Page 70 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal (Love from London #3)
F rom Gardens from Age to Age, A Compendium ? —
Ah, summer! Is there anything more glorious than birdsong above verdant grass?
Is there anything more lovely than a garden in full bloom?
This season is the culmination of all that has come before—the shedding of fall, the stark bleakness of winter, the fresh hope of spring.
One should endeavor to soak in the long days of warmth before the cycle repeats anew. ..
That very morning, Candace Felicia Waldrey married James Richard Eavesdon, the Duke of Canterbury.
She held a bouquet of tulips and roses and wore the dress that had arrived from Madame Aubert only the day before.
Her hair was swept up into a low chignon adorned with a pearl-and-diamond comb.
Jacqueline and Vera stood at her side—Candace was surprised at how many times Jacqueline dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief—and Lord Cavendish and Percy stood for James.
The rest of James's guests attended the small ceremony as well, which was how Daisy Knope and Miss Ritten ended up as reluctant participants in one of the happiest days of Candace’s life.
The members of the hunting party were all to leave directly after the wedding luncheon.
Candace didn’t know if James had gently suggested they should leave or if the marquess had soured upon his intended enough to precipitate the departure, but Candace didn’t care.
She looked into the future and saw nothing but time with James, with Arthur.
Alone—with the man she loved, with the boy she hoped would someday come to think of her as mother. It was more than she’d dared hope, even days ago.
The wedding luncheon was hosted at Devon Manor. Many bottles of champagne were opened; many slices of cake were eaten; much laughter was shared.
Seamus sprawled in front of the dining room fireplace, snoring. Candace insisted he be invited, as Arthur was there. She smiled when she noticed Daisy crossing the room to keep away from the sleeping dog.
Later, in the ladies’ retiring room, Miss Ritten presented the only unpleasantness of the entire day.
“Clever of you, to throw yourself in the lake like that.” She sounded dejected, as if she wished she’d thought of the idea first.
Candace just laughed.
Several weeks later, Candace kneeled upon a towel in a different garden, elbow-deep in rich soil.
It was true—the gardens of Montclare were not nearly as neglected as the ones at Devon Manor had been before her arrival.
In fact, they were tended to fastidiously, with nary a fledgling piece of grass out of place.
In Candace’s opinion, things were a little too precise, what with all the neatly trimmed boxwoods standing like stalwart soldiers everywhere.
It was a lovely garden, but it could use a bit more softness, in the form of creeping, budding vines and nodding flowers.
James had already placed an order of bulbs that would arrive in the fall, and Candace couldn’t wait to see tulips and crocuses and hyacinths blooming beyond the gate.
Those would have to wait, but James had also written for roses at her request, and she planted one near the bare garden wall.
In time, she hoped it would climb and ramble the stones, producing romantic, ruffled blooms that would perfume the air and sprinkle petals like dreamy confetti along the walk.
“Mother,” Arthur called; he was out of sight, around the bend.
“Here.” She sat back and waited for him to find her.
Candace wasn’t sure who had been more surprised—her or Arthur—the first time he’d called her mother. But then, he’d waited to have one for so long. Perhaps she’d been waiting, too, though she’d thought she’d have much longer to wait than she actually had.
Candace wondered what Arthur wanted now.
They’d had several deep conversation as of late, about the mother who’d given birth to him, about what might happen if he had siblings someday, about whether she and James would love Arthur the same if other little ones came along.
Candace loved Arthur’s unreserved way of asking questions, loved to find out what problem his impressive little mind was working on at any given hour.
Arthur came around the corner. The knees of his trousers were dirty, mud splattered the front of his shirt. She cocked her head, wondering where it had come from. She shouldn’t have been surprised—if there was mud within a quarter mile, the boy seemed to find it.
“I’m hungry,” he said when their eyes met.
Not a difficult need, then—a simple one, easily remedied.
Candace grinned and came to her feet. “Let’s go find your father and see what Mrs. Taylor has for luncheon.”
Candace offered him her dirty hand and he took it in his. They headed into the house, Seamus trotting at their heels.