Page 10 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

S ix more stops until King’s Crossing . Marigold toyed with the sixth button on her glove, the one furthest up her forearm, and fought the urge to tear it off completely. The textured silk covering the button—one that was altogether ornamental and therefore irritated her even further—soothed her as she passed her thumb over it again and again, but not enough to ignore the shift from countryside to towns whipping past her windows, a sign that she was approaching London .

What would happen if she were to tear off the button, or tugged off the glove and hurled it across the train? Perhaps scream and stomp her feet like Matthew did when denied a second pudding?

This is all your fault .

She glanced over her shoulder; Archie was still sitting in the seat one row behind and across the aisle from her, his presence a silent sentinel and persistent reminder of the harm she’d caused in the world with her selfishness. He must have better things to do than accompany her to retrieve the marquess’ letters. An inane mission to find a mistress, if the woman indeed existed.

Marigold shifted in her seat as the train slowed and rumbled into the Newark station. The second-class car, far simpler than what she was accustomed to on the rare occasions when she traveled, carried only a dozen passengers, but her breath caught when she saw the swarm of people jostling for position on the platform.

“May I sit with you?”

She swung her gaze to the aisle where Archie stood, his attention darting between her and the crowd. Relief flooded her, and she nodded, shifted to the seat next to the window. Had she been less anxious, she might have seen the humor in how he had to contort his large body, collapsing his broad shoulders and shifting his long legs, until he found a comfortable position in a space that had been more than enough for her but seemed to have shrunk the moment he sat down.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to sit next to a stranger,” he said, keeping his focus trained on the back of the seat in front of them.

“Thank you,” she replied, barely above a whisper.

The air between them pressed against her skin, the weight of so many unspoken words and broken trust clawing at her. She tugged the button again, and this time it popped off in her hand.

“Are you alright?”

She whipped her gaze to Archie, then back to her lap as her cheeks heated. “Yes.” A rushed exhale, then she shook her head. “No. I hate London.”

“So do I. I get overwhelmed with so many sounds and people. ”

“So d-d-do I.” A long moment passed in silence before she found the confidence to speak again. “I never had a London season. All the p-p-parties a young woman goes to when she’s old enough to marry,” she said in response to his furrowed brow. “I d-d-dreaded having to make conversation with so many strangers.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Her laugh was dark. “Listen t-t-to me. The other girls and their mothers t-t-teased me for it, and my mother suggested I sp-sp-speak as little as I could.”

Archie’s expression softened, creases appeared between his brows and next to his mouth, but he said nothing. Yet another slash of regret pierced her side, reminding her that her lies had pushed this gentle man away and forfeited any comfort he offered.

“The marquess asked for my hand b-before the season started in earnest. I’d only met him once, and he seemed kind enough, b-but I was surprised when he p-p-proposed.”

She remembered that day, the relief that she would not have to go through the trial of a season, nor the anxiety and uncertainty that would accompany every moment. That relief was powerful enough to make her forget she’d be marrying a stranger. Only after the wedding did she learn her husband was far more interested in currying her father’s favorable political connections than he was in having her as a wife.

“Did you want to marry him?” His voice betrayed no emotion, and she imagined it must be the same he used in court.

“I wanted to avoid society, which meant I needed to marry. So, yes. ”

“Did your family approve of the match?”

She flattened her lips, focused her attention on the detached button and the fraying thread hanging limp from the fabric. “They approved b-but worried. Mama feared I was marrying b-b-because I was nervous about the season.”

“She was right, then.”

“She was, b-but they let me make my choice.” Marigold swallowed hard around the lump forming in her throat. “I chose the marquess.”

He hummed, fiddled with the edge of his cuff, and she realized this was the most still she’d ever seen him, as though her simple words were sufficiently compelling—or perhaps infuriating—that he’d ceased fidgeting.

“Was it always terrible?” His question cut deeper than the others, not in what it asked of her, but what it revealed of him. She remembered his father, the subtext beneath the story of the sugar beets, and wondered if he was seeking reassurance for his mother.

“No,” she said, surprised that it was the honest response. “There was no single moment when it b-became horrid. He was never attentive, but not aggressive, especially b-b-before I had the b-boys. Once they were b-born, he stayed in London more often, or went to Scotland to see his friends. I was never invited, b-but I hated socializing, so I thought he was b-b-being courteous.”

