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Affectionately Yours,
Megs
A typical missive from her: quick, witty, full of the life she’d made for herself at his country estate.
Full of life itself.
Carefully, he folded the letter and placed it back with its brethren. He couldn’t betray Clara and the memory of their love, but that didn’t stop the fact that he was lying by omission to Margaret. The truth was that he’d not been unmoved by her embrace. Her kiss had been so essentially her: unplanned, reckless, without studied skill—and all the more erotic because of it.
She made something deep inside of him wake and stir as if he still lived and had hope for this life.
Godric closed the drawer and carefully locked it before pulling off his banyan and nightshirt. He blew out the candles and climbed into his cold bed nude, turning on his side to stare at the dying fire.
No matter how seductive Margaret’s offer of life was, it was an illusion.
He’d died the night Clara last drew breath.
“THAT THERE TREE is dead, m’lady,” Higgins the gardener said with absolute certainty the next morning. To emphasize his point, he spat into the decayed leaf litter that blanketed Saint House’s garden.
Or what was left of its garden.
Megs regarded the tree. It was without a doubt one of the ugliest specimens she’d ever seen. At one point it had been some type of fruit tree, but age and neglect had twisted the heavy lower branches. At the same time, thin, whiplike water sprouts had shot up all over the limbs and suckers crowded the base.
“It might not be dead,” she said with very little conviction. “It’s been a cold spring.”
Higgins grunted with patent disbelief.
The tree stood in the center of the garden. Without it, there would be no vertical interest.
She took a twig and bent it. It came off with a snap and she examined the center. Brown. The tree certainly looked dead.
Megs tossed aside the broken twig with a grimace. Dead. Well, she was tired of dead. Tired of a certain someone refusing to help her produce life. If she couldn’t convince him—yet—to fall in with her plans, well then she’d occupy herself with other matters in the meantime.
“Cut away all these suckers and water sprouts,” she ordered Higgins, ignoring the gardener’s ominous throat clearing. Megs fingered a brown, twisting vine wrapped around the tree’s trunk. “And cut away whatever this is.”
“M’lady …,” Higgins began.
“Please?” She glanced at him. “I know I’m being silly, but even if it’s dead, we can grow a … a climbing rose up it. Or something similar. I just don’t want to give up quite yet.”
Higgins heaved a deep sigh. He was a bandy-legged man of fifty or so, his upper chest and shoulders heavy and slightly bent forward as if his lower half had trouble carrying the weight of the upper. Higgins had quite definite ideas of garden care—ideas that had meant he’d been let go from more than one position. In fact, he’d been without work when Upper Hornsfield’s vicar had reluctantly given his name to Megs. She’d been looking for an experienced gardener to oversee the renovations at Laurelwood, and though she’d never once seen Higgins smile, she’d always been glad of the impulse that had made her hire him. He might be blunt, but he knew his plants.
“It’s a fool idea, right enough, but I’ll do it, m’lady,” he muttered now.
“Thank you, Higgins.” She smiled at him, feeling affectionate.
He couldn’t help being an old curmudgeon, and she rather thought the fact that in a year and a half of employment he hadn’t yet threatened to quit meant he must like her as well.
Or at least it was nice to think so.
“What about that bed there?” She pointed and soon Higgins was scratching his head and giving his blunt opinion of the rather scraggly looking boxwoods lining the garden.
Megs nodded and looked thoughtful as she half listened. The day was sunny and a bit brisk, and really, meandering around a tumbledown garden was a wonderful way to spend a morning. She’d suffered a setback with her baby plans last night, it was true, but that didn’t mean she was finished by a long shot. Somehow she’d find a way to work around Godric’s reluctance or—
Well, she could have an affair, she supposed. That was what some women in her position—assuming there was anyone else in a position like hers—would do.
But as soon as the notion entered her mind, she rejected it out of hand. No matter her great urge to have a child, she simply couldn’t do that to Godric. It was one thing to marry because of an unwed pregnancy; it was quite another to deliberately cuckold a man she’d pledged herself to in front of friends and family. Even if that man was being quite pigheaded.
Megs’s shoulders slumped. She was being unfair to Godric, she knew. The hard thing was that she understood. She, too, had loved someone desperately, had felt half dead when he’d died. For a moment, the thought brought her up short: Was she betraying Roger by wanting to create life without him? By wanting to do that with another man?
