Chapter Thirty-Three #2
Father usually followed that particular maxim by saying it was not a man’s responsibility to delve into the murky waters of a woman’s mind, for there lay the path to becoming a henpecked husband.
But Charles found himself wanting to understand his wife—not to delve into her mind, but to make amends. And he wanted to see her smile.
Was he turning into a henpecked husband? Or was he merely falling in love? Most men of Society, profligates such as Foxton, saw love as a weakness, or they considered it to be merely a surrender to one’s physical needs—an act to commit for a moment’s satisfaction before moving on to the next woman.
But Charles’s mother had always said that love had little to do with attraction or desire, and everything to do with striving to make the world a better place for another, even if it were to the detriment of one’s own happiness. It was the love a mother had for her child, a wife for her husband…
Much good it had done her. Though Mother had loved others, there was no one to love her other than a small child with little understanding of the world.
And Charles had been too young when she died to understand the meaning of love, to see that, despite a marriage in which she’d suffered abuse and neglect, she had striven to make Charles happy.
She’d given him every comfort—a warm pair of loving arms, someone to soothe him to sleep at night during thunderstorms…
Until she had been ripped away from him, her life taken from her at the foot of this very staircase.
And it had been his fault.
He closed his eyes, striving to see her beautiful smile, but all he could see was the memory of the day his life had changed…the terror in her eyes while Father beat him, her grim determination as she wrapped her arms around him, and finally…
…her wide-open stare as the spark of life left her while she clung to the boy she’d sacrificed her life to save. But he was a worthless soul incapable of love, whom the Almighty, in his cruelty, chose to save in exchange for the kindest, most loving woman who had ever lived.
Mama!
The last word he had ever uttered echoed in his mind, as sharp and clear as if the child he’d once been was there before him. Then the sightless eyes shimmered and changed color, becoming a clear, warm honey…
The sightless eyes of his wife.
He let out a groan, bent forward, and opened his eyes, rubbing them to dispel the image. What the devil was happening to him?
He blinked and caught sight of something small and shiny at the base of the longcase clock. He crouched down and retrieved it. A marble. Glancing underneath the clock, he caught sight of another that had rolled further back, too far to reach.
His wife’s chamber door opened, and the young maid emerged. She gave a low cry as she caught sight of him.
“Oh, your lordship, what’s happened?”
He held out the marble.
She stared at it, her eyes widening, then burst into tears again.
“Forgive me—it wasn’t my fault. Please!”
Rising to his feet, Charles brushed the dust from his breeches then waved her away. Would that the Almighty could save him from overly hysterical maids! Mrs. Brougham ought to send the girl packing, or at least keep her away from Olivia.
Olivia…
What the bloody hell was he doing, wallowing in self-pity?
He pocketed the marble then went outside in search of his wife.
Where was she? Had she been foolish enough to venture into the forest again?
He crossed the driveway, his boots crunching on the gravel, then heard male voices coming from the gardens. He set off in the direction of the voices, turned a corner, then froze.
The garden had been transformed. The path that had previously stretched ahead in a straight line now curved from side to side, leading the observer’s eye toward the midpoint where a large armillary sphere stood atop a stone pillar.
A box hedge, newly planted, formed a series of arcs, dividing the garden into sections.
At the far end of the path, a tall, broad-shouldered man with an unruly mop of brown hair stood, leaning on a shovel, talking to Carlton.
He threw back his head and laughed, his breath misting in the winter air.
Charles approached them, and the laughter stopped.
The man smoothed down the front of his breeches and extended his hand.
“Lawrence Baxter, at your service, Lord Devereaux.”
“Soon to be Sir Lawrence Baxter, if the rumors are true,” the steward added. “And very well deserved if it happens. The gardens he’s designed are among the best in the kingdom.”
“Mr. Carlton, you’re too kind,” the man said, his voice rich and deep.
Charles cocked his head to one side and regarded the gardener. His body, toned and athletic, was in a relaxed pose, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms. Clear hazel eyes stared back at him in a face with strong features and a broad, honest smile.
“Have you heard of Mr. Baxter?” Carlton said. “His wife, Lady Arabella, is a friend of Lady Devereaux’s…well, a friend of her sister’s.”
