Page 24 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

She looked about her as she slid her hand through the crook of his arm. “She has so many. I think roses are beautiful, of course. One cannot find them otherwise. But I have never been in a garden that has so many.”

“To the exclusion of most other plants,” Lyness said with a shake of his head. “The different varieties cheer her. It means more colors, shapes, and different blooming seasons. At least, a little difference in seasons.”

“It is a good occupation, I think, for anyone to garden. Or to work with living things.” She looked down the row of rosebushes. “It makes me miss my own garden, though it was not so elegant, as an herbal garden.”

That pulled an expression of interest from him, with his head tilted to one side and his eyebrows drawing together. “Herbal? And what did you do with your garden’s bounty?”

“I made things. Useful things.”

“Such as?” A smile tugged at his lips as he asked. “I am curious.”

The genuine interest in his tone and eyes gave her leave to relax. “Simple things. Oils and tinctures. Home remedies for teas and aches. Nothing that would pass for ladylike accomplishment.”

“But my lady, you are mistaken,” he said so quickly she startled. He chuckled and ducked his head. “Forgive my enthusiasm, but ladies of all stations often devote a part of their time to herbal gardens. They make perfumes, medicines, artwork, all of it from their herbs and flowers. Most have stillrooms dedicated to such things, where they can dry their flowers and sort them into bottles or steam them into droughts. Has no one told you this?”

Her eyebrows crept higher with his words, she slowly shook her head. “No. But then, I suppose they were busy telling me all the things that I did not yet know about behavior. And I never thought to ask. I doubt my brother and sister-in-law even know of my interest, with Jack away so much from the family. I have made quite a show of weeding Juniper’s gardens, though.”

“We must amend that at once,” he said quietly. “You ought to have your own stillroom.”

Excitement bloomed in her heart. She had kept a stillroom, which was more the size of a closet, in her father’s country house. She had distilled, steeped, dried, and preserved a variety of things for their family’s use. The house her family had in London had a stillroom, but it was part of the housekeeper’s responsibilities. She had seen it during the tour, and assumed that at her station she was not to bother with it, that only a housekeeper would see to such things in a noble household.

“You do not think it would be presumptuous to ask for one, truly? Or beneath my station to tend to such things?”

He shook his head adamantly. “No. Not at all. And I must confess, my lady, that I now wonder what other things you might enjoy that you have put aside without reason.”

That pulled a soft laugh from her. “I cannot think of much else. I still draw, and that is one of my great joys, though I doubt I will ever feel confident enough to paint. Even though I am told watercolors are quite the thing for ladies.”

“Watercolors, yes. But drawing itself…I do still wish to see more of your work. If you ever find you wish to share it. I am not a great artist⁠—”

Here she interrupted him, a thing that most would consider terribly vulgar, and yet she could not help protesting. “But you are—I saw the placards in the curiosity cabinet your mother keeps. Your hand is elegant. We also agreed at the ruins that calligraphy is its own art.”

Rather than appear put out by her outburst, his smile turned into a broad grin. The first she had seen from him, and she immediately matched it with her own. “I certainly enjoy it, but I cannot call it an art. Roman thinks it a waste of time, and I confess, there is no use for it beyond little things, like my mother’s cabinet.” He nodded in the direction of the house.

“Making words beautiful could never be useless,” she argued immediately. “I would like to see something else you have done, besides those tiny cards for your mother.”

“I would be delighted to show you. If you show me some of your sketches,” he added with a gleam in his eye. “There now. That is a bargain, is it not?”

“No, that is terrible,” she protested, though she could not help coloring the words with a laugh. “Mr. Eastwood, you will find nothing sophisticated in my drawings, I assure you. They are mostly from the countryside. Fields. Hedgerows. And cows, rather more often than I ought to admit. You saw the best of it at the abbey.”

His chuckle warmed her. It was the first time she had heard such unguarded amusement from him. “Then you see beauty where others see labor,” he said. “I think you will be pleasantly surprised by my interest in your art, Lady Emily. I am often at our country house. Indeed, I prefer it to York. I manage my family’s estate while my brother sees to matters in the city and county. I enjoy the work, and it is a somewhat traditional role for younger brothers in my father’s line.”

“It must be fulfilling,” she said, sobering somewhat. “Feeling essential in that way. I rather miss it, at times.”

“Essential. That is the right word for it. Knowing I am protecting my family’s interests and legacy is something.” His smile faded and he looked toward the house. His tone turned wistful. “Sometimes, merely being useful feels like a defense of sorts. It keeps one from being overlooked. Or a burden on the family.”

She met his gaze squarely when he looked at her again, her heart going out to him. “I understand that better than you think.”

For a moment, they were quiet, looking at one another. She studied his gaze, the depth of his eyes, the sweep of his hair, and she wondered what thoughts filled his mind. If she asked, would he tell her? She was thinking, at that moment, of brushing a curl back from his forehead. Of telling him that he was not overlooked. That she saw him. That she rather liked him, too.

Except there was a sudden sound of boots on pavement, and they both turned to see Lord Hartwell coming down the path toward them.

“Ah, here you are, Lady Emily. Lyness. Mother wondered if you had managed to become lost in her garden.” He sounded amused, and when he stopped before the two of them, he looked between them with interest. “Though I admit, it is far nicer out here than in the drawing room at present. There is an argument underway about whether we ought to dance, play charades, or continue in our own pursuits. I think they mean to put it to a vote, and we have need of you both to settle on how to fill the evening.”

Mr. Eastwood had grown stiff as his brother spoke, and withdrew his arm from hers, tucking his hands behind his back. Something about his posture struck her as defensive. The tip of his head, when it occurred, deferential. It wasn’t something she had seen from him before. “Of course. We will come inside at once. We were merely speaking of our enjoyment of fresh air. Country air.”

Lord Hartwell extended his arm to Emily, and she took it after casting a glance at Lyness. “We will have plenty of that at the races soon enough. For now, there is company to keep indoors.”

Something about the moment felt wrong. Stiff. And taking the elder brother’s arm while the younger walked behind them did not sit well with her. The camaraderie with Mr. Eastwood vanished, and she found herself trying to remember her own polite expression and appropriate posture.