Page 35

There were many wildflowers to be found on the heath, and as the long blades of grass snapped against Lowen’s boots, he cast a cautious glance toward Helena.

It hadn’t rained recently, but he still worried her foot might sink into an unexpected bog, so he walked slightly ahead of her and Thomasin, surveying the trail.

The sun hung glaringly bright above them, but a crisp breeze offset the creeping warmth. Lowen was grateful that Helena had no desire to stroll through Hyde Park or St. James Park. Though there was still much left unsaid between them, they both seemed to need the quiet for now.

"Can I go up there?" Thomasin asked excitedly, pointing to a rising hill in the distance.

“Careful,” Lowen cautioned.

Giddy, Thomasin shoved her sketchbook into her governess’s hands. “Will you hold this, Miss Wodehouse?”

“No,” Lowen interjected, taking the sketchbook back and handing it to his sister. “You wanted to bring it, so you hold it. And mind Miss Wodehouse.”

Thomasin did not object and ran ahead, “Come, Miss Wodehouse.”

Helena stepped in line with Lowen and watched Thomasin with a faint smile on her lips. She had removed her bonnet and held it in her hands, her eyes squinted against the light of the sun.

“You’ll redden,” Lowen halfheartedly warned. Truthfully, he never cared much whether a woman’s skin was the color of milk or not.

“It doesn’t matter,” Helena replied, closing her eyes and raising her face to the sun. “I just want to feel some warmth on my skin.”

“I’ll hold this.” Lowen attempted to take her bonnet from her, but she pulled away.

“You just chastised Thomasin for not holding her things,” she said with a slight raise of her brow.

“A sketchbook isn’t as necessary as a bonnet.”

“To you, maybe.”

They walked quietly together, Lowen keeping a careful eye on Thomasin, who had made herself comfortable sitting atop the hill with her governess, while Helena crouched down, observing a patch of wildflowers.

With one last glance at Thomasin, Lowen knelt beside his wife. She delicately petted the tops of a bundle of small, pale pink flowers before leaning over to catch their scent.

“Yarrow,” he said, running the tip of his gloved hand over a tiny petal. “It can be used for medicine, tea, or beer.”

Helena wrinkled her nose at the mention of beer. “Once, as a child, Isaac tricked me into drinking beer.”

“How did he manage that?”

“He poured it in a teacup and told me it was jasmine tea.”

Lowen’s lip twitched, but he stifled a laugh. “How unfortunate.”

"What about that one?" she asked, nodding toward a collection of purple flowers further down the trail, blooming upright as if reaching for the sky.

“Heather,” he answered. “It could be used for fodder, thatch, bedding, and it can be brewed into tea as well—supposedly, it soothes the nerves.”

“And those there?” She pointed to a shrub of bright yellow flowers, their petals oblong.

“Gorse,” he told her. “It’s said that its petals can cure fevers—though I am not certain.”

“How do you know so much about flowers?”

He knew because his mother had desired a great motley of flowers to be planted just outside her window at their home in Penhollow.

Confined to her sickbed since before Thomasin's conception, she often complained of the lack of beauty to gaze upon while she lay there. During his visits to Cornwall from Eton, Lowen had taken it upon himself to follow the gardener around the property, guiding him on where to plant the seeds for the best view from his mother’s window.

In return, the gardener taught him everything he knew about flora and fauna—not just how to cultivate it, but also its uses and proper care.

Not that his mother had ever noticed, let alone said anything about his efforts. Still, he continued to do so, just in case it brought her some silent joy.

But Lowen didn’t wish to explain all of that to her, thinking it might dampen the mood. So instead, he said, “My mother loved flowers.”

"So, she taught you?"

"Eh—no."

Helena frowned, confused.

"Our gardener taught me. But I only wanted to learn because of her," he explained hastily.

"Oh. Did you know her well?"

"No," he said again. "Truthfully, I hardly saw my mother or father at all. If it weren’t for the paintings, I’d soon forget their faces.” Lowen paused, thinking. "I can hardly remember the sound of their voices.”

“That’s terribly sad.” Helena blinked rapidly, her eyes now shinier.

Lowen helped her to her feet, reluctant to release her hand. He did, though—savoring the touch, holding it in his fist.

“I’ll have no tears at my expense, Helena.”

