Page 2 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

One month later

D espite averting her eyes, Marigold couldn’t escape the sound of bare flesh slapping, nor the grunts and moans that assaulted her senses from all angles. “Surely they d-don’t enjoy this,” she hissed, opening one eye to peer at her older sister.

Lily made a non-committal hum, her hand shading her brow as she watched two dozen men pummel each other on the grass pitch below. “They’d enjoy it more if we could just push straight from the lineout!” She bellowed the last bit, slapping her palm down on the split-rail fence that separated the spectators from the action.

“Are they supposed to be—” Marigold’s query was cut off as the opposite sides collided once more in what she’d learned earlier was called a scrum but appeared more like a cataclysmic tangle of human limbs .

“Yes,” Lily replied absently, as though she could divine her sister’s line of questioning. “Well, we’re supposed to be driving the ball, but our offense is taking a beating and—oh, hell! ”

Marigold returned her attention to the field where a giant of a man in a white and burgundy jersey broke away from the pack carrying the oblong leather ball. His muscled legs churned as he streaked towards the end of the pitch, the spectators screaming in outrage as players in black streamed after him. The man, apparently having reached his target, tossed up his arms in victory before being surrounded by peers wearing matching jerseys. His mop of blond curls bounced as teammates buffeted him, the joy in his grin palpable.

“Bloody hell,” Lily bit out, planting her fists on her hips and shaking her head.

Marigold wrung her hands, unsure what to do. She’d become a reluctant student of rugby and the Burnley Hornets during the weeks she’d been visiting her sister in Lancashire, as many of the men who worked in her stables played on the local team. A team that was apparently being pummeled by their opposition. She lacked the knowledge to contribute to the conversation, although it seemed cursing was a reliable response, so she mirrored her sister’s headshake and muttered, “Oh, what… muck .”

Lily cut her a look. “One of these days, I’m going to teach you to curse properly.”

“I think those are contradictory t-terms,” Marigold hazarded, and some of the tension left her when her sister chuckled. She leaned closer, fearful of being overheard despite no one in the vicinity having the slightest interest in what she had to say. “Thank you again, Lills. For t-taking me in.”

“Lord knows you needed to escape Croydon. Your stutter has nearly disappeared.”

Precious few people mentioned her vocal ineptitude, as, frankly, precious few people heard her speak enough to detect it. But escaping the slow strangle of Harrow Hall and the marquess’ looming presence had lifted the invisible weights suffocating her, her lungs taking in air for the first time in years.

“You’re always welcome here,” Lily went on. “It was lovely seeing my nephews before Mama took them.” Her features softened at the mention of the boys; despite being married for eight years, she had no children of her own. Unsurprising, considering Lily’s husband, the Earl of Whitby, had spent the better part of the last decade on the continent without his wife.

“You were kind to tolerate them. I promise I’ll repair Reggie’s damage to your library.”

“Damage?” Lily scoffed. “No one has touched those books in generations. Reggie can keep them if you’re willing to tote them back to Yorkshire.”

“I hope he’ll have forgotten b-by the time he returns from America,” she said.

Lily grinned. “Do you think Mama knows what she’s doing in taking them for two months?”

“No, she’s only had girls to manage,” Marigold replied, a slight smile slipping through. As the second-oldest of five sisters, she admired her mother’s willingness to take the boys to Boston to meet their new cousin, but she wondered if her mother was ready to deal with them when be on your best behavior wore off.

“And you’re welcome to stay however long you need,” Lily continued, pulling Marigold from her thoughts. “But I know you’ll be more comfortable in your own space. How much time will it take to open the townhouse in York?”

Familiar tension settled back in her breast. “Addington said it will be ready when I return next week. His daughter was looking for a new p-post, so she will be my housekeeper. And Nanny Emerson will come along, of course.” Marigold released a shuddering sigh. “I can’t imagine having to share Harrow with the marquess any longer. Although I worry about the hives.”

“Your bees will be fine,” Lily reassured, but her words lacked the soothing tone Marigold needed at the moment. “Isn’t someone at Harrow looking after them?”

