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William.
He went into the room and saw his son laying on the floor, his cards spread out all around him. He did not need to know the details of what happened to recognise that he was in a rage. A deep despair. And that Briggs was responsible for it.
And it broke him.
He sat down on the floor, his own misery beginning to overtake him. He was starting to lose hold of all that held him to the earth.
‘William,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? William.’
He was met with nothing but tears.
‘I am sorry.’ On his hands and knees he began to pick the cards up and put them back in the box. Carefully. With all the reverence he showed his flowers.
All the reverence his father had never shown any of his things.
‘I should not have made you feel badly about these. I was scared for you. Because those children were unkind. B
ut they simply don’t understand. And you will find someone. Someone who will. A friend.’ He thought of Hugh. ‘A wife. And in the meantime, you have me. And you have Beatrice. We understand you. And we... We are very proud of you. And all of the things that you know. All of the things that you are. I was afraid because... I was afraid because I’m like you. I know a great many things about my flowers that I grow in the greenhouse. And I am interested in all of the details. But so many people are not. And I decided to make myself different so that I would not be scorned. But it did not make me happy. My orchids make me happy. What makes me different makes me happy.’
His son had quieted now. And was looking at him. He did not know if the boy understood.
Then suddenly William’s arms were around his neck. Holding him tight. ‘I love you.’
And he felt as if he had been taken out at the knees. Two people loved him. And had told him so. In the space of just a few hours. And he could scarcely breathe.
And it seemed so clear now. What he must do. He had to be a warrior. Just like Beatrice.
‘I love you too.’
Chapter Eighteen
Beatrice was determined. To demand nothing of Philip. To not push. Because she thought deeply about what he’d said. About the ways he had felt like he must change. And she did not wish to do that to him.
She wanted to accept him. Just as he was. She wanted to be a gift to him. Not a burden.
She was sitting in the morning room when he came in.
‘Beatrice,’ he said. He was wearing the clothes he had been wearing the night before, the neckline of his shirt open. His beard was overgrown. He looked tired.
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course I will.’
He held his hand out, and she took it. He led her outside into the garden, but she had the sense he was not leading her down the garden path.
Not the way that he had done the night of the ball. No. He was leading her to his greenhouse.
‘I want to show you.’
And he did. Every plant. Every name. Latin and English. All the ways that they were taken care of. Trivia about how they were discovered. All of it was in his brain.
‘Which is your favourite?’
‘I do not have a favourite. They are all of equal fascination to me.’
‘You were brilliant.’
‘There is nothing useful about orchids.’
