Page 15 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

M arigold stood back and smiled at the line of identical jars fit to spilling over with pure, amber liquid. Typically, she’d already have harvested honey twice by this time in June, but with her absence, the hive was close to bursting. She’d worried about them being honey bound, but the hives seemed healthy, thriving, without her.

Her hands still vibrated from her prolonged proximity to the colony, her shoulders ached from hauling the overloaded combs to the small shed she used to harvest, and her fingers throbbed from picking the wax impurities from the honey she’d culled just before her departure from Harrow Hall. Sweat slicked her spine, and when she swiped her bare hand across her brow, she was pleased to see some dirt mixed with her perspiration.

Not for the first time, she wished Archie were there to watch her. He would be proud of the precision with which she searched for the teacup-shaped queen cells and checked the brood for mites or infection. A bee stung her on the neck, as she was distracted thinking about Archie’s kiss when she put on her hood and mask and missed a closure on her hood.

After wiping the bits of wax and sticky spots from the table, she walked through the tall, wild grasses that plucked at her heavy wool skirt and boots, until she stood once more by the colony.

The bees were subdued, having been smoked earlier when she removed the honeycombs, and in a flash of bravery, she tugged off her hood, letting her hair fall in sweaty clumps around her neck and shoulders. The site of the sting burned, but she ignored it.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice raspy from lack of use.

Speaking to the hives was an ancient tradition, one she rarely ascribed to; Marigold disliked speaking to anyone, but apiary lore said the bees must be informed of changes in the household or they may leave. Or worse, die.

She cleared her throat. “I’m divorcing the marquess. He’s the one you hate,” she added in an undertone. The bees did not respond, not that she expected them to.

“I met someone, a man. He’s helping me with the divorce. His name is Archibald, Archie.” She swallowed, surprised to find a prickling behind her eyes. “He is kind, and I made a mistake with him, a terrible one. But I don’t regret it. Is that awful of me?”

The base of the sun had only just dropped over the edge of the rolling hills in the distance, painting the fields in coppers and lavenders. The buzz of the hive seemed to settle, as though the swarm was preparing for sleep. Apparently, her confession had bored them.

“But I’d do it again,” she said in a rush, realizing the words had been on the tip of her tongue, but she’d lacked the bravery to say them or even think them. “If I knew for certain I wouldn’t be caught, I’d do it again.”

She heard hoofbeats sounding from the road that snaked around the rear of the property up to Harrow Hall. The butler, Addington, had been pleasantly surprised to see her and insisted on running into the village to gather supplies for a light supper before she returned to York and, knowing the marquess was still in London, she’d accepted his offer. She should return to the house and help him prepare, as she needed something to occupy her time until her carriage returned to collect her.

“I need to go,” she said, stepping away from the hive towards the path that would lead her to the house. “But I will return as soon as I’m able.”

When would she be able? As she picked her way along the path, she cast one look at her hive and at the shed just beyond. She patted the jar of honey in her apron; she planned to give it to Archie the next time she saw him, because she owed him an apology, and her gratitude.

She entered the house through the terrace doors and crossed the empty ballroom that had never seen a ball in the years she was marchioness. When she reached the parlor, she froze, her hood and mask falling to the floor with a clatter .

Her husband glanced up from the stack of invitations in his hand, then down again, still in his riding clothes. “Those damned insects aren’t dead yet?”

Her throat was a desert, and her response sounded like it was scraped across gravel. “You’re here?”

“Unfortunately.” He flicked one card to the table with a sneer. “I invited Sir Phineas to test out his new stallion on a hunt. Need to repair things after that stunt your tawdry sister pulled.”

Her younger sister Violet had intentionally ruined herself to avoid marriage to Sir Phineas, not that her husband would have understood such desperation. Her insides were turning to stone, gradually creeping into total stillness. “You were in London.”

“And I came back.” He didn’t bother looking up. “That bat Graney said you were there. She was wrong, clearly. You’ve been here all along.”

“I was there, at Croydon House. I haven’t b-b-been here.”

He grunted, took a card, and tore it in half. “Another Knollwood party? If he thinks I’m coming after what he—”

“ Roger! ”

He looked up, finally , his mouth hanging open like a fish.

“I haven’t lived here in t-t-two months,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice. “I asked for a d-divorce, and I meant it. I’m only here to check my b-b-bees.”

