Page 60 of A Duchess for his Family

“I read that its petals were once used in medicines as well as preserves and rose-water,” she mused. “And that it tolerates poorer soil better than many of the newer varieties.”

Mr. Wilkes regarded her with sudden attention. “That is correct.”

Marjorie looked between them. “I knew that.”

Amelia gave her a doubtful glance. “You called it ‘the red one.’”

“It is red.”

Mr. Wilkes made a low sound in his throat. Sophia suspected it was a laugh that had been denied permission to escape. She kept asking about the garden, and Mr. Wilkes kept pretending he did not enjoy answering her. At first, his replies were short and practical. The rose against the eastern wall flowered only once. The lavender border needed cutting after blooming. The foxgloves had planted themselves and would be tolerated so long as they remained respectful of the path.

But with each question, his answers grew longer. Within several minutes, he was explaining why certain roses flowered on old wood, how the southern border retained warmth after sunset, and why one must never water lavender too generously merely because the rest of the garden looked thirsty.

He showed Sophia a cluster of pale auriculas sheltered beneath a small wooden frame. “A late frost nearly destroyed the lot three years ago,” he explained. “Covered them with straw mats before midnight. Peters said I had lost my senses.”

“And had you?”

“Not regarding the auriculas.”

Marjorie picked up one of the small gloves from the wall. “He stayed outside until morning.”

Mr. Wilkes looked offended. “Someone had to watch the temperature.”

Amelia added. “Cook sent him coffee.”

“She sent dishwater in a cup.”

“You drank three of them.”

“A man must sometimes endure hardship.”

Sophia looked at the delicate plants. “They were worth saving.”

The gardener’s gaze moved to her face. For a moment, his habitual irritation vanished entirely. “Yes,” he said. “They were.”

He cleared his throat and led them onward. Sophia followed, with the girls on either side of her. She expected to feel foolish asking questions of a man who had spent his life cultivating the estate. Books could describe a flower's structure and the conditions it preferred, but they could not replace decades spent watching the soil change beneath rain, frost, and human hands.

Yet Mr. Wilkes never treated her curiosity as foolish. He corrected her twice, approved of her once, and grunted in a manner which Sophia was beginning to understand meant she had said something sensible. At last, he stopped before a bed of tall blue campanulas.

“You know a surprising amount, Your Grace,” he admitted.

Sophia turned from the flowers. “Do I?”

“More than most people who come through that gate.”

“Perhaps they are too intimidated to speak.”

“They should be.”

“Mr. Wilkes,” Amelia whispered, though she looked amused.

He ignored her. “Most ladies ask which flower best matches their drawing room.”

“I should not know how to answer that.”

“Neither should the flower.”

Sophia laughed softly.