Chapter 14
A Bridge Over Troubled Waters
“Oh, thank heavens you’re here!”
Damian almost recoiled as Hetty ran towards him and grabbed him by the arm, expecting an attack. He’d not even handed Howard his hat and gloves and had to throw them at the fellow as Hetty propelled him up the stairs.
“Whatever is the matter?” he demanded. “Stop manhandling me, Hetty, you’re creasing my coat!”
“To the devil with your coat. Cilly is in tears.”
“What?” Damian gazed at her in alarm. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you say so?”
He took the stairs two at a time, following the sounds of weeping until he discovered Celia in a heap beside the settee in a charming little sitting room he’d not seen before.
She was sobbing, head in her hands. On the table beside her was a lavish display of flowers.
It was a truly stunning arrangement of chrysanthemums, asters, dahlias, and trailing ivy, and must have cost a fortune.
“Celia, what is it?” he asked urgently, crouching down beside her. “Are you ill? Shall I fetch a doctor?”
Celia shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “N-No, I’m per-perfectly fine—”
She wailed the last word at such a pitch he took leave to disagree.
“If you are going to lie, you need a deal more practice at it, my girl,” he told her firmly. “Now, don’t be a goose. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me what the matter is.”
And she had better tell him what it was he needed to fix or who he needed to murder, because the sight of Celia in tears was doing terrible things to his nerves.
She sniffled, wiping her red nose on a sodden handkerchief, and gazed up at him. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face all splotchy. She was not the kind of woman who wept prettily, it appeared. His heart clenched.
“It’s the… the…”
“Yes?” he said, willing her to spit it out so he could do something. Anything.
“The flowers.”
“The flowers,” he repeated doubtfully, gazing at the beautiful bouquet in confusion.
She nodded.
Damian cleared his throat, aware he might be on dangerous ground. “What… er… what is wrong with the flowers?”
“Everything!” she exclaimed, then burst into tears again.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Damian, you are supposed to be helping!” Hetty scolded him crossly, moving to sit beside her sister on the floor and pressing a clean handkerchief into her clenched fist. “There, there, pet. We’ll fix it, whatever it is.
“I will fix it,” Damian retorted crossly, indignant at her interference.
If he was going to botch things up, he’d do a fine job all by himself, thank you very much.
“Celia, what is wrong with the blasted flowers? Tell me precisely, using words of three syllables or fewer so my uncomprehending male brain can understand, and I shall fix them.”
Celia stopped crying long enough to gaze up at him hopefully. “Will you?”
“Yes, of course I will!” he said impatiently. “But you need to tell me what to fix.”
She sat up straighter and wiped her eyes. “I ordered a simple bouquet of white and pink sweet peas, n—not this… monstrosity. It looks like the centrepiece for a banquet.”
“Ah. Your grandmama has been interfering, I collect.”
Celia nodded sadly. “She said she had already ordered it before you spoke to her, and she forgot to tell me.”
“Well, then,” Damian said, relieved to have something he could actually do. “Hetty, get the servants to break the monstrosity up and use it to decorate the table or the church or… or I don’t know, whatever needs decorating. I shall fetch you your bouquet of sweet peas.”
He strode to the door before he realised he didn’t know where he was going. As he turned back in confusion, Hetty took pity on him.
“The flowers came from one of Hawkney’s hothouses,” she said. “The head gardener arranged them when they arrived, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find there are sweet peas growing in the gardens here if you ask him. Gee-Gee loves to have them around the house.”
“Thank you,” he said gratefully, and hurried out.
He got to the entrance hall where Howard was just closing the door and looked around expectantly. “My lord?”
Damian cleared his throat. “Ah, Howard. Lady Celia does not like the flowers for her bouquet. Too fussy. She wants something small and simple. A bouquet of white and pink sweet peas. Need to arrange it or she’ll likely call the whole thing off.”
Rather to his surprise, Howard’s face creased into a smile.
“Ah. Bridal nerves, my lord,” he said confidingly.
“I’ve seen it a time or two. Everything is wrong on the day before the wedding, and everything is perfect on the day.
But if you’d follow me, I’ll take you to Mr Flowerdew.
