thirties, and then updated in the seventies, and then again much more recently, with the influx of visitors and finances to the estate. It was an odd shape, only four rooms, the one main tower and the three smaller towers joined on at the back, all of them short and snug. But the walls were white-plastered and the wood floorboards were pleasant, and books lined most of the main room, and the central fireplace would heat the whole space, once he got that going. Lionel had always liked the hermitage. They fit each other, awkward but hopeful, part of the garden grounds. He tried to hurry, crossing the main room, opening the third door. He tried not to drip on his sofa or his books or the braided rugs, not too much, at least. The wardrobe and his bed took up ninety-five percent of the space in the bedroom tower, and that wasnāt an exaggeration: he barely had room to walk around. He liked his bed, though. The wood had been hand-carved by a local artisan, crafted from a fallen oak on the estate; it belonged here, and had a purpose. Right now it gazed at him in silent four-poster astonishment, as Lionel flung open the wardrobe and dove into denim and flannel and knit. Too large, everything would be too largeāsweatpants, perhapsāheavy socksā His hair, wet, got into his eyes. He swore. Found a hair tie, and contained it. He ran back out. Charlie had obediently remained in place by the coat-rack, dripping onto the mat, which was designed for that. His lips were more pale, and he was shaking, though he was trying to hide it. He was still beautiful. Those cheekbones, that chin, the way his eyes were framed by the knowledge of laughter. Lionel swallowed roughly. Thrust clothing his way. Charlie took the offering, but paused. āShould Iā¦go and change in your bathroom? I mean, unless you want me to sort of do that right here, and not get anything else wet.ā Lionelās cheeks got warmer. He felt it, wondered if it was visible, tried to recall how to speak to humans instead of rosemary and yarrow. āYou. Either door. Bedroom. Or bath. You can.ā āThank you again,ā Charlie said, and went off to the second door, which led to the hermitageās small but serviceable bath. He was careful, Lionel noticed, to leave muddy shoes back on the mat, and to drip as little as possible along the way. Precise, and considerate. Precise, considerate, beautiful, and in Lionelās house. Lionel exhaled, and wanted to collapse back against the aged stone tower wall and let it hold him up. He didnāt, because he was still gently damp. But he wanted to. A person. A man, obviously an adult but also obviously younger than Lionel himself, probably by a good ten years. Someone heād only just met. And now here. In his home. Howād that happened? What had possessed him to offer? For that matter, why had Charlie said yes? He scrubbed a hand across his face. He also needed to shave. And evidently heād had a leaf in his hair the whole time, which he only discovered upon dislodging it. He took a deep breath, let it out. What mattered most was the next step. Charlie was here now, and Charlie needed to get warm. Which meant a fire, and tea. Perhaps biscuits. Or bread. He could do those things. Concrete, clear-cut, things. Warmth and comfort. Yes. He found the kettle. He tried not to shiver, because although he wasnāt too wet, he hadnāt managed to change clothes yet. Which a mysterious young man was doing. In his house. Which he was not thinking about. Obviously. He built up the fire, in the old-fashioned fireplace. He made it large and glowing. He turned from poking a log, and found Charlie behind him, having just come in. Their eyes met. Lionel forgot how to breathe, momentarily, because that was what happened when one discovered a petite American garden sylph standing in oneās living room, dressed in too-long sweatpants and a thick knit jumper. He managed, āSorry.ā Charlieās eyebrows went up, spring-blond drifts of surprise. āFor what? I hung the wet stuff in your tub, by the way. If youāve got a dryerāā āIn the kitchen. Donāt worry about it. Sit down.ā He dove for tea, a shield. āTea? Chamomile. From the gardens here.ā Thunder boomed, and rain burst against the windowpane, a sharp rattling clamor. Charlie laughed, and curled up in the chair closest to the fire, giving in. āI guess Iām not going anywhere.ā āNo. Yes. I mean. Not in that.ā āWell, thanks for the sanctuary.ā Charlie accepted tea, wrapping slim fingers around warmth. He took a sip and made a small pleased sound, and Lionel couldnāt take that and therefore gulped half his own to drown out any thoughts. It was very hot. āSo,ā Charlie went on, grinning at him, pushing one too-large knitted sleeve up, āwhatās your name? And what do you do? When youāre not rescuing academics in distress, that is.ā Lionel stopped to gaze at him. Academic? A scholar? Not an enchanted flower-sprite or dryad? With that bewitching gift for conversation, familiarity, putting the world at ease? He was holding the mug halfway up, in front of his face. Neither here nor there. He lowered it hastily. Felt his cheeks flush. āLionel. Is my name. Lionel Briar. Iām a gardener.ā
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The World Naked Gardening Day novellas
The Naked Gardening Day stories are a collaboration betweenĀ Holly Day, Nell Iris, A. L. Lester, K. L. NooneĀ andĀ Amy Spector. They comprise five MM romance novellas featuring being naked in a garden somehow, somewhere, to mark World Naked Gardening Day on 7th May 2022.
