Page 61 of A Duchess for his Family

Mr. Wilkes replaced a loosened plant label, though his gaze remained curious. “Where did you learn it all?”

“I love to read. My father’s library had several books on botany, and I fear I read nearly everything that was not locked away.”

“Why would books about flowers be locked away?” Amelia asked.

“They were not. My father’s political pamphlets were.”

“Were they dangerous?” Marjorie asked at once.

“Only to conversation at dinner.”

Mr. Wilkes chuckled openly this time. He appeared surprised by the sound and immediately restored his frown.

He led them to the small beds Amelia and Marjorie had been permitted to tend themselves. Amelia’s contained sweet peas trained upon a neat little frame, with violets and pinks arranged in careful rows. Marjorie’s held three marigolds, one struggling nasturtium, a wooden sword, four polished stones, and what appeared to be a wheel from a toy carriage.

Sophia crouched to examine the marigolds. “They appear healthy.”

Marjorie brightened. “Do you think so?”

“I do.”

The child beamed as though Sophia had praised an entire estate. Beyond the girls’ plots, one section of the garden appeared strangely barren.

The contrast immediately drew Sophia’s eye. Everywhere else, leaves crowded over one another in green abundance. In that small bed, the earth was pale and cracked. Several plants drooped at the edges, their stems thin and their leaves curled brown. A few dead stalks remained at the center, tied to supporting sticks that now served no purpose.

“What happened there?” she asked.

Mr. Wilkes’s expression darkened. “That,” he said, “is a personal insult.”

Sophia stepped nearer. “Nothing will grow?”

“Nothing worth keeping. Stocks first. They withered. Then phlox. The same. I tried asters last season, and they survived just long enough to encourage me before giving up.”

“Even the nasturtiums died,” Amelia said solemnly.

“They generally thrive wherever they are least wanted,” Mr. Wilkes added. “I have seen them grow out of cracks in stone. Yet place one there, and it behaves like a duchess denied a cushion.”

Sophia glanced at him. Mr. Wilkes suddenly appeared to remember that he was speaking to an actual duchess.

Marjorie began laughing.

“I assure you, I have survived without several cushions,” Sophia smiled.

“Present company excepted,” Mr. Wilkes muttered.

Sophia approached the edge of the bed. “What have you tried?”

“Everything short of prayer.” He thrust both hands into his coat pockets. “watered at dawn. Watered at dusk. Dug in manure, leaf mold and sharp sand. Changed the top soil. Cut back the hedge roots. Tried soot, wood ash and tobacco water.” He glared at the barren earth. “Nothing. Stubborn thing, this bed.”

Sophia crouched at the edge and pressed her fingers lightly into the earth. The surface was dry and powdery. Beneath it, however, the soil felt cooler and strangely heavy. It clung to her fingertip rather than crumbling.

“Does water gather here after rain?” she asked.

Mr. Wilkes frowned. “More than it should.”

“And then the ground hardens quickly afterward?”

“That it does.”