Page 114 of Lady Waldrey’s Gardening Almanac for Cultivating Scandal

Hortense nodded.

“Then what on earth is the problem?”

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her eyes welling with tears once more. “What if it all goes wrong? What if we have those four children and then he runs off, or becomes a drunk, or dies?”

Candace gathered her in her arms and hugged her. “Then you will pack up your four children and come to me, wherever I am. There will always be a place for you with me. And your children, too. You know we always need more stable boys, and the head groom likes to train them up right nearly from birth. Or if you’d rather, I’ll write Percy and he’ll get you on here. One of Mrs. Penn’s daughters wears her baby in a sling when she cleans and lets the wee one run wild in the back garden when she’s working. We’ll figure it out if the worst happens. You’re not alone.”

Hortense clung to her. “Thank you, my lady.”

They stood like that for long moments, until Candace sensed a break in the emotional storm and set Hortense back by the shoulders.

“But let me tell you this. I’ve become acquainted with true regret these past months. There is nothing so bitter as what might have been. If Thomas loves you, and you love him, you must accept him. Otherwise, in two years, or five, we’ll be back in this very village, and you’ll see him walk by with a wife and a child or two, and you’ll dearly regret that someone else had the courage to live the life that should have been yours.”

Hortense nodded, sniffling, then honked so loudly into the handkerchief that Candace jumped.

“Just...dear heavens. Don’t do that in front of him until you’re well and truly married.”

By the time they arrived in the village, Hortense had set herself to rights. Other than a slight flush to her cheeks, she exhibited no signs she’d been crying. Candace longed to ask her if she’d come to a decision—happiness was even more fond of company than misery—but she held her tongue. Thomas deserved to be the first to hear such news, not her.

“We need to see if we can procure more bunting,” Candace said, as much to redirect her own attention as anything. “Perhaps Mr. Harris has more of the blue, yellow, and white, but if not, I suppose we’ll have to settle for adding green or purple to the mix.”

Candace pushed her way through the shop door, the bell clanging overhead.

“Either will be lovely, my lady.” Hortense mumbled. Her eyes roamed the store, most likely searching for the tall frame of Thomas.

“Who would have thought that we’d need such a great quantity of bunting for a country picnic?” Candace said over her shoulder.

“A country picnic?” a shrill voice—one straight out of Candace’s nightmarish memories—said.

Candace stiffened and turned, a practised smile upon her face. It was Daisy Knope, standing in the narrow aisle of Mr. Harris’s shop. Her head nearly swam with the shock of it.

What was she doing here?

“Miss Knope,” Candace nodded her head as little as possible without technically slighting the woman. “What brings you to this part of the country?”

“We are guests of the Duke of Canterbury, of course. Lovely to see you, Candace—we all wondered where you’d run to after that debacle with poor Shelbourne.”

Candace stiffened at the casual use of her given name. She and Daisy weren’t close, and the little shrew knew it. It was a set-down, just like the rest of her speech.

Poor Shelbourne, indeed.

Still, Candace’s mind swirled. Hadn’t James said he was inviting gentlemen—specifically, the unattached set—to see if any of them had interest in Vera? She longed to have time alone with him to clear up this misunderstanding.

“It’s a beautiful part of the country,” she said instead.

“What’s this about a picnic?” a second young lady pressed, stepping forward.

“Candace, allow me to introduce Miss Martha Ritten,” Daisy said.

Miss Ritten was dark-haired, pretty, with a delicate, upturned nose. Candace hated that these ladies currently sheltered under the same roof as James, but she comforted herself with the fact that he was courting her.

“You should absolutely join us for the picnic,” Candace found herself saying. Good manners dictated the invitation be extended, but right then, Candace wished she could punt good manners straight into the ocean. “This Sunday afternoon. We’ll be touring the refurbished gardens at Devon Manor.”

“How quaint,” Miss Ritten said, her words dripping with false sincerity.

The conversation stalled like a carriage wheel mired in mud. Candace wanted to shift under the discomfort of the awkward silence and cast about for something to say.

“When did you arrive?” she asked, choosing the most benign question possible.