He’s head gardener at Hatherley Hall, and he’ll set things to rights. ”
Damian sighed with relief. “Thank you, Howard. I knew I could rely on you.”
Mr Flowerdew was a small, wiry fellow with sinewy arms and dirt permanently etched into his skin. His shrewd blue eyes regarded Damian thoughtfully.
“Sweet peas, eh?” The words—mangled by the clay pipe clasped between his teeth and his thick Sussex accent—made comprehension a slight difficulty but this much Damian grasped.
“Yes. Sweet peas. Very urgent sweet peas.”
Mr Flowerdew looked faintly disturbed at the notion of urgency where flowers were concerned.
“White and pink sweet peas?”
“Yes, that’s what I said,” Damian said politely, refraining from shaking him and reminding himself this man had the power to stop Celia from crying. “White and pink sweet peas.”
“Ah.” Mr Flowerdew nodded sagely and walked off.
Damian watched him for a moment before realising he was supposed to follow.
He hurried in the man’s wake through regimented rows of vegetables and flowers to a bed with a sort of tent of sticks.
Greenery scrambled up the sticks, punctuated at intervals by flowers.
Many of them white, some pink. Damian’s hopes rose.
“Lovely things, sweet peas,” Mr Flowerdew mused, reaching out to stroke a blossom with surprising tenderness, for his hands were rough and work worn.
“Not too much to look at half the year, mind, but worth the trouble when they flower. The fragrance is the sweetest thing on this earth, if you ask me. Stick your nose in there and take a whiff.”
Unwilling to do anything that might put his order of sweet peas at risk, Damian obligingly bent and filled his nose with the scent. It was every bit as lovely as the man had described.
“I knew Lady Cecilia would want these. Tol’ me they were her favourites, she did, but the dowager, her gran, she wanted sommat grand instead. Knew the lady wouldn’t like it, but not my place to say, was it?”
Damian sighed. “No. But it is mine. Do you think you could make me a bouquet? Lady Celia is rather overwrought, and I’d like to take them at once.”
To his dismay, the man shook his head. “Nah. Can’t do that.”
“Can’t?” Damian repeated, bristling. “Now look here—”
“Not if you want them to be perfect for the big day,” the fellow said amiably. “I ain’t got enough to make two bouquets, but you tell the lady, tomorrow morning I’ll send up the most perfect selection she ever saw in her whole life. My word on it.”
Damian let out a breath. “Mr Flowerdew, I don’t know how to thank you. Ah, perhaps—”
He reached into his pocket, but the man pulled a face.
“Don’t go insulting me, my lord. I do what I do ‘cause I love it, and I’ll give the lady the best I got, ‘cause I take pride in the things I love.”
“I can see that,” Damian said, taking the time to look around at the garden. It was orderly and rather perfect, and so very peaceful. He wondered if perhaps Celia would like to come and look around. It might make her feel better.
“You know, people think roses are romantic, and they’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but they’re all glamour. Sweet peas, you have to get close to, you have to look carefully, and then… ah, and then the scent and the simple perfection, that’ll steal your heart, it will.”
Mr Flowerdew reached out and broke off a perfect stem, offering it to Damian. “Take that to your lady and tell her not to fret none. Mr Flowerdew will make it right.”
Damian nodded and reached out, offering his hand to the man who, it seemed to him, had diverted a crisis. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, and hurried back to Celia.
He found her in the same pretty parlour, standing and staring out of the window. The sea, he realised, remembering what she had said about loving the view, about how it made her feel calmer.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said, holding the pretty flower aloft like a conquering hero.
She turned to look at him and blinked. “Oh, Damian. What have you got there?”
“A sweet pea,” he said, a little deflated that she wasn’t happier.
“Mr Flowerdew couldn’t give me more now, for there are not enough, but he promises you will have a perfect bouquet of white and pink sweet peas tomorrow morning, upon his honour.
And I’ll tell you, love, his honour is not to be undervalued. A proud fellow is Mr Flowerdew.”
Celia swallowed.
“You spoke to Mr Flowerdew?” She looked rather startled.
Damian frowned. “Well, obviously. What else was there to do?”
She was pale, her eyes still watery with tears but at his words they brimmed, one spilling down her cheek. “Oh. Oh, Damian, that… that’s….”
