Page 96 of A Duchess for his Family

“It is a ceremonial spade,” Marjorie explained.

“It is a nursery toy.”

“That is why it is ceremonial.”

Sophia walked beside Amelia several paces ahead. At Benedict’s remark, she glanced over her shoulder, and her smile made the absurd object in his hand seem momentarily less offensive.

“The next clue is beneath something which grows but cannot walk,” Amelia read from a folded paper.

“That describes the entire garden,” Benedict pointed out.

Marjorie looked pleased. “It is meant to be difficult.”

The treasure hunt had already led them beneath a stone bench, around the fountain twice, and into the summerhouse, where Marjorie had concealed a clue so successfully that she herself could not find it.

The treasure remained mysterious. Benedict suspected it consisted of sugared almonds taken from Cook’s stores.

Marjorie ran toward the yew walk, announcing that hedges grew and she could not walk. Amelia followed more cautiously. Sophia paused beside Benedict.

“You are doing very well.”

“I am carrying a painted spade through my own gardens.”

“You have not complained for nearly three minutes.”

“I was gathering strength.”

Her laugh followed the girls down the path. Benedict followed more slowly. He had begun to understand that outings with Sophia and the twins did not head toward destinations. They spread. One game became another. One question became six, and every fallen leaf required examination.

It was disorderly, inefficient, and strangely difficult to dislike.

Marjorie disappeared behind the clipped yews. Amelia called for her to wait. Sophia quickened her pace after them, her pale skirts brushing the tall grass at the path’s edge.

Benedict was about to follow when a patch of green caught his attention. He stopped. The bed lay beyond the girls’ small garden plots, near the southern wall. Benedict knew it well, chiefly because Mr. Wilkes had regarded it as a personal enemy for several years.

Nothing grew there. Stocks had failed. Phlox had withered. Asters had survived only long enough to encourage optimism before dying with particular thoroughness. Mr. Wilkes had replaced the soil, altered the watering, cut back the roots, and subjected the unfortunate earth to preparations whose smell had reached the house.

Now the bed was covered in shoots. There were no flowers yet. The growth remained young and uncertain, tender green leaves rising from dark soil. But the plants stood upright. They were not yellowed, curled, or struggling. They were thriving.

Benedict stepped nearer, the treasure hunt forgotten. He crouched and pressed his fingers to the earth. The soil was moist but not sodden, loose beneath the surface rather than hardened into the familiar impenetrable layer. He could see where narrow channels had been made through the bed and filled with gravel.

“It is all Her Grace’s doing.”

Benedict straightened. Mr. Wilkes stood behind him with a pair of shears in one hand. His old hat sat low upon his silver hair, and his expression suggested that finding the master of Rivermere kneeling in a flower bed was only slightly less inconvenient than finding Marjorie there.

“What is?” Benedict asked.

Mr. Wilkes nodded toward the shoots. “That.”

Benedict looked back at the bed. “Sophia did this?”

“Her Grace noticed the water gathered after rain and the ground hardened afterward. Said there might be packed clay beneath the good soil.”

Mr. Wilkes crossed to the bed and prodded the earth with one boot.

“Clay pan,” he continued. “Hard as brick. Likely an old cart track beneath the garden. Roots could not get through, and the water had nowhere to drain.”

Benedict frowned. “How did she know?”