Page 17 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

M arigold wished she could be a person who thrived in silence, but often her mind, when faced with a vacuum of stimulation, supplied a miasma of worries and fears.

But, from the moment she set foot on the Grant farm that Saturday, she realized silence could be a wonder.

The Grant family’s homestead lay at the end of a jolting carriage ride off the main road in Rotherham, paralleled by a crumbling stone wall that Hadrian himself could have built. A herd of puffy sheep clambered over the hill on the partition’s far side, and in the distance were fields of… barley? Beans? Lord help her, she wasn’t accustomed to the country, or at least the parts of the country where people labored for their livelihoods instead of hiring others to do the work for them.

A creeping shame climbed over her. Her family had been wealthy while she’d lived at home, then she married into an even more prominent household. The only time she’d been on a working farm had been when the village of Harrow experienced an outbreak of influenza and she’d delivered baskets to the mourning widows.

She couldn’t imagine what Archie’s life had been like, nor how his mother and sisters still lived. But when she stepped out of the carriage and thanked the coachman who had taken her for the two-hour journey to the south of Yorkshire, her heart caught in her throat.

A fence surrounded the main house, the roses climbing over the individual posts so thick she could barely see what supported them. The house itself was two stories of roughly hewn limestone, the dormer windows rising from the peaked second story, making the home look like it was watching her. Most likely judging her and questioning why she was about to set foot on its doorstep.

“Marigold!”

Archie loped down the flagstone path and his hip bumped the fence in his haste to get to her side. His blond curls were wet, dark and flattened against his forehead and curling over the open collar of a clean white shirt. Her heart tumbled at the sight, and she fought the urge to smooth her hands over her powder pink damask skirt.

His eyes swept over her in an appreciative glance that he masked quickly. “I’m thrilled you’re here,” he said, taking her hand as she nodded to her driver. “Is your coachman staying nearby?”

“At the Rooster and Ram in t-town. He’s arranging a room for me,” she said, hating the quiver in her voice. It was ridiculous to be nervous, but she couldn’t fight the tremble in her fingers, the anxiety that bubbled in the center of her chest. She’d attended balls in palaces and dined with the finest of London society; how could she be terrified to visit a simple country home?

Because it’s Archie.

She pushed the thought aside and focused on his face. A wide smile and cheeks flushed, mischief and utter delight sparkling in his sky-blue eyes.

“Wonderful,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “I can take you there tonight. You’re just in time for supper!”

She hoped her recoil was subtle. “Supper?” The sun had barely started its descent; she typically dined well into the evening and had no appetite to speak of, although her nerves could be at fault for that.

He gave a knowing shrug. “Country hours. When we wake before dawn, everything moves earlier. My sisters and mum are inside. Shall we?” He tipped his chin towards the house, a subtle question of are you absolutely certain you want to do this?

She glanced at the unassuming home. She was anything but certain.

But then she looked at Archie, the hope in his expression and the way he subtly bounced on his feet.

And she nodded.

Only two steps toward the farmhouse, and she realized her first error. A cloud of dust bloomed around the hem of her skirt, darkening the subtle blush color to a murky brown. Resigning herself to needing to have it cleaned, she lifted her chin and walked resolutely forward —

Until she needed to enter the house, and the brim of her wide silk and tulle hat collided with the doorframe and fell backwards, tugging her hair and drawing a shriek from her throat.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Archie said, grabbing the garish accessory and lifting it back in place, although several pins had popped loose, and one now poked her behind the ear. “This heap is so ancient, I have to bend in half to fit through the door.”

She gasped as she pulled at the pins, locks of hair releasing from the careful and intricate chignon Mrs. Addington had labored over that morning. Finally, she released the monstrosity from her head, clutched it to her chest, and looked up through the lank strands now falling over her brow.

What must have been Archie’s mother and two sisters stared at her, aghast. Understandably.

She shoved her hair off her temple, and her lips twitched in a pained smile. “H-hello,” she croaked.

