Page 24 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

M arigold scanned every window of the train as it passed, its white smoke billowing out around her skirts and tangling the muslin about her ankles. Her nose stung with the tang of soot and ash, but she still stepped closer. The train’s panels whipped by far too quickly for her to see with any clarity, and she clutched the reticule in her hands, digging her fingernails into the fabric as the compartments rolled to a stop.

Something in her heart had been disjointed for the past two months, as though she’d forgotten misplaced vitally important. But she knew what was missing.

“Mama!”

She turned just in time to collide with a wall of boy, his honey-blond hair pressed to her sternum. “Oh, hello, my darling.” She pushed him back by the shoulders and kissed the crown of his head. “Have you gotten taller? ”

Matthew lifted his chin and beamed, revealing a gap where a tooth had been when she’d last seen him. A pang struck her chest; how much had she missed while they were away?

How much would she miss if they were taken from her?

“I am taller, and look what Uncle Alex helped me make!” He pulled a whittled wooden figure from his pocket, one she belatedly recognized as canine in form.

“It looks just like Grandpapa’s spaniels!”

Matthew’s grin lit up his soft amber eyes, and she wrapped her arms around him once more, the disturbance in her breast settling a bit. But not entirely.

She looked up to see her mother, the children’s nanny, and her eldest son striding towards them, Reggie dragging a cart bearing their trunks. Her heart skipped and clenched. Had he grown three years in the months he was away, or had the change from boy to young man happened so gradually she hadn’t noticed?

Reggie tolerated her brief embrace, and she let herself get a better look at him. His hair was longer, hanging around his ears and curling over his collar. She could see the man he would become in the strength of his brow, the cut of his jaw, despite the awkward angles of his limbs and concave chest. “I’ve missed you, my love.”

“I missed you too, Mum.”

Marigold’s eyes stung as she looked at him. He had learned what to say, the appropriate response on the tip of his tongue like the sum of a mathematics problem, devoid of emotion and deeper meaning. Was she entirely wrong about him? Would he even miss her if he were to attend Felton ?

“Darling, how are you?” her mother said, wrapping Marigold in the circle of her arms and breaking her free from her spiraling thoughts.

Her exhalation was shaky. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said, not quite answering the question.

Based on the look her mother gave Marigold, she noticed. “Come, let’s get some tea. The boys are starving, but they’re always starving.”

Within moments their luggage was on its way to her townhouse, her mother had provided excruciating detail about how her youngest sister had settled into motherhood, and they sat tucked in a booth in Betsy’s Tea Room while the children and Nanny Emerson explored the confectionery next door.

Her mother sniffed her tea and took a sip, her eyes rolling back in pleasure. “I’ll never understand the Americans’ obsession with coffee.”

Marigold paused to admire the woman who raised her. A beauty even in her sixth decade, Lady Clara Waverly, the Viscountess Redbourne, was slight in stature, but carried herself like a much taller woman. Her dark hair was now streaked with silver beneath her hat (Samantha would have adored it), and when she smiled, the small gap between her front teeth flashed. The boys delighted in spending time with their Grandmama, as she was always overflowing with affection, handing out embraces, kisses, and sweets like a benevolent queen. “Thank you again for taking the boys. ”

“It was beyond a pleasure. Matthew told me about learning to play cricket, and Reggie taught me all sorts of tricks in chess, and together we’re making a plan to rout your father.”

Marigold grinned, a fair measure of her anxiety shedding from her skin. Her father, the viscount, was a well-known anomaly in Britain’s haute monde —an aristocrat head-over-heels in love with his wife. “How is Papa?”

Her mother’s lips flattened, though the edges turned up, like they couldn’t resist a smile. “I think he’s found a way out of this mess. Lord Trembly is selling a large swath of his estate to us for a pittance. It’s the most profitable portion of his lands, and I can’t imagine why he’s doing it.”

Tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying dissolved in her chest. The Waverlys had been on the cusp of financial and social ruin after they’d paid off a bounder who’d threatened to destroy the family—her sister Violet in particular, after discovering she was pregnant out of wedlock. Lord Trembly himself was a close friend of Violet’s and on the verge of moving to Paris with the man he’d fallen in love with that summer. “I’m sure you know, Mama.”

A knowing bob of the head. “That boy was always a good one. But enough about us. That’s not why I wanted to speak to you. How are things with the marquess?”

Marigold gripped her napkin beneath the table, tugging at the neat linen hem with her fingernails. “I have a court d-date.”

Her mother’s eyes popped. “You do? Already?”

She nodded. “August t-tenth.”

“Gracious. Not much time then. ”

“No.” She swallowed hard, knowing the next part would only cause her mother strain. “Filing the case has caused a st-stir in the society p-pages. It will only get worse.”

Her mother stilled her by stretching her arm over the table and catching Marigold’s fingers before they wrapped around her tea cup. “Our family has seen plenty of scandal in the last several months, and I’ll endure a dozen times more if it means my girls are happy.”

She didn’t miss the moisture in the older woman’s lower lashes.

“I can’t be sure I’ll be happy, Mama. We may not win.”

“Who is helping you, dear? Do you have a barrister?”

Her neck and cheeks caught flame. “Um, yes. Mr. Grant, he’s an excellent b-b-barrister.”

