Chapter 35
Chapter
Thirty-Five
Petunia’s Birthday Party
By the time the first guests arrived, Rosehaven House had surrendered completely to Petunia’s authority.
Streamers had been hung—some crookedly, some perilously low—at her direction.
The long table in the ballroom was laden with cakes, seed buns, and a truly alarming quantity of sweets.
Paper crowns sat waiting in neat rows, though I knew full well Petunia would not permit just anyone to wear one.
Rank mattered. Birthdays were serious affairs.
She herself stood at the center of it all, resplendent in a pale blue frock and a sash that read “Birthday Princess”, overseeing proceedings with the solemnity of a general before battle.
“Mind the lemonade,” she instructed a footman. “If it spills, the biscuits will go soggy.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said gravely.
I caught his eye and smiled. He looked relieved when she turned her attention elsewhere.
The house felt lighter than it had in weeks. Laughter echoed down the corridors. Children darted through the ballroom under only nominal supervision. Even the servants moved with an ease that had been absent of late.
Joy, I thought, was contagious when given half a chance.
“Rosie!” Petunia seized my hand and tugged me down to her level. “You’re not to disappear today. This is very important.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured her.
She studied my face with unsettling seriousness. “You look better.”
“And you look beautiful,” I said, lowering my voice conspiratorially, “and very grown up.”
That had long been a point of contention with her. With Cosmos the eldest at eight-and-twenty and varied ages in between, Petunia would always be the baby of the family—until Cosmos produced one. Certainly, I wouldn’t.
She nodded, satisfied, and released me at once.
Steele arrived precisely on time.
He paused just inside the door, as though the chaos had struck him bodily.
Children swarmed. Streamers drooped. Someone shrieked with laughter nearby.
It was, I suspected, a scene he had never encountered.
He had no children and neither did his brothers.
I doubted he had ever been invited to a child’s birthday party.
Well. He was about to experience one that might send him fleeing back to the solitude of Steele House.
Petunia spotted him before anyone else, of course. She never missed any of his entrances.
“Duke!” she exclaimed. “You came.” She marched up to him and executed a flawless curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Happy birthday, Lady Petunia,” he said.
“I’m eight,” she informed him. “Which is very grown.”
“I can see that.”
She eyed the parcel in his hand. “Is that for me?”
“It is.”
“Good.” She handed it to a footman without ceremony. “You may stay.”
I laughed, and Steele’s gaze lifted to mine—amusement and something softer flickering there.
Petunia led him—quite literally—by the hand into the ballroom, assigning him a chair beside the table. “You sit here. Do not wander off. We’ll open presents after cake.”
“Of course,” he said gravely. “Wouldn’t dream of disobeying.”
I watched him then, surrounded by children, his usual reserve stripped away by sheer necessity.
He listened. He answered questions. He allowed himself to be instructed.
And when Petunia climbed onto the chair beside him to supervise the cutting of the cake, he steadied her plate without being asked.
Something in my chest loosened.
How could I not love this man?
Later, when the candles had been blown out and crumbs scattered across every available surface, Petunia clapped her hands with sudden authority.
“Present time!”
A cheer rose from the younger ones, though Petunia did not deign to look pleased by it. She was far too busy assuming the solemn duty of receiving gifts.
While the servants cleared away plates and salvage what could be salvaged, Petunia climbed onto the settee as if it were a dais and surveyed the pile of parcels at her feet like a queen preparing to receive tribute.
“Right,” she declared. “I am ready.”
Cosmos attempted to intervene at once. “You should open mine first.”
Petunia gave him a withering look. “You are not the birthday girl.”
“No,” Cosmos admitted. “But I am your brother.”
“And therefore, you must wait your turn,” she replied.
I bit back a smile. Steele, standing to one side of the settee, looked faintly amused.
Petunia reached for the nearest parcel—wrapped in neat brown paper and tied with string. Laurel’s handwriting was unmistakable on the tag. She tore the paper free with swift excitement, then slowed when she saw what lay within.
A book. Not a picture book. Not a toy. A proper book, with gilt lettering on the cover.
Petunia’s expression turned wary. Reading was not a favored pastime of hers.
“It is Oscar Wilde,” Laurel said calmly. “The Happy Prince and Other Tales.”
