Page 20 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)
“ I s she dead?”
Archie shot his youngest sister a glare. “She’s sleeping. And it’s not your business.”
He’d crept past Marigold’s sleeping form just before dawn—when she’d unlocked the door, he didn’t know, which was likely for the best. His morning chores accomplished, Eloise found the perfect time to strike with her interrogation.
She gave a pointed look at the mantle clock. “I didn’t think it was possible to sleep this late. What did she do last night?”
Archie nearly spat out the coffee he’d been drinking, settled on choking. He wiped the dark liquid from his shirt and turned his back on his sister, knowing his cheeks were blazing. “Leave her be, El.”
“Is she lazy?”
“No, and hush!” Archie hissed. “She’s accustomed to different hours. ”
“But we’re going to be late for church, and I hate when Father Mackland glares at us.”
“I can always drop you off and come back,” Archie said, including a mental prayer for that exact result. He needed some time alone with Marigold to talk about what had happened last night, what it meant, if anything.
“That’s not fair!” Eloise’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “If you’re not going to church, neither am I!”
“That’s enough,” his mum said, sweeping into the room with Samantha on her heels. His sister must have taken fashion cues from Marigold, because she’d stuck several feathers and flowers from their garden in the brim of her church hat, but the whole thing must be off-kilter because she was walking at a glacial pace with her hands extended to the sides.
Eloise snorted. “What died and landed on your head?”
Samantha tried a dignified lift of her chin but it unbalanced her headwear, and she slapped a hand on top of an unsuspecting daisy to stabilize it. “It’s the latest in fashion. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Hmm. Is that why there’s a literal bee on your bonnet?”
“Girls—” his mother chastised.
“G-good morning.”
All four Grants swung their attention to the newcomer, and Marigold’s cheeks flushed pink. “I’m sorry t-to interrupt.”
She’s stammering again. His heart clenched, then dropped to somewhere near his navel. “You’re not interrupting. ”
The corner of her mouth pulled up as she held his gaze, then she looked to Samantha. “What a lovely hat,” she said. “B-but I wondered if you might like this one instead.”
She extended her silk and tulle monstrosity—dented a bit, but otherwise intact—in his sister’s direction, and the young woman nearly swooned.
“For me?”
His mother was beaming as well. Eloise huffed and crossed her arms over her chest.
“It suits you,” Marigold said, stepping close to assist Samantha with removing her hat and replacing it with the far finer one.
Samantha’s eyes sparkled when Marigold stepped back. “Thank you,” she said, bouncing on her toes.
Archie felt a pang of self-loathing. His sisters deserved nice things—perhaps not a hat of that nature, but at least new dresses now and again, a roof that wasn’t constantly in need of repair, the incessant fear that one bad harvest season could take away their livelihood. His mother deserved to rest; she’d spent three decades raising children, and he hadn’t missed how she pressed her hands to the small of her back and winced, or how her knuckles swelled in the evenings.
He needed this case, Marigold’s case, if he was going to provide what they deserved.
And for that to happen, he couldn’t have Marigold. She would never stay in England, and he could never leave.
The thought sliced through his gut, digging his heart out from that place behind his navel.
It continued to scratch at his insides as he piloted their cart—the Grant’s carriage had been sold years ago—the half-hour journey into Rotherham. He was packed on the bench beside his mother and Marigold, his thigh pressed against her side, with his sisters in the back. Samantha made it a point to wave to everyone they passed, preening under the brim of her new hat.
His impulsivity had gotten the best of him again, like it had when he’d quit the security of Chapin and Banes and left his family out to dry. He was selfish to risk not only his mother and sisters’ well-being but also Marigold’s, for a moment of lust. The potential for more between them gleamed, but was utterly unattainable.
He would take the blow, but knowing how he would hurt Marigold gutted him.
By the time they reached the coaching inn, his insides had shredded to ribbons. Marigold’s coachman waited in the courtyard, his relief palpable when he saw her. Archie helped her down from the bench as she launched into tremulous apologies, and the servant was helping her into the carriage when Archie stopped her with a hand to her elbow.
“Milady, may I have a word?” He cast a quick glance at the coachman. The man seemed to understand and made himself scarce, checking once more the fastenings of the harness.
Archie exhaled sharply and lowered his voice. “What happened last night…”
Twin splotches of pink bloomed on her cheekbones. “You shouldn’t mention it. ”
He watched for any signs of discomfiture, noting how she plucked at the fingertips of her gloves. Her unease made his ribs tighten, and his hands trembled with the urge to fix it. “I need to. I don’t regret it, but… but it can’t happen again.” Her steady gaze fixed on his sternum, as though she could see his heart tearing open, so he barreled on. “There’s too much risk for both of us.”
Her nod was hollow, an agreement merely to avoid conflict, and he hated it. Her acquiescence was more offensive than if she’d fought him.
“It’s for the b-b-best,” she said, meeting his eyes after a weighted pause. The color in her cheeks was gone, replaced by the pale mien he’d first seen in his office when she had come for his help.
What a failure he was. He’s brought her to the farm to give her space to think, to clarify what she wanted, and he’d left her weaker than she was before, confused and distant.
“Marigold, I—”
“Thank you for the visit, Mr. Grant,” she interrupted, her voice odd, as though she were putting on a pantomime of a proper society matron. “P-p-please thank your mother for the hospitality.”
“I will. And we will speak again in York.”
He tried not to watch her carriage pull away, but it was almost out of sight when Samantha startled him by saying his name from the back of the cart.
“Are you well, brother?”
His chuckle was dark, and he tugged off his hat before he carded his hand through his curls. “I don’t know. ”
She nodded with more wisdom than a seventeen-year-old girl should possess. “If it helps, I think I fell in love with her, too.”