Chapter 21 #2
“No. But I can certainly spend more time taking care of my family’s needs,” Roman said with a shake of his head.
“I would like to take your future in-laws to the estate at the end of the week. Along with Mother, and you, and your intended. We can stay a few days. Give everyone the tour. And when they leave, you and I need to discuss which matters belong to me and which ought to stay with you. We should probably also discuss your allotment, allowance, and moving into one of the homes we own nearer the estate. Once you marry, I imagine your wife would like a place where she is lady of the house, rather than living with Mother and me always underfoot.”
It was an impressive speech, given at such a speed that Lyness could not hope to interrupt it with a single stammered word. But he finally caught hold of Roman’s arm, tugging him to stand closer to a building and out of the walking path.
“Roman. It is not nec-necessary. All of it. It is too much.”
“No, Lyness.” Roman put his hand on Lyness’s shoulder and held his gaze.
“It is precisely what I should have done ages ago, instead of handing more and more things to you to manage while I played at politics and pretended myself the champion of this city. I piled responsibility upon you, thinking myself indispensable everywhere but home.” He shook his head.
“You do too much. And soon you will have a wife and a household of your own to manage. Of course,” he said with an amused tilt to his head, “I still want you to act as steward. But we both know you have always preferred the country to the city. This will give you more time to build a life of your own, a family of your own.” He clapped Lyness on the shoulder.
“You know I am right. I am always right.”
Slowly, Lyness shook his head, unable to keep in his chuckle. “Almost always,” he corrected.
“Indeed. Now. We have work to do before we go home and tell Mother she is hosting a brief house party.”
Though they went back to finish the club meeting, they did not stay long. The sun was still shining, casting long slant of light through the streets of York, when they returned to Hartwell House.
Lyness and Roman had returned with tired minds, both silent as they shed their hats and gloves in the entryway.
Roman retreated to his study with a mutter about answering correspondence.
Lyness meant to follow, mind still churning with political danger and—far worse—the memory of Emily’s stricken expression at the abbey.
But his mother appeared at the base of the stairs, her eyes sharp despite softness of her smile.
“Lyness,” she said gently. “Will you walk with me a moment?”
He had never denied her anything. He nodded and followed her out the door into the small rose garden.
Autumn would soon creep along the edges of the petals; some blooms already sagged under the weight of their final days. The garden was small—nothing like the sprawling grounds at the country estate—but Lady Hartwell tended the blooms with the devotion of a queen guarding her jewels.
His mother brushed one with her fingertips, then turned to him. “Lady Juniper sent a note this morning,” she said. “Emily left the abbey rather early yesterday. Before anyone expected her to.”
Lyness exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
“Why?” Lady Hartwell asked without a note of accusation in her voice. Simply concern.
He looked down at his shoes on the paved walk, uncertain how to speak to his mother about this matter.
It had been years since he had come to her with the troubles of his heart.
“I do not know,” he said at last, words slow to minimize the stuttering.
“Sh-she was distressed. Something troubled her. She asked for time, and I did not wish to press her. I still do not.” His throat tightened.
“But I fear…I fear I have somehow harmed her.”
His mother studied him with the kind of steadiness he had not seen since his father’s death, when she had leaned more heavily on Roman in her own grief. It was a look that carried so much: a mix of love, worry, and a knowledge of all his quiet hurts.
“Did you quarrel?” she asked softly.
“No.” His voice cracked. He stuttered over nearly every word he tried to say next, but trusted she would understand. “That is the worst part. If she were angry, I could amend it. But this felt like losing her without knowing where I mis-stepped.”
Lady Hartwell touched his sleeve with a light hand. “My son. You carry your worries with such a sensitive heart. You always have. But you always pretend it does not hurt you. Even when I can see it does.”
He looked away, blinking hard. After he kept hold of his composure, he managed to say, “I would like to send her something. Flowers, perhaps. Something that might convey—” He broke off helplessly.
“That you care for her?” his mother offered.
He nodded once.
She turned back to her roses, inhaling the fading scent.
“Roses speak nearly every sentiment, depending on their color. And I have taught you what I know of other blossoms and their meaning. But Lyness…” She plucked a small, near-withered bloom and held it between them.
“Emily does not need a message chosen from a gardener’s dictionary. ”
He frowned at the dark and dying bloom. “Then what do I give her?”
She smiled, a touch sad, a touch fond. “My heart has always spoken in petals and blossoms. Your heart speaks in strokes of ink and beautiful words, my dear.”
“My stammer—”
“She does not seem to mind it, that I have noticed.” She lowered the bruised rose and regarded him with drawn eyebrows. “Use the talent that you love, the gift you have, to tell her how you feel. At least as a start.”
His heart squeezed and he shook his head. “A letter?”
“Not merely a letter, Lyness. You are a calligrapher before you are anything else. Your heart speaks in lines and flourishes, as well as beautiful words. If you wish to reach her—write to her. Not out of duty or courtesy, not copying the poems of other men. Use your words. Tell her what is in your heart.” Her fingers brushed his arm. “Tell her the truth.”
Lyness closed his eyes. “What truth?”
“That you care for her,” she said simply. “That you are not indifferent. That you wish to understand what troubles her. These are sentiments a woman needs to hear from the man she is to marry. Tell her how you feel about the future you will build together.”
He went still as he once more remembered Emily’s pale face. Her trembling voice. Her retreating figure. All of it had wrapped around his heart like a thorned vine, prickling and painful.
“And Lyness?” his mother added, stepping close enough to straighten the line of his cravat the way she had when he was a boy. “You deserve joy. You deserve love. I know you doubt that. I can see it.”
A soft, choked sound escaped him. He shook his head.
“My only hope and my greatest joy,” she whispered, “is to see my children happy.”
Lyness bowed his head, eyes burning. “I want to be worthy of her.”
“You are,” she said firmly. “But she needs to know how you feel. And that must come from your own hand, not my gardens.”
He nodded slowly. “I will write to her,” he said. “Tonight.”
His mother squeezed his hand once, then put her arm through his and walked with him through the garden, showing him her favorite blooms, and giving him time to order his thoughts.