She pressed her hand to her mouth, smothering a sound that sounded horribly like a sob before turning away from him again.
Damian frowned. He looked at the sweet pea in his hand, feeling somewhat foolish. Not knowing what else to do, he poured a glass of water and stuck the bloom in the glass.
“Well, crisis over, then,” he said hopefully.
Celia nodded, but didn’t look at him. Her face averted, she looked like every description that he’d ever read of a tragic heroine in the moments before she died bravely. His heart gave an erratic thud.
Dammit. The bloody sweet peas were supposed to fix this, but they seemed to have made things worse than before. He cleared his throat.
“Is… Is there…?” He broke off and sighed. There was no point avoiding it. It appeared he was missing something. “This isn’t about flowers, is it?”
Still with her back to him, Celia shook her head.
Damian glowered at the floor. He did not know what to do. There was a part of him that wanted to run like the coward he was, run and run and never look back. But a larger part of him, the greatest part of him, could not bear to see her unhappy.
He walked towards her, heart thudding unevenly, terrified of what she would say, of what she might make him say.
“Tell me.”
She shook her head again, and he reached out, slipping his hand in hers.
“Don’t tell fibs. Friends, remember? Friends stand by each other, and they confide in each other too, or at least, that’s what I’ve been led to believe. I’m afraid I don’t have a great deal of experience in such matters, but… but I’m learning, Celia.”
“Oh, Damian, you wretched man. Why are you doing this to me?” She turned around, gazing up at him in such obvious despair he didn’t know what to say.
“I-I don’t know? What? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing!” she wailed, then burst into tears again.
With no other options available to him, he pulled her into his arms, holding on tight. “Well, that’s unreasonable,” he groused.
“Yes, it is,” she sobbed. “You’re not supposed to be perfect. You’re not supposed to buy me the perfect gift and promise me a house with a view of the sea, and… and go and find me sw-sweet peas. N-Not if you’re going to abandon me and leave me in that house all b-by myself.”
She wept harder, fingers clutching at the lapels of his coat and mangling them so badly Finch would have conniptions. He didn’t care.
“I—” Don’t say it, shrieked a voice in his head, but he could no longer hear the warning, it had been getting fainter and fainter with each passing day, and now it was inaudible, smothered under the pounding of his own stupid heart. “I won’t! I won’t, Celia. I won’t do that. I promise.”
Celia stopped crying abruptly and gazed up at him in stunned silence.
Damian sighed and fumbled for his handkerchief.
He ought to be repulsed, he was certain.
Female tears had always been a reason for him to flee, but ugly crying of this nature was definitely something he’d had no intention of ever being a part of, and yet he wanted nothing more than to wipe her eyes and her nose and kiss her until she smiled again because he could not bear to see her so unhappy.
“Stand still,” he ordered crossly, for he was certain he would make some other rash promise if she did something as appalling as hug him.
Miraculously, she did as she was told, and he cleaned her up.
“Blow,” he commanded, smiling as she did as he told her, because… because it was too ridiculous and he was a blasted fool, God help him.
She smiled back at him, a wistful, hopeful smile that made his insides twist.
“You know, I’ve never needed to order emergency sweet peas before,” he said conversationally, keen to diffuse the tension singing between them. It felt too strong, overwhelming, as if he might forget he could not have all the things she made him want.
She laughed at that, and he felt a surge of relief. “Well, I cannot imagine why not. They are the answer to most crises, you know.”
“I shall remember that,” he said gravely and, fool that he was, he knew he would. He could imagine it, taking her sweet peas because she was furious with him, because he could not bear the idea of her being angry, or unhappy, or alone.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “Tea. Tea and macarons? I have a sudden desire for the things. I blame Hetty.”
“I would. She’s very blameable,” Celia said, gazing at him with such a look in her eyes that… he needed to leave.
“I’ll go and—” Damian waved a hand and hurried out, needing a moment to breathe, to comprehend the enormity of what he’d just done, what he’d just promised to do.
Outside, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He felt odd, a little dizzy, as if he stood on the edge of a precipice.
God help me, he muttered under his breath. Don’t let me take her down with me.