“Delighted to meet you at last, Lord Devereaux,” Baxter said. “You’re fortunate in your choice of wife. Her ladyship has a most extraordinary imagination, and it’s been a privilege to bring her ideas to life.”
What the bloody hell was the man rattling on about? Charles raised his eyebrows and glanced at his steward, who cleared his throat with some degree of trepidation.
“Ahem—I fear Lord Devereaux has been unaware of her ladyship’s activities while he’s been in London.”
“Oh, lorks!” the gardener said. “Have I spoiled her ladyship’s surprise?
My Bella would have my ballocks if she knew.
Chews them up something proper when I’ve done wrong.
Mind you, she thinks up the most delicious penances and can be very forgiving when I…
” He hesitated, his cheeks coloring. “Never mind that—I trust you’ll forgive the words of a man who’s been parted from his wife for too long.
But you’ll know how that feels, won’t you, Lord Devereaux? ”
Yes. Charles knew exactly how it felt, though doubtless Baxter wouldn’t make an arse of himself when he reunited with his wife.
“Shall I show you around?” the gardener said. “There’s just the hedging to finish, then we’re done. Lady Devereaux was most anxious for it to be ready for your arrival.”
He gestured about the garden. “We’ve divided the area into sections, each focusing on a sense—touch, taste, and so forth.
This one”—he indicated the first section—“is for the eyes, for when one is in need of color to uplift the spirits. Lady Devereaux calls it the Rainbow Garden. I’m afraid it doesn’t look like much just now, but come the spring, these shrubs will fill it with myriad colors.
My Bella has designed the color scheme, and the seeds I’ve given your men to cultivate will yield flowering plants to fill the gaps. ”
My men? Charles raised his eyebrows.
“Lady Devereaux has hired two gardeners,” Carlton said.
Charles stared at the steward. How could the estate afford the expense?
“Paid for out of her annuity,” Carlton continued, “the remaining portion of it, at least. The garden’s too much for one man, particularly old Mr. Jenks, but he has two sons who’ve been assisting Mr. Baxter.
Lady Devereaux gave them permanent positions as under-gardeners to their father. They’re good workers.”
“I’ll say they are,” Baxter said. “Put my own employees to shame. They’ll see you right, and I’ll come over in the spring to make sure they’re tending to things properly. Gardening’s an art, you know. It’s not just digging up weeds and clipping hedges. Shall we?”
He led the way through an iron-framed archway toward another section of the garden.
“I’ve planted some climbers that will soon cover this archway,” he said.
“They’re fast growing, so in a year or two they’ll form a tunnel.
They flower twice a year—beautiful blooms. I’ve chosen a mixture of varieties to ensure you’ll have flowers all through spring and summer.
They’re among my Bella’s favorite, and we have them in our own garden. ”
As they continued, Charles caught the faint sound of music—deep, woody notes, as if nymphs chatted to each other, set against a backdrop of delicate chimes. At first he wondered if they were a figment of his imagination, but the music grew louder as they entered the next section.
“This is Lady Devereaux’s particular favorite,” Baxter said. “She calls it the music garden, which needs no explanation.”
Hanging in a corner was a set of tubular structures fashioned from a light, irregular-shaped wood. As a breeze swept across the garden, they danced and swayed, emitting deep tones that formed a harmonious chord.
Then the gardener led Charles through the remaining sections, each one designed to enhance the senses, until they came to the final area, the walled garden accessed via an iron gate.
As Charles stepped through the gate, he caught his breath at the memory…
his beloved mama, tending to the herbs while he helped as best as he could, her plucking a sprig of thyme then crushing it in her slim fingers, her beautiful smile bathing his soul in light as he inhaled the rich aroma…
The garden before him had been restored to the little haven of love he recalled from boyhood.
The paving slabs had been scrubbed clean such that they shone in the sunlight.
Around the perimeter, the borders were filled with a large variety of herbs.
To a casual observer, they appeared to have been placed at random, but each plant contrasted in color with its neighbor to give a rippling effect, as if light were dancing across the ground.
How was it that there could be so many shades of green?