Page 76 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

“No.” His voice cracked. He stuttered over nearly every word he tried to say next, but trusted she would understand. “That is the worst part. If she were angry, I could amend it. But this felt like losing her without knowing where I mis-stepped.”

Lady Hartwell touched his sleeve with a light hand. “My son. You carry your worries with such a sensitive heart. You always have. But you always pretend it does not hurt you. Even when I can see it does.”

He looked away, blinking hard. After he kept hold of his composure, he managed to say, “I would like to send her something. Flowers, perhaps. Something that might convey—” He broke off helplessly.

“That you care for her?” his mother offered.

He nodded once.

She turned back to her roses, inhaling the fading scent. “Roses speak nearly every sentiment, depending on their color. And I have taught you what I know of other blossoms and their meaning. But Lyness…” She plucked a small, near-withered bloom and held it between them. “Emily does not need a message chosen from a gardener’s dictionary.”

He frowned at the dark and dying bloom. “Then what do I give her?”

She smiled, a touch sad, a touch fond. “My heart has always spoken in petals and blossoms. Your heart speaks in strokes of ink and beautiful words, my dear.”

“My stammer⁠—”

“She does not seem to mind it, that I have noticed.” She lowered the bruised rose and regarded him with drawn eyebrows. “Use the talent that you love, the gift you have, to tell her how you feel. At least as a start.”

His heart squeezed and he shook his head. “A letter?”

“Not merely a letter, Lyness. You are a calligrapher before you are anything else. Your heart speaks in lines and flourishes, as well as beautiful words. If you wish to reach her—write to her. Not out of duty or courtesy, not copying the poems of other men. Use your words. Tell her what is in your heart.” Her fingers brushed his arm. “Tell her the truth.”

Lyness closed his eyes. “What truth?”

“That you care for her,” she said simply. “That you are not indifferent. That you wish to understand what troubles her. These are sentiments a woman needs to hear from the man she is to marry. Tell her how you feel about the future you will build together.”

He went still as he once more remembered Emily’s pale face. Her trembling voice. Her retreating figure. All of it had wrapped around his heart like a thorned vine, prickling and painful.

“And Lyness?” his mother added, stepping close enough to straighten the line of his cravat the way she had when he was a boy. “You deserve joy. You deserve love. I know you doubt that. I can see it.”

A soft, choked sound escaped him. He shook his head.

“My only hope and my greatest joy,” she whispered, “is to see my children happy.”

Lyness bowed his head, eyes burning. “I want to be worthy of her.”

“You are,” she said firmly. “But she needs to know how you feel. And that must come from your own hand, not my gardens.”

He nodded slowly. “I will write to her,” he said. “Tonight.”

His mother squeezed his hand once, then put her arm through his and walked with him through the garden, showing him her favorite blooms, and giving him time to order his thoughts.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The morning light in the herb garden painted everything a pale gold, warming the stones edging Juniper’s neat beds of lavender, chamomile, and rosemary. Dew clung to the leaves like jewels on a duchess, turning each plant into a treasure both delicate and lovely. Emily had always loved the early hours before expectations stirred, before anyone asked anything of her.

This morning, she wasn’t alone. Her parents kept her company.

She moved slowly along the path, the basket at her elbow filled with cuttings she intended to dry or press. Her parents followed a few steps behind, her mother stopping every so often to admire a blossom, her father muttering about missing country mornings while living in London.

“Well now,” her father said at last, folding his arms and looking about with narrowed eyes, “you have an excellent garden.” His tone tried for gruff indifference, but she recognized the effort he made. He hated titles and hated having to wear his best coats so regularly. But he loved his children. He tried, every day, to prove it.

“It is lovely, Emily,” her mother murmured, brushing her fingers over the head of a chamomile plant. “I had worried you would not find your footing in a new place without us, but this feels like you.” She smiled and adjusted the bonnet she wore. “Drying flowers and mixing salves again. I am glad you haven’t left your old skills behind.”

Emily returned the smile, but the corners of it faltered. “It has been comforting,” she admitted, arranging the sprigs in her basket unnecessarily.

Her father grunted. “Good, good. Better than all that nonsense in London, with ladies fluttering about like jeweled pigeons.” He shot a look at her mother. “This place makes me miss the farm. At least cows don’t whisper behind fans.”