She nodded, her chest still constrained. “They require little care at this time of year. The hive is mostly self-sufficient. The gamekeeper agreed to check it every week and write if anything is amiss, but I d-d-doubt I could make it b-back in time to p-protect them.”

Lily shuddered, but gave her sister an affectionate look. “I can’t understand what you see in those things. One isn’t a bother, but an entire swarm?”

“They’re p-peaceful,” Marigold protested. More accurately, when she was with her bees, her mind was peaceful, as the hive required her to be composed and calm in their midst. When the rest of her world seemed to spin on an axis of anxiety, the bees demanded tranquility and forced her to see order in chaos .

Two years ago, a colony had taken up residence in a dead tree beyond the gardens. Marigold (or more accurately, the fascinated Reggie) had sought the aid of a local apiculturist who’d transferred the colony to an artificial hive closer to the kitchen gardens. The bees became Marigold’s passion, a hobby appropriate to a gentlewoman.

A rumble of laughter came from Lily’s throat. “I keep picturing that buffoon coming back from trying to destroy the hive, covered in stings. Is he still terrified of it?”

Marigold forced a smile. “He is.”

Once, when the marquess returned from a morning ride having been stung on the hand, he’d taken a cane to the sturdy wood structure to destroy the nest. The bees wanted no part of his disruption, leaving every exposed inch of his skin covered in stings.

When relaying the tale to her sister, however, Marigold had left out several pertinent details.

How she’d sobbed in terror as he stalked towards the colony. The malicious glint in his narrowed eyes as her pleas fell on deaf ears. How, when she’d offered to help him treat the wounds, he’d ordered her locked in her bedchamber without supper.

How, whenever Marigold committed some lapse, he would order Addington to build a bonfire under the elevated hive, then stand at the garden’s edge with a lit torch while she begged for forgiveness.

She held those shameful parts secret .

Lily’s lips spread in a malicious grin. “I’d like to strip the oaf naked and tie him to that hive and sit back and enjoy a whisky while he screams.”

Marigold choked out a laugh. “Gracious, that’s sp-specific. And d-dark.”

Lily shrugged. “I’ve had ample time to devise ways to punish wayward husbands.”

“Seeing the marquess in the nude would be more p-punishment for you than my b-bees could cause.”

A shudder racked Lily’s sturdy frame. “Very true. He has to pay women to see him naked.” She winced. “Christ, that was horrid. I’m sorry.”

“D-don’t be.” Marigold sighed, squinted at the play on the field, the streaks of burgundy and black, green and white blurring into impressionist nothingness. “I haven’t heard any rumors of him straying recently, b-but I’m sure he is.” Having caught him in the act once before, she preferred not to know if he kept a woman on the side. Best not to confirm another area where she’d fallen short.

“You’ll want to find out. You can use it against him in court.”

Lily left if you can find a barrister unsaid. Marigold had cultivated a list of the finest barristers in northern England and set out writing to each one, certain she’d have no issue finding legal representation.

Most never responded to her inquiries, and the others rejected her outright.

Sensing her hopes for a simple resolution dissolving into mist, Marigold had gathered up her children and fled to her sister’s estate in Lancashire where Reggie ensconced himself in the library and Matthew clung to his aunt’s side like an overactive shadow, before their mother whisked the boys off to America to give Marigold some peace.

And Marigold worried. About Reggie, with his insatiable and complicated mind, and how he would survive if his father forced him to attend the unforgiving Felton College. About Matthew and his unfathomable energy and steadfast belief in the kindness of others. About finding someone to help her end the marriage that slowly sliced pieces of her soul away.

“You’re chewing your fingers again.”

Marigold jolted at her sister’s gentle reminder, then withdrew her gloves from her skirt pocket and slid them over her battered fingernails. “Thank you,” she murmured, and Lily nodded, not taking her eyes from the pitch.

“Driving yourself mad with worry won’t help.”

“I need to worry. I can’t find a b-b-barrister.” Marigold chewed on her lower lip, released it before it could grow as raw as her cuticles. “Even if I can, the chances of winning the case are infinitesimal.”

