Chapter Twenty-Six
The small, tear-shaped snowdrop flower is said to protect against poison and dark magic. As one of the first flowers to bloom in the springtime, it is also said to symbolize the goddess Persephone’s return from the underworld. In the language of flowers, the snowdrop means Hope.
After the wedding, Elswyth sat on her bed.
She still wore her wedding gown, white lace and tulle with an embroidered bodice.
Her mother’s necklace lay cold on her breast, and her hair was tied in a high bun accented with white roses.
The ceremony had been more of a formality—no more than ten people—but Mrs. Rose had insisted Elswyth look her best.
She looked around the room. She’d only returned after the ceremony to gather her things, and yet she found herself lingering.
Everything she’d brought to London was now tucked away in two trunks, sitting beside her, ready for the trip to Dr. Gall’s home in Oxford.
The rest of the room had returned to the state she’d found it in. Only Persephone’s effects remained.
She tried not to think of it. Instead, she flipped through the letters that had arrived that morning before the ceremony. Many lords and ladies had sent congratulations on her most auspicious match. All the words seemed empty.
Elswyth stood, moving toward the writing desk. She touched the bouquet of flowers there, dried and dead again, and thought about the man who had sent them. Could it really have been the prince? Or was that only a delusion of Elswyth’s, as everyone said?
She shook her head and began packing up Persephone’s letters. When she was finished, Elswyth turned back toward the writing desk, where a single letter remained unopened. Her name was scrawled on the envelope in a familiar, twisting script.
She opened it and found a single page of her father’s handwriting, familiar but in a shaky hand. Lines of ink trailed behind the letters, as though he’d been unable to lift the pen.
Dearest Elswyth,
I hope this letter finds you well. When you left for London, I had no doubt that you would find an advantageous match.
The funds provided by Lord Gall have relieved our immediate debts, and I am now able to have the doctor come each day.
He says that I am remaining stable, and that I may have some months left.
I hope that you can visit before my time is done, but I understand if you do not.
I know this was not easy for you, and that you never wished to marry.
But I am told Lord Gall is a good man, one who will treat you well.
Perhaps I will live long enough to see my grandchildren.
I wish you nothing but bliss on your wedding day. Were your sister alive, I know that she would wish you the same.
With all my love,
Your father
The letter shook in her hand. A tear dropped onto the page, smearing the ink further.
Rage began to build inside her, from what, she didn’t know.
She felt as though she’d failed—failed her sister, failed her father, failed herself.
And now she would leave the city, to Gall’s estate in Oxfordshire, and leave the search for Persephone behind her.
In a way, she’d gotten what she wanted. So why did it all feel so wrong?
She tore the letter. She ripped it in half and then to shreds, letting the pieces fall at her feet. Tears fell, and she wiped at them with the back of her hand.
“Elswyth?” a voice said behind her. She turned to see Mrs. Rose waiting in the doorway. She wore her best pink gown and matching fascinator for Elswyth’s wedding day. A concerned look crossed her face.
“Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said, wiping away the last of her tears. She smiled, but there was no joy behind it.
“Apologies. I should address you as Lady Gall now, should I not? I would hate to lose my manners.”
“You always said that first names are for friends, are they not? In that case, you must call me Elswyth.”
Mrs. Rose smiled. “And in that case, you may call me Vivian.”
Elswyth curtsied. “Much obliged, Vivian.”
Mrs. Rose bowed deeply. “Pleased to meet you, Lady Gall.”
Elswyth turned back to the letters. “It still doesn’t feel right. Lady.”
“Why should it not? You are a baroness now, after all. With all the lands, titles, and stations that implies.”
Elswyth toyed with the letters again, not looking at Mrs. Rose. “I always thought I’d remain a Miss. Or perhaps, if I was lucky, something more. A professor or doctor.”
Mrs. Rose moved over and took the letters out of Elswyth’s hands. “You still might, with Dr. Gall as your patron. Anything is possible in this day and age.”
“Yes, but I’ll always be a lady first, and a doctor second.”
“And what is wrong with that? Many would kill to have your title.”
“I suppose I always thought that Persephone would be the high lady. Again, I feel that I am taking something from her. All of this,” Elswyth said, gesturing around the room, “all of this is hers.”