“Did he…” Archie paused, looked out towards the aisle, then dropped his voice. “When did he start saying terrible things to you and the children? ”

Ah, yes. Silly girl, thinking his questions stemmed from his interest in her when they’d always been about the case. “Once it was clear Reggie couldn’t be the b-b-boy he wanted. Matthew wouldn’t sit st-still long enough to earn the marquess’ approval.” She stopped, realizing tears pressed into the back of her eyes. As anxious as she felt, she would not cause a scene by falling into a tizzy.

What would her sons think of her when they returned? While they’d never shown affection for their father, would they understand why she was throwing their lives into upheaval?

“Tell me about the boys,” he said, his voice soft, and she turned to face him.

She realized, with a moment of gratitude, that the pressure of tears had receded enough for her to speak again. “They’re lovely.”

His smile warmed slowly. “With you as a mother, I’d expect nothing less.”

A glow spread in her chest; she wasn’t about to deny one of the few compliments on her mothering she’d ever received. “Reggie is twelve, and Matthew will be ten in October.”

“Which is the most trouble?”

She couldn’t help her fond sigh. “You and Matthew may be kindred spirits. He should p-play rugby.” Archie’s eyes brightened. “He was born wiggling and has never st-stopped. He’s always leaping off something or taking something apart. Matthew is determined to learn everything by d-doing, never content to read about a trebuchet without b-building one in the garden. ”

“Of course,” Archie smirked. “Why bother reading about a trebuchet when you can launch things with one?” She chuckled, and he beamed. “What about Reggie?”

“My Reggie.” She bit her lower lip. “He sees qualities others miss. He recognizes patterns in the weather and tells me when I should go check on the bees because the honey is ready to harvest. His heart…” She swallowed, unsurprised to find the knot in her throat had returned. “Reggie can be difficult, not like Matthew in trying to explode things, but in letting people help him. Understand him.”

“He’s closed off. Not unlike you,” Archie said.

“No, he is far smarter than me, far more capable. Reggie sees and understands everything happening around him, and that can be too much for him. His feelings are more intense than ours, b-but instead of letting them out, he holds them all in. Collects his observations and feelings until he’s ready to manage them, or until they b-burst out all at once.”

“What does he think about the divorce?”

Marigold wrinkled her nose and tugged at the loose end of the thread hanging from her glove. “I haven’t t-t-told them yet.”

“Why not?”

She was startled when she met his gaze; his brows furrowed, and all gentleness had fled his expression. “They’re t-too young.”

Archie scoffed. “When are you planning on telling them? When you’re no longer referred to as ‘my lady’ and they’re the subject of gossip all over town? ”

A sickly heat crawled up her back and over her skull. “No, I want t-t-to p-protect them,” she stammered, the sounds sticking on her tongue.

“They are old enough,” he insisted, “and they’ve heard what he says to you, yeah? Don’t they need to be protected from that?”

“Archie, you’re too loud,” she whispered, and he froze.

He stared at his hands, white-knuckled from where they dug into his thighs, then looked up to see the half dozen passengers around them staring. Lifting a hand, he gave a stiff smile. “My apologies,” he said before dropping his voice and turning back to Marigold. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, then spoke with the tone she recalled from the party, one that was low and soothing. “I don’t want your boys to go through anything painful either, but the reality is they already have. Trying to keep the divorce from them will only push a wedge between you.”

She remembered how he’d spoken of his father that night, the pain palpable in his words, and wondered if he had wished his mother had taken different actions to protect him all those years ago. “I couldn’t protect them from what he said,” she said, hating that it was the truth. “The marquess never kept his opinions to himself. Called me simple, Reggie an imbecile and far worse.”

“Why did he call you simple?”

His incredulity made a smile pull at her lips, but she resisted it. “The way I sp-speak. If I cannot say words p-properly, I must be incompetent in all things.”

Archie chuckled darkly and crossed his arms over his wide chest. “That’s a load of hogwash. You’re a bloody bee-tamer. You can do anything!”

A burst of laughter escaped, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to avoid any further displays of emotion. “I appreciate the sentiment, b-but I’ve d-d-done nothing of importance.”

“That’s changing today. We’ll find the mistress, get your letters.” He exhaled and put his hand back in his lap. She hadn’t realized he’d reached out to touch her. “I will get your divorce, I promise.”

Her smile was weak, but she was pleased she could do it. “I believe you.”