Archie cleared his throat. “Mum, girls, this is Lady Marigold Torcross. Marigold, this is my mum, Catherine Grant, and my sisters, Samantha—” he pointed towards a taller girl on the cusp of womanhood, “and Eloise,” he said gesturing towards the younger, all gangly limbs and a skeptical expression.

Both girls and their mother gaped at Marigold for a long moment. “A p-p-pleasure to meet you,” she managed, certain she looked like a wild animal in the middle of a tea parlor.

Mrs. Grant snapped out of her stupor faster, clearing her throat. The girls blinked and dipped into low curtsies, as did their mother, mumbling variations on a pleasure, my lady .

“Mum, that’s not necessary,” Archie said, but Mrs. Grant was already advancing, bobbing again in front of Marigold.

Immediately Marigold saw Archie’s features in the woman’s bright eyes and the blond curls, although hers were nearly gray. “Milady, what an honor it is to have you in our humble home. May I take your bag?” She looked Marigold over, and she blinked at the state of her skirts. “Good heavens.”

“Thank you f-f-for having me.” Marigold tugged open her reticule—the largest one she owned and the one she’d used to smuggle jewels out of Croydon House in London—and withdrew a package wrapped in delicate pale blue paper. “For you.”

Mrs. Grant looked at Marigold as though she’d handed over the Holy Grail. “Milady, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” She didn’t miss how Archie beamed at her side.

She had the strongest urge to lean into him, to turn and take his hand in hers, to allow him to soothe her frayed edges. But she held herself close, elbows tucked tight like she could fade away if she tried hard enough.

Eloise rushed to her mother’s side. “Mummy, can I open it? Please?” She was already pulling at the paper, and when the label appeared—

“It’s from Betsy’s!” the girl shouted, and her older sister shrieked.

“Girls, that’s enough,” their mother admonished, but she was equally eager to gawk at the imprint from York’s finest tea shop. Marigold had wandered the shops along the Shambles for hours to find the perfect gift, lingering on the corner across from Archie’s office for far too long before continuing on to Betsy’s.

The girls were still fawning over the package, peeling back the wrapping and gasping to see the array of tins inside. “Darjeeling,” Samantha gasped, “and Earl Grey!”

Eloise held up a tin and wrinkled her nose. “What is rooibos?”

“A new b-b-blend,” Marigold said. The proprietor had given her samples of every tea in the shop before she made her selections, hoping the bright and citrusy tea would delight the girls and be refreshing for the summer. “Only recently imported from South Africa.”

Archie’s sisters stared at her, mouths agape. “Gracious,” their mother whispered.

“Mum,” Archie hissed.

She blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Come, please sit. Supper is nearly ready. I only need to take out the bread. Girls, will you help her ladyship to the table?” When they didn’t immediately move, still gaping at the tea, their mother’s voice darkened. “ Girls? ”

Eloise rolled her eyes while Samantha snapped to attention, and together the girls guided her to a seat at the head of the table. Someone had tied a cushion to the sturdy bentwood chair, and Marigold sat gingerly.

“Your dress is very pretty,” Samantha whispered, then flushed.

Marigold smiled at the young woman. “Thank you. So is yours. ”

Samantha’s eyes lit up like she’d been named the diamond of the season, and she bounced as she hurried over to help her mother move dishes to the table, squabbling with Eloise about who would carry the potatoes.

Archie put a large serving tray with a lamb roast on the center of the table, then gave her a conspiratorial wink. “They’re always like this.” He jerked his head towards his sisters, who were yanking at the bowl while their mother arranged slices of bread in a basket.

“They’re lovely,” she whispered, and his grin lit up the room.

“You say that now.” He winked, and she felt a wholly inappropriate tug deep in her core.

Marigold had never experienced a meal with quite so much noise. Despite growing up with four siblings, meals were staid affairs with calm voices. By the time her youngest sisters were old enough to sit at the main table, she was married and living in her own household. Any meal she shared with her husband was served with a side of terse silence.

