“I endeavour to be.” Alexander bowed precisely. “Mrs. Coleridge. Miss Coleridge. Gentlemen.”
The ‘gentlemen’ was perhaps generous, but he was attempting civility.
“I trust,” he continued, addressing himself to Ophelia, “that we might walk in the garden as discussed?”
“The garden. Right.” Charles laughed, though it contained no humor. “Our magnificent garden that’s not at all middle-class.”
“Charles,” Mrs. Coleridge warned him again.
“What? We all know what he thinks of us. Might as well acknowledge it.”
“Perhaps,” Ophelia said quietly, rising from her chair, “we could proceed with the walk? Before the conversation devolves further?”
She moved toward the French doors that led to the garden, pausing only to collect a shawl that she probably didn’t need given the warmth of the morning. Alexander noticed her hands were trembling slightly as she arranged it around her shoulders.
“I’ll accompany you,” Mrs. Coleridge said, starting to rise.
“Actually,” Henry interjected, “I think Mary should chaperone. Mother, you look tired.”
Mrs. Coleridge did indeed look tired, though Alexander suspected it had more to do with her sons than any physical exhaustion.
Mary, the housekeeper, appeared as if summoned by magic. A comfortable-looking woman who managed to curtsey to him while still conveying distinct disapproval.
“Shall we?” Ophelia moved toward the doors without waiting for an answer.
The garden was exactly as advertised—chaotic, vibrant, and utterly lacking in proper English restraint. Roses climbed where they shouldn’t, herbs mixed promiscuously with flowers, and yes, there were vegetables. Actual vegetables. Growing where people could see them.
“It’s not magnificent,” Ophelia said, noticing his expression. “But it’s alive.”
“Very… alive,” he managed.
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying disorganized.” She moved down a gravel path that had seen better decades. “Though Isuppose your gardens are all properly regimented? Every blade of grass standing at attention?”
“There’s something to be said for order.”
“And something to be said for freedom. Though I suppose we’re about to give that up, aren’t we?”
The directness of it caught him off-guard. “Miss Coleridge...”
“Shall we sit?” She indicated a bench near what might generously be called a rose arbor but looked more like roses in rebellion. “I have a feeling this conversation requires sitting.”
They sat, Mary positioning herself at a discreet but watchful distance. The silence stretched, broken only by the enthusiastic humming of bees who clearly approved of the garden’s chaos.
“Miss Coleridge,” Alexander began, then stopped. The speech he’d practiced seemed suddenly ridiculous. “I suppose we should discuss… that is, we need to address…”
“The proposal?” she supplied helpfully. “Indeed, I thought that might be on the list.”
“You’re very direct.”
“Would you prefer if I were indirect? I could flutter my fan and speak in riddles if that would help.”
“Do you have a fan?”
“No. I’ve never mastered the art of fan communication. Too many signals to remember. What if I accidentally indicated I was desperately in love when I meant to say it’s warm today?”
Despite himself, Alexander felt his mouth twitch. “That would be unfortunate.”
“Especially given our circumstances.” She smoothed her skirts, the gesture betraying her nervousness despite her calm tone. “Shall we proceed with the business at hand?”