“What if the marquess agreed to divorce you on his own?”

“He never would. I d-don’t think he b-believes I’d leave him.”

Lily pushed her tongue to the inside of her cheek. “You could push the horse’s arse a bit. Noblewomen carry on affairs all the time.”

Marigold recoiled. “I’m not having an affair.”

“You could. Nothing is stopping you. ”

“Except morality! ”

“Pish.” She waited for a pause in the game, then turned to Marigold. “That bastard cheated on you. Many times. Does he have a mistress now?”

Her stomach clenched. “I d-d-don’t know. I can only assume, but I have no p-proof.”

Lily put her hand over Marigold’s and squeezed. “There is nothing you can do to change your circumstances today. But you can enjoy watching grown men act like children over a leather ball.”

Another bone-shaking collision of bodies on the pitch drew Marigold’s grimace. “You’re certain this won’t impact their work at the st-stables?”

“They’ll be sore tomorrow, but everyone will be in good spirits, no matter the outcome. Besides, it’s a delight ribbing them for missed passes— pass it UP, for God’s sake!”

She cut off with an oath that would make a sailor blush as the same opposing player from before broke free with the ball. He leaped over one of the Hornets, drawing a gasp from Marigold, and stumbled over the end of the pitch. The spectators groaned as the official called what she assumed to be game’s end. The men, heaving for breath, gathered to shake hands and clap each other on the back, as though they hadn’t spent the past hour pummeling each other.

“Well, that’s the end of that.” Lily brushed off her palms and turned to face Marigold. “Now, as your eldest and wisest sister—”

“Why d-do I suspect I won’t like what you’re about t-to say?”

“—I hereby declare you need to enjoy yourself more. Relax.”

“I am enjoying myself.”

“You’re so tense that if I flicked the end of your nose right now, you’d combust.”

“I’m sorry. I have a lot t-to think about.”

“And you’re constantly apologizing when you’ve done no harm. I insist you stop that.” She nodded towards the players collecting their belongings from the side of the pitch. “It’s a tradition for the local team to entertain the opposition after a match. I’m hosting a small gathering at the hunting lodge.”

“By small gathering , you mean you have the staff from the b-big house working?”

Lily waved away the question. “And some musicians up from Lancaster, but it will be fun. I enjoy finding new ways to spend Whit’s money.”

Marigold stilled; her sister mentioning her absent husband was a rarity, and she didn’t miss the tension in Lily’s jaw. “That sounds dreadful.”

“And you will be there.”

“Me?”

“Are you afraid to consort with the riff-raff?”

“I’m not afraid!” She was terrified. “B-but I have nothing to wear for that sort of p-party.” Everything she owned came from the finest modistes in London, but was at least a decade out of style. She stood out for entirely the wrong reasons.

“I’ll lend you something I wear around the barn.”

She cringed. “Not t-t-trousers!”

“Why are you so opposed to trousers?” Lily released a weary sigh. “Fine, I have some simple skirts and blouses, nothing like—” she waved her hand in front of Marigold’s frothy Worth day dress, “— this .”

“I st-still won’t fit in. And I won’t enjoy myself.”

“You don’t know that if you never try! Come with me tonight.” Her lips pulled into a smirk. “I can help you find a man for your torrid affair.”

Marigold gasped, but her gaze caught on the blond player from the opposing side. He was still grinning, chatting with everyone who came close enough to engage with him. Even from a distance, she could be sure this man wouldn’t chew his nails to the quick, nor lose sleep over worry for his family’s future. What might it be like to forget her worries, even for a short while? To pretend no one’s happiness depended on her choices, on her perseverance?

Marigold’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Christ, had she not cried enough already?

“Mari, listen to me. You’ve spent over a decade denying yourself to protect your children, and look where you are. Lonely and miserable. I don’t say this to hurt you, and I’m so proud of you for taking this step.”

Marigold sniffed. “B-but?”

“But you need to do something for yourself. Remind yourself of the woman you are, independent of being a wife and mother.”

A tear broke free. “What if I d-d-don’t know who I am anymore?”

“Then tonight is your chance to find out.”