Page 40 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)
“ I think they hate me.”
Marigold looked over her shoulder at Archie, who’d frozen at the sight of the hives. “They don’t hate you, and they won’t harm you.”
He stepped closer at her tug of his hand, but she didn’t miss the dread in his wide-eyed expression. “Even if they know I’m taking you away?”
A quick stab of regret pierced her skin. “They’ll b-be fine without me.”
They’d arrived at Harrow Hall by carriage, Marigold’s pulse ratcheting higher with each rotation of the wheels until she was trembling. Archie held her hand as they bypassed the house and manicured gardens to her hive, and she suspected he’d stay by her side as long as she needed .
Archie inched closer, clinging to her hand like a lifeline, the tremors of his nerves distinguishable through the thick canvas of her beekeeping clothing. “I still think I should apologize.”
She sensed the vibration in the air before she heard it, the subtle shift, the knowledge that a powerful force lay just out of reach, capable of creation and destruction, waiting for a sign to tip one way or the other. And yet, she walked on.
Archie stood at her back, tense, but he kept a hand on her waist, as though prepared to scoop her up and run from harm at the slightest provocation. “Remind me why I need to be here?”
“It’s tradition,” she said as she dropped her beekeeping hood on the grass beside them. “Bees work for the good of the household and should be told of significant events. Births, d-deaths…” She swallowed as a lump grew in her throat. “Departures.”
His hand flexed on her side. “I love you.”
She leaned back against the solidity of his chest, absorbing some of his strength. “I love you,” she whispered, wishing she didn’t have to say goodbye to one thing she loved to gain another. But the nature of change invoked mourning, an unbinding of what she’d known to make room for the new.
She cleared her throat. “The marquess and I are no longer married. That p-probably makes you happy, since you never liked him.” The buzzing seemed to grow louder, as though the hive was voicing its agreement. “B-but that means I’m leaving here and not returning.” Her eyes burned, and she stopped, gathered herself.
“I’d like to introduce you to someone special,” she began. “This is Archie.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, reassuring herself that he hadn’t left, wouldn’t leave her. “I’ve b-been lonely for so long, and with him I won’t be. I love him.”
She slipped the hood over her head, her vision blurring from the mesh and her budding tears as she stepped forward. Archie’s hand fell away. “So I’m saying goodbye. I have my freedom now, and you should have yours.”
“Marigold,” he said, the word tight with warning and a healthy dose of trepidation.
She refused to look back when nothing could change what she had to do. The slim crowbar felt impossibly heavy in her palm, but she wedged it under the lid, pulling and pushing until the propolis sealing the cracks broke, and lifted. The bees didn’t react; there was no rush to their newfound independence, merely a lazy observation. It wasn’t enough to be granted freedom. One must grasp it, take the leap of fear and faith until you can hold it close to your breast, cherish it for its scarcity and wonder.
As she retreated, a hum rose from the hive, and she wanted to believe it was gratitude, or perhaps well wishes. But instead of being alone when she had finally left her bees behind, Archie was there, removing her hood and gloves with tender hands, cupping her neck and kissing her with a quiet adoration. With pride.
“You’re so strong, love,” he whispered against her tangled hair.
“Far from it.” She pushed a tear from her cheek and gave him a watery smile. “Let’s go—”
The French doors connecting the terrace to the main house slammed with enough force to make her jump, and a moment later she recognized the figure storming towards her through the gardens.
A growl rose from Archie’s throat, but she put her hand out to stop him from moving. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he snarled, but she shook her head.
She swallowed hard and turned to face the man she loved. “I need to do this.”
Archie’s spine was stiff, a solid buttress for her to crumble against or allow her to soar to cathedral-like heights. “Would you like me to go with you?”
“No. I’ll face him alone.” She pulled back and met his cautious gaze. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
Her feet didn’t believe her sanguine words, dragging with each step towards her former husband, meeting at the edge of the wild fields surrounding the hives and the manicured gardens.
She held his gaze with a boldness that surprised her. She was his equal now, not in the eyes of society but in the bedrock of her soul.
Blotchy pink stained his cheeks as he glared. “What in the devil are you doing here?”
Familiar tremors began climbing up her legs like insidious vines, but she stepped forward, snapped them in twain. “I came to say goodbye.”
He scoffed, his nose wrinkling as though he smelled something putrid. “You said everything in that sham of a trial—”
“I didn’t come for you. I came for the bees. They’re free now, as am I.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then get off— ”
“I have far more to say.” She didn’t stutter, and to her amazement, he froze. He listened.
“I wanted to be a perfect wife for you. The p-perfect mother for your sons. A single kind word, an acknowledgement of my humanity, would have meant the world.”
His nostrils flared, but he remained silent.
“I asked myself what I could have d-done to make you happy, but there was nothing. And I would have let that continue if it hadn’t been for our children.” She stepped closer, the fire in her belly growing to a conflagration, ready to consume him, to reduce what lingered of their relationship to ashes. “You are still and will forever be their father. Reggie will be the next marquess. And because of that, you can never be rid of me. You will never forget me, never be able to ignore me. But I can and will ignore you.”
“You fucking bitch,” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. “How dare you—”
“ I dare,” she hissed, “because your cruelty did exactly what you didn’t want—it made me fearless. And nothing you do or say can touch me anymore.”
With one last glare, she turned, carried her trembling body away from her former husband, her former life, away from the tidy gardens and into the wild of Archie’s arms.
“Christ, I’m proud of you,” he said, his lips pressing to her temple as he rubbed her back.
A sob escaped, and she leaned against him for a moment longer. “I’m proud of us,” she whispered .
He held her until they were in the carriage and she sobbed, tears of relief, of gratitude, of grief. Of the pain of stitching herself back together, knowing better days awaited her, if she was brave enough to grasp them.