Mrs. Rose frowned. “Don’t you think she would want you to have this?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. You did not take anything from your sister. You fulfilled the dream that she could not. In some ways, the gowns, the dances—you honored her memory, did you not? And the part of her that loved those things—well, now that part lives on in you.”
Elswyth frowned. She wiped away another tear. “Thank you, Mrs. Rose. Vivian. I will miss you.”
Mrs. Rose smiled, but Elswyth could see tears shining in her eyes. “Nonsense. I will see you again. Someday, you’ll return to London with little children of your own. Daughters, perhaps. And you know just where to find me. I know they’re going to need heaps of help.”
Elswyth made a sound between a laugh and a sob. Mrs. Rose tutted. “Oh, come here, darling,” she said. She wrapped Elswyth in a hug.
“Whatever you need, you’ll write me, yes?”
“Of course, Mrs. Rose,” Elswyth said. Mrs. Rose released her and then took her kerchief and dabbed at her own eyes. “I should be going, then. The season may be over, but there’s endless work to do before next year.”
“Of course, of course,” Elswyth said. She sniffled, trying to maintain her composure.
Mrs. Rose bowed again. “Good evening, Lady Gall,” she said. And with that, Madame Vivian Rose turned away, back straight, and strode to the door.
Before she left, she paused by the writing desk. Her hand toyed with the dried bouquet. “Elswyth? I almost forgot to tell you. I found the correct definition for black coriander.”
“Oh?” Elswyth scarcely heard her. She didn’t much care for the definition of black coriander. But she could permit Mrs. Rose one last lesson. She supposed that soon she would miss them.
“Yes. Particularly obscure. But I’m sure of it. Black coriander means Look within.”
Elswyth looked at the bouquet, her brow furrowing, and then back at Mrs. Rose. The woman only shrugged, tutted at the dead bouquet, and then made for the door.
A strange silence settled over the room. For months, Elswyth had longed to be free from Mrs. Rose’s constant chatter. Now her absence felt like a wound. She stood and moved to the writing desk, where the old bouquet waited.
Look within.
Elswyth picked up the vase. She pushed the flowers aside and peered within but saw nothing except moldering stems. She tried to reach inside, but the opening was too small, and the thorns of old roses dug into her fingers.
Finally, she grabbed the dead bouquet by the vase, lifted it above her head, and smashed it on the ground.
The porcelain exploded into fragments, the shards bouncing against her wedding gown and sliding across the wooden floors. The flowers crumbled, their dead petals hanging in the air like snow.
She looked down at the mess. In the middle of the broken vase, between the dead stalks of flowers, she saw something white and flat, concealed in a curve of shattered porcelain.
Elswyth blinked. It wasn’t a trick of the light. There was a piece of paper in the broken vase. No—an envelope.
She knelt down, picking away the shards and taking it from between the dead stalks of flowers. The envelope was small and made of ivory paper. A broken seal showed the image of a bumblebee cast in golden wax.
Elswyth’s breath quickened. Why would Persephone hide a letter inside that vase? Or was this the letter that came with the bouquet? A note from whoever had sent it?
She folded back the flap and slid out the letter within. Instantly, she recognized the golden-brown ink—the very same invisible ink that Kehinde had used in his poisoned letter to her at the Royal Gardens. Brown burn spots at the letter’s edges confirmed the use of a candle to reveal the message.
Miss Elderwood,
I did not wish to send this letter, but I am afraid I have no other choice.
Our affair has been a pleasant diversion, but I cannot seriously consider you a prospect for marriage.
You understood this from the outset. I must do what is best for my family, and a marriage to a house like yours is unsuitable.
I apologize if you understood our relationship differently.
With that said, do not attempt to contact me further. I am leaving for a tour posthaste and will be out of reach for some months. All communications you send to the palace addressed to me will be destroyed unread.
I feel I must make this very clear: I do not love you. I have never loved you, and any delusions you may insist upon are an embarrassment to yourself and your family. It is best if we lay this matter to rest discreetly while your reputation is still intact.
As for the matter you discussed in your last letter, I deny any involvement. I urge you to visit one Lady Sheers, Number 1 Hemlock Close. In exchange for your continued discretion, I have enclosed the funds necessary for Lady Sheers’s services.
I must inform you that if you do not agree to these terms, I shall have no choice but to prevent you from slandering the Crown by any means necessary.
There is nothing to fear from this, Persephone. It will be just like plucking a daisy.