Candice Hern | Romance Author

Romantic Times Bookclub awards 4 ½ stars to A Garden Folly . Their review says: "A craftsman of impeccable elegance, Ms. Hern taps brilliantly into the hopes and fears of the human heart as she weaves an unforgettable love story from our deepest fantasies."

Rendezvous says: "Ms. Hern has written a delightful book with captivating characters, each of whom has their own particular foibles brought wonderfully to light through enchanting dialogue. Both humorous and bittersweet, A Garden Folly is an excellent read!"

Under the Covers Book Reviews says: "Candice Hern comes through with yet another stellar performance. A deeply moving and emotionally charged novel, A Garden Folly is destined to become a perennial favorite."

A Garden Folly is out of print and new copies are unfortunately no longer available. To locate used copies, we recommend these online booksellers:

I admit it. I stole the idea for this story. I completely lifted the plot from the 1953 movie, "How to Marry a Millionaire." As I was watching that movie one night on video, I was struck at the crackling, witty dialogue and how very "Regency" some of it sounded. The more I watched, the more I was struck by other similarities. What could be more Regency-like than a story about girls on the look-out for husbands? Rich husbands.

So I took the three New York models and made them sisters. Lauren Bacall became Catherine and Marilyn Monroe became Susannah. I had to dump poor Betty Grable – two sisters were enough for my story. Instead of a gas-pump jockey who's really a millionaire, Catherine falls for a gardener who's really a duke.

An Affair to Honor

Since I so obviously borrowed the movie plot, as a sort of homage I had wanted to call this book How to Marry A Duke. My editor did not think it sounded "regency" enough. A Garden Folly as a title came about during a brainstorming session with my friend Casey Claybourne. (Thanks, Casey!)

I used a composite of various actual estates and gardens as inspiration for the fictional Chissingworth. The house was inspired by Chatsworth in Derbyshire and Burghley House in Lincolnshire. The gardens were inspired by Chatsworth, Mount Edgecumbe in Cornwall, and Chiswick in London.

The reclusive Duke of Carlisle is avoiding his mother's annual house party on his famous estate. He refuses to make his presence known to guests in order to avoid all the inevitable toadying. But one morning the duke, a serious gardener, literally stumbles over one of his mothers guests, a beautiful young girl.

"Oh! You must be the gardener," she said.

The gardener? Looking down at himself, he realized that no one would take his scruffy appearance for that of a duke. He experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. "Yes," was all he could say. They were his gardens, after all. And he did design them and work in them. So in a sense, he was the gardener.

"Well, you still might try to watch where you are going next time," the girl said.

By God, she was looking him straight in the eye and truly believed he was the gardener. It was too good.

"I am sure you are quite busy and all," she continued, "with such a large estate to care for. But you must know that the duchess has a house full of guests who might be wandering the gardens at any time. You really must be more careful." The petulant tone had disappeared and she seemed less offended. Interesting. He would have expected most young women of her station — for she must be aristocratic to have been invited by his mother — to disdain the working staff. He would have expected her to rail against his clumsiness, to threaten to report him to his employer, to exert all the superiority of her station. Instead, she looked wistfully down at the crushed blossom in her palm.

"And I was not picking your flowers, if you must know," she continued. "I was simply admiring them. I must have accidentally grabbed at it when you fell over me."

"Yes. Yes, of course," Stephen muttered. His cheeks felt warm and he knew he must be blushing as he recalled how he had been sprawled atop her. "I should not have shouted at you. It is just that . . ." He paused and looked down at the remnants of the tiny purple flower. "Well, you cannot know how special that little plant is."

"Oh, but I can," she replied. It is a pure viola odorata, is it not?

"Why, yes," he said, completely taken aback that this young girl would know such a thing. "Yes, it is. How did you know?"

"Oh, I have never actually seen one before," she said, "not really, anyway. But I have seen many pictures of them. I love flowers, you see, and have — had — many books on the subject. Some with lovely colored prints of various blossoms. Violets have always been my favorites, the simple viola odorata most of all. When I saw this patch of them," she said, gesturing to the clump of purple blossoms at the edge of the path, "I could not resist examining them up close. You must have cultivated them especially to bloom so long into summer, did you not? I thought to sketch one, you see. Oh, and I had also considered drawing this one, too," she added, bending to admire the fringed gentian. "Very unusual. The dark blue coloring and the fringed edges are a combination I have never before seen. Are they a special hybrid?"

Stephen's breath was almost knocked out of him as he listened to this extraordinary speech. Here was a very pretty young girl, with dark blond curls spilling out of her bonnet and huge gray eyes peering at him guilelessly, who knew about rare flowers and special hybrids — his favorite subjects — and wasn't fawning all over him. She actually had no idea who he was.

It was delicious.

It was too perfect.

He could not keep from smiling.

"Yes," he said at last. "How clever of you to notice. They are indeed a special hybrid. I developed the strain myself."

"How wonderful," she exclaimed. "You must be very proud. Of everything here at Chissingworth."

"I am indeed," he said, strangely affected by her genuine interest and admiration for the one thing in his life of which he was truly proud. "You must feel free to sketch or paint all you want while at Chissingworth," he said. "I promise you will not be so rudely accosted again."

She smiled at him, and he almost forgot to breathe. "Thank you," she said. "I imagine there are many other rare specimens besides viola odorata. It would be lovely to sketch them."

"I would be pleased to show you the gardens myself, and point out the most unusual specimens and such." He could have bitten his tongue off the moment the words were spoken. What on earth had made him say such a thing? He was trying to hide from his mother's guests. He had no business encouraging this young girl, this very pretty young girl, to fraternize with him. What if she discovered his true identity?

"How kind of you," she said, flashing a brilliant smile. "I would enjoy that. What better tour guide could I possibly ask for than Chissingworth's gardener? By the way," she said, "I am Miss Catherine Forsythe."

Good Lord. What was he to do now? Introduce himself as the owner of Chissingworth, not merely the gardener? How would she treat him, then? Her open, artless conversation would change to egregious fawning and preening, and that inevitable predatory glint would brighten her eyes. He did not believe he could bear it.

And so, how should he introduce himself? Give his name as Stephen Archibald Frederick Charles Godfrey Manwaring? Would she recognize that moniker as belonging to the Duke of Carlisle?

Perhaps not. Perhaps if he just shortened it, did not give her all the important bits, he might get away with it. "I am Stephen Archibald," he blurted, without further thought.

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Archibald," she said.

By God, it had worked. She believed it. Miss Forsythe truly believed him to be Mr. Archibald, the gardener at Chissingworth. He bit back a grin.

It was almost too perfect.