She didn’t listen, of course. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, but she quickly dabbed it away.

“Do you remember your brother?” She asked.

“I remember everything about Benjamin,” he said, his throat tightening as it always did at the mention of his brother.

Even this heath, so far from Cornwall, unearthed a memory that flashed behind Lowen’s eyes: the day Benjamin taught him to ride a horse.

It was an activity Lowen had put off for some time, being quite terrified of horses and their great height, but since he was always chasing after Benjamin’s accomplishments, he had stiffened his chin and climbed into the saddle.

He remembered riding alongside his brother early in the morning, before Father woke and sequestered him to lessons and lectures.

Lowen clenched his jaw, swallowing the sob threatening to escape. After all these years, the pain should have lessened. Perhaps if the circumstances of Benjamin's death had been different, it might not still hurt so much.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry,” Helena said apologetically.

“I don’t mind.” He truly didn’t.

Lowen had kept everything about his brother and the past firmly locked away for years. While he didn’t think it mattered to mention his mother and father—strangers, even to him—Helena should know about Benjamin.

Perhaps later, though. The wind had quickened, and the flowers around them came to life, swaying in harmony with the breeze. It was a beautiful day.

“You don’t want to take any flowers with you?” he asked as they began to walk uphill toward Thomasin.

“No,” Helena answered. “They’re best where they belong.”

Another gust of wind, stronger than before, ambushed them.

The bonnet Helena had been holding flew from her hands and skittered across the earth.

Without a second thought, Lowen ran after it, and the sound of Helena’s laughter followed him.

He’d just barely managed to catch it before another mischievous breeze stole it away.

To his surprise, Helena had run after him, the color high on her cheeks and her hair floating around her in disarray.

“Thank you for catching it,” she breathed, stopping before him.

“It gave quite a chase,” said Lowen with a smile. “And it’s made me realize I should take more exercise.”

Helena laughed. It was a rare, sweet sound—one Lowen had bitterly kept from himself.

“May I?” He held the bonnet out to her and she nodded, allowing him to place it on her head. Lowen smoothed her soft hair behind her ears with great care before tying the ribbon under her chin.

“Thank you,” she murmured shyly, turning away from him.

He was about to extend an arm to her as they hiked up to where Thomasin rested with her governess, but Helena moved ahead, leaving him behind.

It was hours later when they finally returned to Carrivick House. Helena was freshly freckled and smelled of wind and earth, nearly reluctant to wash the day off.

After her bath, she went downstairs to join Thomasin for supper. Given the hour, she assumed Lowen would be away attending Parliament. To her surprise, he stood at the head of the table, waiting for her and Thomasin.

Helena was grateful that both her husband and his sister were in good spirits. They chatted easily, without any of the usual lulls in conversation. Still, a part of her could not summon the energy to fully participate. She chimed in occasionally, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Even after a hearty meal, she was startled by her desire to retreat again—not from exhaustion, exactly, but from something else.

Despite the lovely day she had shared with Lowen, she couldn’t shake the uncertainty.

Lying beneath the heavy canopy of her bed, Helena wondered if she had let him in too easily.

It had taken him far too long to come and apologize. Though, if she were honest, she hadn’t expected much better of him. And she hadn’t truly forgiven him. Not yet. When she might—she couldn’t say.

After days of self-imposed exile—brought on by the revelation that her husband hated her, though he swore he didn’t, and by the soreness between her legs—her resolve had begun to slip.

If Lowen hadn’t come to her, she would have carried on as before, avoiding him when necessary and building her walls even higher.

But now? Now she feared this was just another instance of kindness, reserved only for when they were alone. The thought that he might return to being the Duke of Carrivick in the presence of others unsettled her.

She longed to join him and Thomasin in the drawing room for a game of cards, but instead, she pulled the covers tighter around herself. If she grew too accustomed to this version of Lowen, it would only hurt more when he became the duke again.

But she couldn’t hide away forever—not that she truly wanted to. Especially since she had promised to take Thomasin to the traveling menagerie in town.

The menagerie boasted ferocious beasts from the darkest jungles, but when the three of them arrived at a wide field off the Thames, it proved to be little more than a few rusted wagons lined up in a row, stinking of waste.

Still, they had come all this way, and with an encouraging smile, Helena urged Thomasin forward, hoping they might yet be surprised.