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Chapter19
Lady Edith held a regal court in her drawing room for the remainder of the week. She was perfectly personable, asked exactly the right questions of her guests to lead them into talking about themselves, and was the picture of poise. I had far to go before I could ever reach the mastery she had achieved as hostess—though I knew I never would. It was outside the realm of possibility for me. My faults so perfectly lined up beside her virtues, each one a matching set.
The tea in my cup shuddered when I carried it to my lips, and I took a long sip of the hot liquid. Miss Whitstone sat beside me on the sofa while her mother was actively engaged in conversation with Lady Edith opposite us, and I focused heavily on my tea while I contrived a way to speak in private with Miss Whitstone.
James had been the picture of perfection all week since returning from York, and the longer he made his affection for me plain, the more deeply I needed to know why he and this quiet, unobtrusive woman did not suit.
She was inordinately reserved, and I did not think she wanted to be here. Her eyes darted to the door with every sound in the corridor, and I wondered if she was watching for someone in particular. Would she be relieved or disappointed if I offered her a way to leave the house?
“Tell me, Miss Whitstone,” I said, setting my cup on the small table before us. “Have you had a chance to walk the gardens recently? The white roses have bloomed, and they are a sight to behold.”
“It has been some time since I’ve walked in Chelton’s garden,” she said quietly.
A beat of silence passed between us, and she said nothing of the roses. Did that mean she was uninterested? Perhaps I ought to have phrased my question differently. It seemed that a more direct approach would be necessary.
I cleared my throat. “Would you like to see the roses?”
“I do not care much for roses in general, but I would not mind walking in the garden.”
Did not care for roses? She had successfully robbed me of an immediate response, and I turned to face my mother-in-law, who I found watching us closely. “I think we will walk outside, if that is agreeable to you?”
“Of course,” Lady Edith said.
Mrs. Whitstone looked at her daughter askance. “Do not forget to tighten your bonnet, dear. I detected a wind when we arrived that was not present down in town.”
“Of course, Mama.”
I retrieved my bonnet and a shawl to protect me against the wind, and we shortly found ourselves slipping down the pale stone steps toward the lush grass. The brown gravel pathway would lead us past the stable house and up to the gardens, and then we would be completely alone.
Our crunching footsteps carried us toward the garden, and the sun beat down upon our bonnets, but I could think of nothing to say.
What had I been thinking? I could not contrive a way to force this woman to talk, and if I had, she would not find the new wife of the man who rejected her a worthy beneficiary of her opinions. A pair of finches swooped down above our heads and glided toward the branches of a tree ahead, their sweet calls breaking the silence.
It would be better to begin with neutral topics. “If not the rose, what is your favorite flower, Miss Whitstone?”
She did not answer for a moment, and I wondered if she heard my question.
“I am partial to daffodils.”
“Those are lovely,” I agreed. “I have always thought they resembled tiny trumpets and would be perfect for a small fairy in need of an amplifier.”
Miss Whitstone looked at me strangely, and we curved around the path to enter the garden. “Fairies are not real.”
“No, of course not. I only meant . . . in an imaginary world, they would be perfect for such a thing.”
Miss Whitstone did not bother with a response, and I felt inordinately foolish. Her apathy toward roses implied that she was not possessed of an overly romantic heart, and her candid reply to my fairy thoughts led me to believe she had no imagination, so she must not be an avid reader. I hated to so much as think it, but thus far Miss Whitstone had proven herself to be something of a bore.
We trailed along the hedge, and I did not bother to point out the white roses whose blooms scented the air with a faint sweetness, for she would not appreciate them anyway.
Not as I did, anyway. The flower James had tucked behind my ear even now hung from the post of my bed so I could forever keep its sweetness.
I was unsure if I would ever again smell a white rose without thinking of the ridiculous spectacle James and I had made in the fountain.
We walked through the varying shrubs and flowers, circling hedges and skirting finch-adorned trees. The scent lingered, following us, and I could not help but think of my husband. Miss Whitstone walked alongside me through the various interwoven pathways, quietly ignoring the flora on display.
“Have you lived in Bakewell all your life?” I asked, tired of the silence that accompanied our gravel-crunching steps.
“Yes, and my mother has been dear friends with Lady Edith for longer.”