“He’s tried divorce cases before, then?”

Blast, it was hot in this infernal tea shop. “No, b-but he’s very intelligent and p-put together a st-strong case.”

Her mother’s brown eyes creased at the edges, but whatever question she harbored went unasked. “Good. As long as you’re supported. Do you know what you’ll do after?”

She cleared her throat, knowing this would not go over well. “I was thinking of moving to America, perhaps Boston, with Fern. I need a fresh start.”

Her mother huffed. “Gracious, what did I do to make you all want to put an ocean between us?”

Marigold opened her mouth to protest, but her mother stopped her with a raised hand. “I’m only teasing, my sweet girl. I will just have to get accustomed to that horrific crossing to see my grandbabies more often.”

Unexpected tears pushed at her throat, and Marigold pulled her lips between her teeth to stem them. “I’m t-terrified. If I win, I have to start my life over. If I lose… I can’t imagine what will happen then.”

Her mother’s delicate brows furrowed. “How can I help you? Should I stay through the trial?”

Marigold shook her head. “Papa must be missing you.” A truth, but her mother would disapprove of whatever was passing between her and Archie. She was a smart woman and would identify the tension between them for what it was.

Desire. Longing.

Perhaps, as she’d wondered while falling asleep by his side as he read to her, could it be love?

“If that’s what you want. I just don’t want you to be alone during this. Will you be?”

Ah, there was the question. “I have the boys, and Nanny Davidson.”

“And your barrister.”

Her breath caught. “Mama—”

Her boys chose that moment—god bless them—to burst back into the tea shop, eyes bright and chins speckled with chocolate. Her mother held Marigold’s gaze, conveying multitudes in their chestnut depths.

But in the end, she said nothing. After all, it was Marigold who needed to do the talking.

Marigold paced back and forth in her parlor, her pinky nail caught between her teeth.

“Mummy?”

She froze and brought her attention to her boys seated on the same spindly settee Archie had occupied when he first visited. She may have felt more nauseated now than she did then. “Yes, Matthew?”

“What’s wrong?” His darling brow was furrowed, so like what Marigold saw in her mirror she wanted to forgo telling them anything, allow them to live in the innocence of childhood for a few hours more.

They need to know , Archie had said, and he was right.

She exhaled in a rush and sat opposite them. “While you were away with your grandmother, I d-decided I should no longer b-b-be married to your father.”

Reggie tilted his head, and Matthew looked aghast. “Does Father want that too?”

“No,” she said. “Your father d-d-doesn’t want this.”

Not because he loves me, but because he doesn’t want to be held accountable for his actions . She swallowed the words. “I have t-to fight, which means I’m going to court in a few weeks to ask a judge to end our marriage. ”

Silence rang for long enough that it started to pulse in her ears, taking on a sound of its own until she wanted something, anything to tear the lack of noise apart.

Finally, Matthew spoke. “Is father sad?”

Marigold recoiled for a moment. “I think he’s surprised.”

Reggie’s nose wrinkled. “He shouldn’t be.”

A bark of laughter fell from her mouth. Her reaction was beyond inappropriate, and based on the expressions of her boys, she’d shocked them. “You’re right,” she managed. “I should have d-done this long ago. B-but that’s why we’re living here and not at Harrow Hall.”

“Will we live here forever?” This from Reggie.

“No, we’ll find a new home, p-perfect for us.” Wherever that may be.

“But what about school? I’m supposed to attend Felton.”

Her stomach flipped. “D-did your father sp-speak to you about it?”

Reggie nodded. “I need to go away to school. I’m a viscount and I need to learn how to be a marquess.”

She shook her head so vigorously her ears rang. “And you’ll be a wonderful marquess, regardless of where you study.” But how will he learn to manage his title if you’re living in America? “ Felton would be a t-terrible place for you.”

“But I know nothing about it,” he interrupted, his tone flat. “I don’t know enough about it, or any school. Nanny said there are schools in London that may be better. ”

Heat began to boil beneath her skin. “ I know, and Felton is wrong for you. You’ll be much happier with Nanny and a t-tutor.”

“Is this why you’re divorcing?” Reggie’s expression had grown tighter. “Because of my schooling?”

“I’ll go to Felton if it makes Father happy,” Matthew suggested.

Her lungs seized, as though they’d forgotten their purpose. She wouldn’t pass any blame on to her sons, not when her decision-making had gotten them into this precarious situation.

“No, b-boys, no.” She sucked in a stabilizing breath. “I’m d-doing this for me. I’m not happy, and your father d-doesn’t make me happy anymore.” If he ever had.

“Who makes you happy, Mama?” Matthew asked.

Lord, but her emotions were being pummeled, one blow after the other. A single name came to her lips, but she bit her tongue to silence it. The reasons for her divorce had become muddled. What started as a desire to keep her child from a destructive school had turned into a quest for her freedom, her fulfillment.

But how could she achieve happiness when the person she wanted most could never be a part of it?

“You make me happy,” she said. “B-both of you. And I’d miss you t-too much if you went away.”

“We’ll have to eventually,” Reggie said, but Marigold got to her feet, knowing she had to end this conversation before her heart broke further.

She cupped his no-longer-plump cheek. “B-but not yet.”