Page 1 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

One

“ S top, stop! What are you doing, child?” Mr. Sprout hopped over a row of peas and skirted the herbs to reach the youth in question.

Using all her force, George brought the hoe down again, whacking the scrawny plant.

Mr. Sprout wrenched the hoe out of her hands and held it out of reach. “You are ruining my cabbages!”

“They do not look like cabbages. Cabbages are big and round.” George used her hands to show Mr. Sprout the proper size of the vegetable.

The exasperated gardener dragged a faded handkerchief across his brow. “Miss Georgiana, what did I say last week when you wanted to dig up the roses?”

“I need to ask before using your garden implements.”

Mr. Sprout's frown deepened the lines that creased across his tanned forehead. “That includes hoes. And what else?”

George looked down at her muddied boots. “You told me I needed to ask my governess.”

“Did you?”

She twisted her dirt-smudged hands into the folds of her black dress. “She never allows us to do anything since Mother died.”

“What if I taught you how to care for the vegetable garden, proper like?”

Raising her head, she met Mr. Sprout's eye. “Splendid, absolutely splendid.”

“First, run and change your clothes. I will have no one upset with me over the state of one of your good dresses.”

Georgiana looked down. “But I have to wear black.”

“Perhaps you have something from last year that still fits you?” The gardener prodded.

“I have a grey dress.” Grey was close enough to black, and a darker patch covered the tear from climbing a tree in a race against her friend Isabel. “I will be right back.”

“Put a kerchief over your hair. Your governess will be less likely to notice if you look like you belong out of doors.” The sun weathered gardener gave her a conspiratorial smile.

George scurried back into the house and up the servants’ stairway.

If she proved herself with plants in the kitchen garden, Mr. Sprout might let her take care of her mother's flower garden, not just watch him as he tended it.

Since the bedroom she shared with her twin sister had been stripped of all but the black clothes she was to wear, George hurried to her mother's sunny sewing room, hoping the patched grey dress would be in the chest of clothes saved for her youngest sister, Rose.

Phil sat curled up on the window bench, holding a paper. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve before acknowledging George.

“What is wrong?” asked George.

“I have a letter from Alex.”

“May I see?”

Phil sat up and patted the bench next to her. George read silently from the letter.

My dearest Philippa, Georgiana, Jane, and Rose, (Grandfather insists I use your full names. Sorry Phil and George.)

After Father's visit, I feel I must write to reassure you of my health and that no matter what he says, I am not better off dead.

Please do not believe things are as dire as he may portray them to be—at least according to Grandfather and Aunt Healand. I will not lie and say I do not face great difficulties or that I am not in much pain. The pain is manageable with the drops the doctor gives me, although they make me sleep.

Aunt says I must stay here for at least two months since I have broken bones, including my arm, which is why this letter is not in my handwriting.

Aunt says I must hurry if this is to go out with the day's post.

I love and miss you all. Grandfather promised to bring you here later this summer if Father agrees. I do not know that he will, as he fought with Grandfather and left for Town. Since Father is not going directly home, I have no fear of this letter not reaching you first.

All my love,

Alexandra

A second signature in a shaky hand below the first?—

Alex

A postscript followed.

Your grandfather and I feel we should tell you more than your sister dictated.

In order to save her life, it was necessary to amputate Alexandra's right limb.

We do not know if she realizes her loss yet, as the doctor is forcing her to sleep much of the time.

She will need many prayers and all the encouragement you can give her.

As Alexandra writes, we hope to have you visit The Willows soon.

Lovingly,

Aunt Healand

“Alex only has one leg? Like the old man who sits in front of the apothecary?”

“I assume so, only that man lost his leg in war. Father hinted at Alex's loss when he returned with Mother and William's bodies.” Phil folded the letter. “I was not sure what he meant then.”

George's eyes blurred. Blinking, she willed the threatening tears away. Father said crying was a sign of feminine weakness. She needed to be strong, especially for her twin Jane, who cried far too easily. “Do not show it to Jane. She will fret so.”

Phil studied George—her gaze lingered on the dirty hands, muddied hem, and scuffed boots. “You have been in the garden again.”

“Mr. Sprout said I could help him if I could find an old dress. I came to look—” George pointed to the trunk.

Phil stood and helped sort through the clothes. “What did our governess say when you asked to go to the garden?”

“After searching for Rose for only a few minutes, she told us to study quietly because she has a headache. So I did not bother to ask her.” George held up the grey dress she found buried under several more colorful ones. It was shorter than it should be.

Phil stood. “Is Jane still in the schoolroom or out with the hounds?”

“I think she is in the schoolroom, working through a book of German folktales.” The twins could not be more different in looks or interests, yet they were the closest of the five sisters.

“Put on your oldest shoes before you go out to the garden. I must go find Rose before the governess does.”

If only the governess would resign. “You could let her go. Father left you in charge of the household and Mother told Lady Godderidge she intended to replace our governess this summer now that Rose has joined us in the schoolroom.”

“I wish it was that easy. Then she would not be listening when we tell Jane and Rose of Alex’s letter this evening.”

“It will be better if they hear it from us rather than from Father.” George envisioned her father delivering the news in his blunt way, labeling Alex as crippled or worse.

Phil paused at the door. “I hope Cook has ideas for something to make to soften the blow.”

Food would not really help. No matter how many cakes and puddings Cook made, the pain of losing Mother and William lingered.

Work—that was the remedy. If she worked hard, she would be too tired to think at night.

George waited until her sister left to change without going back to her room and risk running into Jane or the governess.

She raced to the garden where Mr. Sprout waited to teach her the mysteries of growing vegetables.