His gaping mouth snapped shut, and he dropped the cards back on the table. “What is this about? Are you still complaining about Reginald going to Felton? ”

“ St-still ?” Now it was her turn to gape. “I’m not merely complaining. I’m not allowing it.”

He tilted his head quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

“A d-d-divorce, my lord,” she spat. “I am ending our marriage.”

He chuckled. “You’ve truly lost your mind. Do you hear yourself? A divorce. You can barely say the word.”

Hot, sticky shame swamped her, filling her nostrils and ears until she wondered if she’d drown in it. “I mean it,” she said, but it was low, a whimper. “I met your mistress. P-p-pearl. In London.”

The marquess’ lips flattened while he nodded, stepped closer. Every instinct she possessed told her to step backwards, but she held her ground. “How is Pearl? Poor, deluded girl. I’ll bet she told you we had more than an arrangement.”

Marigold’s mouth parted on a silent gasp.

“A shame, that one. Such a talent, but she wanted to marry me. She imagined I gave her some suggestion that I loved her. I refused, of course, out of loyalty to you.”

“Me?” she parroted, wondering if she was dreaming. Nothing about this made sense, and her mind spun, searching for verity in her surreal surroundings.

“A mistress is just that, no feelings involved. You knew why I visited her, and I’m grateful for your understanding.” He gave her a smile like he would a small child. Well, like a kind man would give a small child.

She wanted to scream, to hit him, to run back to Archie’s arms and stay in the circle of his embrace until this all went away .

“You’re wrong,” she managed, swallowing hard. “I d-d-didn’t know about her.”

His smile developed a knife’s edge. “Oh, dear. Your mind must be faltering yet again. You told me to take a mistress. After Matthew was born, don’t you recall? You refused me from your bed.”

The air punched from her lungs. She did recall those days, the melancholy so intense she’d never wanted to leave her bedroom, the cries of her newborn child only making her cry more herself. Did he really come to her bed? She couldn’t trust any recollections from that time. Was she in the wrong all along?

“No man can be expected to constrain his urges when his wife refuses him.” His expression turned glum, although his eyes held a blade-like glimmer that kept her on its point. “It would be unnatural, you see.”

“I d-don’t remember.” The ground beneath her feet seemed to waver, her head spinning.

He hummed as he stepped closer. “You’re having a fit again. I should call Dr. Sandringham and have him come by. One of his tonics will calm you—”

“ No! ” she bellowed, and he recoiled.

The single word echoed through the empty hall and bounced off the faces of her children’s ancestors, the antiques Reggie would one day inherit, the entire marquessate of Croydon. “No,” she repeated, her breathing labored. “I’m in my right mind, and I’m not changing it. My b-b-barrister will send the p-papers. ”

“Marigold.” He took her hand, and the touch of his bare skin against hers made her stomach want to toss itself from her body. “There is no need to cause a fuss.” He released a belabored sigh. “I acquiesce. Reginald can stay here and we’ll find some other form of school. A proper tutor, perhaps.” He gave her a beatific smile, as though he’d solved all the world’s problems. “That should calm you down.”

She nodded dumbly, without realizing what she was doing. She’d grown so accustomed to docility that the concept of standing up for herself felt foreign, unnatural. “I’ll consider it,” she said after a long moment, the words pulling from her throat without her releasing them.

The marquess beamed, revealing the yellowing teeth that always smelled of onions. “Excellent.” He removed his gloves from his back pocket and pulled them on. “Have Addington prepare a supper for Sir Phineas and myself, with the good wine.” He looked her over. “There’s no need for you to attend.”

She stood in place, long after his footsteps faded from the marble stairway, after Addington encouraged her to come take tea with his brows knit in concern, after the sun had completed its descent.

When the static between her ears began to fade, she continued standing, forcing her mind to pick through her memories. She was certain she’d never approved of her husband having an affair, let alone advocated for it. Everything he’d said smacked of lies, but he’d said it so convincingly she almost believed him. If he denied the truth long enough, would he convince everyone to believe him ?

Could she even believe herself?

She stood until the bands around her chest eased enough to walk, focused on putting one foot after the other until she reached the doorway of her home. What had been her home. Because now she had nothing but a choice between her children and her soul.