Petunia mouthed the words. “Happy… Prince.” She glanced up, solemn at once. “Thank you, Laurel. I shall treasure it.”
“You’re welcome,” Laurel said, her tone as mild as ever.
Next came Chrissie’s gift—beautiful paper, a ribbon tied as if it belonged in a painting. Petunia admired it properly before pulling off the lid.
When the lemon-yellow gown emerged, she gasped. “It is…glorious.”
“It will make you look like sunshine,” Chrissie said, beaming. “And I chose the sash myself.”
Petunia stroked the green ribbon with deep satisfaction. “I shall wear it tomorrow. To breakfast. Everyone must see it.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Heaven forbid the family miss such an event.”
Petunia lifted her chin as though the matter were settled by royal decree.
Then came Holly and Ivy, each with a parcel of her own—mischief wrapped in paper.
“We chose something useful,” Holly said, solemn as a judge.
“And something pretty,” Ivy added, as though that were the true triumph.
Petunia opened their gifts and let out a cry of delight. A brush. A comb. And ribbons in every imaginable color.
“Ribbons!” she exclaimed, holding them up as if they were treasure pulled from the sea.
The twins exchanged a look of pride. For once, they were not planning mischief.
Cosmos and Fox approached next with their mutual gift. Fox held it with the stiff solemnity of someone unaccustomed to presenting anything at all.
Cosmos lifted the lid from the box. Inside was a flower unlike any I had seen—its petals delicate and pale, its leaves shaped with deliberate care.
Petunia leaned in, awed. “A flower?”
“A hybrid,” Cosmos corrected. “Fox and I created it.”
“It took months,” Fox added quietly.
“And we named it for you,” Cosmos said, unable to keep the pride from his voice.
Petunia’s eyes widened. “You did not.”
“We did,” Cosmos replied. “Lady Petunia.”
For a moment, she was silent, overwhelmed.
Then she threw her arms around them both at once. Cosmos caught her easily. Fox endured the embrace with stoic tolerance, though his mouth twitched in a way that suggested he was pleased despite himself.
Petunia regained her composure quickly, because gratitude, while important, must not be allowed to disrupt ceremony.
She continued opening gifts—thanking each giver with solemn earnestness, as though she were bestowing honors for loyalty and service. Even the smallest trinket received careful appreciation. Even a set of sweets prompted a lecture about moderation.
And all the while, I noticed something.
She did not touch Steele’s parcel.
It sat slightly apart from the others—neatly wrapped, plain ribbon, no flourish. As if its giver had wanted the gift to speak for itself.
Each time Petunia reached for a new present, her gaze flicked to it.
Each time, she passed it by.
At last, when no parcels remained except that one, Petunia drew a slow breath and straightened as though preparing herself for something momentous.
Silence fell—not because anyone had commanded it, but because everyone sensed the change in her.
Petunia picked up Steele’s gift with both hands. Her expression turned intent, almost reverent.
“This,” she announced, looking directly at Steele, “is the one I have been most eager to open.”
She tore the paper free.
Inside was a basket.
And within that basket, a very small, white, exceedingly fluffy kitten blinked up at her.
For one long moment, the room went utterly silent.
Petunia stared. The kitten mewed.
Her breath left her in a rush. “She’s perfect.”
Then she flung her arms around Steele’s neck with such force I expected him to lose his balance.
“It is acceptable then?” he asked, voice carefully neutral, though wonder shone in his eyes.
“This is the best present anyone has ever given me,” Petunia declared. “Ever.”
“Well, that’s a fine how-de-do,” Laurel murmured. “I spent hours picking out the right book.”
“Hours?” Fox echoed. “Cosmos and I spent months.”
The kitten was named immediately—after much debate—and tucked into Petunia’s arms as though it had always belonged there.
Steele watched her, wonder plain on his face.
“Thank you,” I said softly, coming to his side.
“For the kitten?” he asked.
“For understanding what matters.”
His gaze met mine, steady and sure. “I don’t intend to forget.”
As the party wound down, Petunia curled up in a chair, kitten asleep against her chest, utterly content.
I stood at the edge of the room, taking it all in. The warmth. The laughter. The fragile, precious normalcy of it all took my breath away.
Steele and I had stared into something dark and terrible.
And yet here was proof that light still found its way through.
For now, it was enough.