Chapter Nineteen
Five years later
It was one of the first warm days of spring, with just the slightest breeze rippling through the branches of the tall oak tree. Slanting sunlight bathed the ancient stone walls of The Towers with a golden glow. Hope and positivity were in the air, and Marianne decided it was time to take action.
Guessing when they had passed the last frost was always a risky business.
And the consequences, if she was mistaken, could be grave indeed.
But Marianne did not shirk from difficult decisions.
She rolled up the sleeves of her light-gray work dress, knotted her long hair into a braid, and strode out in the gardens.
Immediately, the warmth of the sun on her skin told her she was doing the right thing.
A blackbird sang merrily nearby, and she paused by the wisteria, breathing deeply and taking it all in.
The gardens, she privately thought, were her greatest achievement.
They had been overgrown and neglected when she, Benedict, and Toby first arrived.
And what money they had was needed to make urgent repairs to the house.
But armed with a trowel and a pair of shears, Marianne had slowly but surely begun to make her mark.
Her success was due, in part, to the fact that she never strived to emulate the symmetrical formal gardens so popular in London.
They were not, after all, in London anymore.
They lived in harmony with nature, not against it, so she abandoned any aspiration toward manicured hedges or geometric flowerbeds.
Instead, roses and wisteria climbed high over meandering stone walls.
Fruit trees grew this way and that, showering them with blossoms and blessing them with an abundant harvest come autumn.
And when rabbits hopped along the lawn, she and the children watched with pleasure.
But her favorite part of the garden was the far corner, where they had planted a long row of hydrangeas.
At first, she’d feared the plants would not grow.
That first summer, barely a bud appeared on the woody branches.
But now, four years on, the hydrangeas were established, bold and beautiful.
Last year, each bush had produced a bewitching array of large, fat flowers—ranging from pink to blue and all shades in between.
Those colors had darkened come the fall, giving them many months of pleasure.
And now it was time to trim away the old flower heads to make way for new growth.
First, she stopped deliberately a few feet from the central bush, placed a hand on her heart and whispered, “Thank you.”
This was her regular ritual—a way of giving thanks for the safety of Benedict and Toby. Of course, these were not the exact plants that had broken Benedict’s fall all those years ago. But they were the closest thing she had.
The thump of bat on ball, followed by a cheer of triumph, made her look down to the oval lawn with a smile.
This large expanse of grass had been reserved for the children—and Benedict—to play on.
Marianne sometimes joined them for bowls and archery, but she had no desire to insert herself into the boisterous bat and ball games which Toby and his little brother George so loved.
Well, they loved them when they were winning, anyway.
She winced as little George tripped over his own feet while running to get the ball.
He lay on the grass for a long moment, before letting out a wail of anger.
His father scooped him up and dusted him down, squatting so he was on a level with his red-cheeked son.
Whatever he said must have worked, because seconds later George had positioned himself behind the wicket, with Benedict in position as batsman and Toby lining up to bowl.
“Can I do a fast one?” Toby asked, rubbing the ball against his breeches.
“Fast as you like,” replied Benedict.
Marianne closed her eyes as the ball flew toward the wicket, with little George directly in the line of fire, but she needn’t have worried. Benedict hit the ball so it swung up in an arc before landing neatly in Toby’s outstretched hands.
“Caught you out.” Toby was triumphant.
George clapped loudly and Benedict made a show of being crestfallen, before beckoning for George to take his turn with the bat.
Marianne deliberately turned back toward the hydrangeas and began to snip off the old flower heads. She knew that Toby would bowl slowly for his little brother, and she knew that Benedict would ensure no harm came to either of them, but she couldn’t help worrying.
She was a mother. That was her job.
But the anxieties that had once made her stomach churn were now a thing of the past. Daily life was golden hued, filled with love and laughter.
And if she wished that Toby and George would play a gentle game of bowls rather than a fast-paced game of cricket, that was a view she kept largely to herself.
Her sons were brave boys who refused to be cosseted.
Try as she might, she couldn’t cocoon them from all harm.
Unlike the babe now growing in her belly.
Marianne put a hand on her stomach and smiled again. For the time being, she could keep this little one safe as could be.
She was more tired with this pregnancy than she had been with either of the others. Maybe it was because she was a little older. Or maybe, as she privately hoped, it might be a little girl this time.
Marianne loved her rough and tumble boys, but a sister for Toby and George would be the perfect addition to the family.
She heard a shout and looked back over to the cricketers. She had been spotted. Toby was waving and Benedict hoisted his youngest son high into his arms so that he could wave his pudgy hand.
Happiness leaped inside her as she waved back.
Not so long ago, she had feared that she might never provide Toby with the childhood she wanted for him. She could recall, almost word for word, the desperate wish she had voiced to Aunt Clementine.
“I want Toby to have a childhood full of magic and laughter. For him to run across fields and splash in streams and pick apples straight from the tree.”
Here at The Towers, he had all of that and more besides—a little brother as his partner in crime, and a devoted father.
Marianne admired the tight green buds of new growth on the hydrangea bush, signs of the glories to come. Once she had imagined the future as a dark and scary place.
Not anymore.
But Clementine had been right as well, she mused, snipping carefully with her sheers. Marianne had needed a husband. Not one with wealth and connections. But one who loved her—and Toby—just as much as she loved him.
And the timid woman who once hid herself away from the gossip of the ton, stood in the sunshine and thought how wonderful the world could be. Especially with the right man by your side.
THE END