The tension ebbed from her body as the evening progressed, no doubt because of the delightful food. Thick hunks of buttery bread, sweet peas and slivered onions, delicious slices of tender lamb crowded her plate. She sipped Ceylon tea from a chipped cup instead of wine from a crystal goblet, ate from mismatched plates instead of heirloom china. Laughter and gentle teasing punctuated the conversation, and before long, she noted her cheeks ached from smiling.

And through it all, Archie watched her, his gaze catching hers every few moments, assessing her comfort, refilling her plate until her stomach protested, steering the discussion away from any topics that might make her uncomfortable.

Mrs. Grant asked about Marigold’s children and her bees. Samantha asked Marigold about fashion and what the London season was like. Eloise…

Suffice it to say, Eloise and Matthew would have gotten along smashingly.

“Have the bees ever swarmed you?” The girl’s expression fell when Marigold answered in the negative.

“I only approach in the evening when the sun is setting. I also have a smoker that calms them d-down and makes them less likely to fly. My bees are used to my presence and rarely make a fuss.”

“Have they ever stung you?” Apprehension tinged Samantha’s question.

“A few times, yes.” She touched the raised mark on her neck. “Just the other d-day, here.” Samantha shuddered while Eloise leaned in for a better look. Her gaze darted to Archie to see his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the spot.

Her stutter had faded, as though being at this table was natural, something she’s been born to do. So distant from her life as an aristocratic wife, it was barely recognizable.

“How on earth did you discover such a hobby?” Mrs. Grant looked at Marigold with palpable fondness, its intensity such that Marigold couldn’t decide if she was startled or desperately pleased by it .

“My son d-discovered them and was curious,” she said, affection blooming. “He needed me to be brave, so I was. My interest in keeping b-bees grew from there.”

Archie’s hand twitched on the table, and she wondered if he’d restrained himself from reaching for her.

Eloise scoffed. “Mummy wouldn’t approach bees for us. She doesn’t even like honey.”

Mrs. Grant’s head tilted. “I raised seven children, my dear. I’m hardly a weakling.”

“Have you ever danced with a prince?” Samantha’s expression was wistful.

“No, but I met a princess once.”

Eloise gasped and Samantha shrieked. Archie leaned back in his chair, his smile fond as he watched her. Something in her middle warmed, a glow spreading through her limbs and into her fingertips. By the time the plates were empty, her stomach ached from laughter and eating far more than she was accustomed to.

“Girls, you make sure the sheep are all in the pen, and Archie can get the horses squared away.” Mrs. Grant stood, put on her apron, and looked at Marigold. “If you’d like to sit in the parlor, milady, I’ll fix you some tea.”

Archie studied her as she stood and smoothed her ridiculously inappropriate for the country skirt. “I’d rather help, if I may.”

Mrs. Grant’s brows raised, but she took a second apron from a hook near the back door. “Why don’t you help me with the dishes? ”

“Mum,” Archie said, but his mother ignored him, shooing her children out of the kitchen and hushing their grumbling.

“I—” She bit her lower lip, then exhaled in a rush. “I d-don’t know what to do.”

Mrs. Grant’s smile was warm and so reminiscent of Archie’s that Marigold’s chest tightened. “I’ll show you. Wash or dry?”

Within moments, when Archie and his sisters had gone out to complete their chores, Marigold stood next to Mrs. Grant at a wooden-slab table adjacent to a sink full of suds and dinner dishes. She’d rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and was armed with two thick towels, but she still eyed the basin with caution.

“Hold the dish with one hand,” the woman said, handing over a plate, “and wipe with the other. Take your time with it. Wait until it’s dry before you put it away.”

Marigold nodded, her brows furrowed as she concentrated on swiping the water from the plate, swirling until both sides were dry. After a careful examination, she looked at Mrs. Grant, who bobbed her chin towards the open shelf above them. Before she could gloat over her accomplishment, she’d been handed another plate, and so the cycle continued.

She was grateful Mrs. Grant didn’t question how she’d made it to thirty years of age without washing a dish, nor was she rushed or condescended to. The same peaceful ease she felt during the meal swept over her again. She admired the delicate flowers that bordered the platter as she dried. “This is lovely,” she said, and Mrs. Grant beamed .

“Belonged to my mother and father, and my grandmother before that.”

Marigold froze. “I shouldn’t dry it. What if I b-break it?”

Mrs. Grant turned and held her gaze. “Then it breaks.”

She blinked. “You’re not concerned? It’s p-priceless, and I’m…”

Hopeless? Unpracticed? Utterly wrong in this space?

She nodded towards the still towel in Marigold’s hand. “Special items are meant to be used, even if they break. If we keep them behind glass, they’ll never be hurt but can never be enjoyed.”

Marigold’s chest tightened again, tears pressing at her throat. How long had she kept her own heart locked away, protecting it from her husband so she couldn’t be hurt? Or her children, whom she’d sheltered from the day of their birth? And it still hadn’t prevented the damage from being done.

I have to tell the boys about the divorce.

A second thought collided with the first.

I have to tell Archie how I feel.

But what did she feel? Attraction, certainly. A healthy share of desire. But she couldn’t shake the knowledge that his presence calmed her in a way she’d never known, took all the spinning thoughts and uncontrollable fears and settled them, removed their claws from her skin. She wanted to trust him, but her lived experience had trained her instincts to believe the opposite, to worry that he had an ulterior motive in helping her, or that as soon as she let him in, he’d pull the rug from under her.

“My dear, are you alright? ”

Marigold blinked, realized she was holding a plate in midair as it dripped over the table and floor. “My apologies, I—”

“No need to apologize for woolgathering.” She plucked the plate from Marigold’s hands, dried it with ease, and gave it back for Marigold to put away. “This is one of my few quiet times to think during my day.”

“What do you think about?”

“My children,” she said. “My farm. How long I want to stay here.”

Marigold remembered the rolling fields, the flowers waving in the breeze, the sheep dotting the hillside like puffy clouds. “There are far worse places to be.” Many could make the same statement to her when she complained about living at Harrow Hall.

Mrs. Grant seemed to think the same thing, because she raised one brow. “Too many memories here, and not all of them are fond.” She chuckled. “I heard you met Florence.”

Her smile pulled at her cheeks. “I did. She seems lovely.”

“She’s a whirlwind. I thought she might break me when she was a girl, and now I miss her every day. My oldest girls are married, have families of their own. Archie has his life far away from me, and before long, I’ll hear wedding bells for Samantha. Poor Eloise will be trapped here alone with me.”

Marigold felt the strongest sense of longing for her own mother. After her marriage, she’d been so caught up being a wife, a marchioness, that she hadn’t maintained her relationship with her mother. As her marriage crumbled, the humiliation that she’d been so wrong in her choice of a husband kept her away from Oxfordshire, from her home and the people who knew and loved her best. Was it loneliness that made being close to Archie so appealing?

She thought about the dishes, as silly as it was, how Mrs. Grant passed family heirlooms to her, entrusted her with something so precious, knowing she might break them.

Would she break Archie if given the chance? Would he break her?

She could acknowledge what she wanted—she wanted the night from the party again, the open trust and passion they’d shared, the thrill that they held something special, something sparkling and precious, something that would consume her in the best way if she allowed it to grow.

But it was impossible. She’d been a different woman that night, one stripped of her fears by the relative anonymity of circumstances. Archie may care for her, but he’d never love her for the person she was. Who could?

As though she’d summoned him, Archie burst through the back door and into the kitchen. “Mum, we have a problem.”

The girls were close behind. “Petunia is missing again,” Samantha said, and Eloise trailed in her wake, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh Eloise,” Mrs. Grant said, cupping her youngest daughter’s face. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone far.”

Eloise sniffed mightily. “But what if—”

“I’ll find her. Hand me that jug and I’ll try to lure her with some milk.” Archie cut in, then looked at Marigold. “Do you want to help? ”

Her lips parted. She wanted to be alone with him, although apparently this mysterious Petunia would be joining them. “Y-yes. But who is Petunia?”

Archie winced and Mrs. Grant chuckled. “You’ll find out, dear,” the woman said. “But you need to borrow a skirt and some decent boots.”