Chapter Sixteen
“Come and see the rose garden, Cordelia. Do come! They’re the prettiest roses in England!”
James couldn’t help smile at Margaret’s lust for life.
Almost rude in her enthusiasm, she exclaimed over everything as she encouraged Cordelia to try the bacon from Mr. Walton’s farm, which she declared to be “the best bacon in the whole country,” and the marmalade that was “the tastiest in the whole wide world.”
“Meg, slow down!” James said, suppressing a laugh. “You’ll wear my wife out on her first morning here. Do you want her to think we’re poor hosts?”
“We’re not Cordelia’s hosts, James. We’re her family. Is that not right, Cordelia? You’re my sister, are you not?”
Cordelia smiled, her eyes glowing with joy—a joy to match that in James’s heart as he saw her cheeks, which were so pale last night, glow with health.
“Yes, Margaret,” she said. “Now—how about you show me your favorite rose? There’s so many different ones, but I’m sure there’s one you prefer over the rest.”
They entered the rose garden and James’s heart filled with pride. On a bright summer’s day such as this, the garden was at its finest: Vivid reds and yellows shimmered against the glossy, dark green foliage and the air was filled with a soft, sweet scent and the low, delicate hum of bees.
Heslop, who was busying himself weeding the border around the sundial in the center, turned and touched his hat.
“Morning, Lord Bedford, sir, and Miss Margaret.”
He turned to Cordelia and James caught his breath. Would the gardener show disdain for his master’s having brought a doxy home? No doubt the servants had tattled about her background, given Georgina’s outburst, and everyone knew that gossip spread below stairs at ten times the speed it did above.
But, to Osborne’s and Mrs. Case’s credit, none of the staff mentioned it in James’s presence. He’d have ordered them horsewhipped and dismissed without a reference if they had.
But the fear still remained that Cordelia’s secret would come out, and that it would taint the Bedford name, ruining Georgiana’s and Margaret’s chances of marrying well.
“Heslop,” James said, “this is my wife, your new mistress, Lady Bedford.”
The gardener turned to Cordelia and tilted his head to one side, as if sizing her up.
Did he find her wanting?
Bloody hell—James couldn’t afford to lose Heslop. The man knew more about roses and worked harder than anyone. But the gardener was a stickler for propriety. And he’d been conspicuous by his absence yesterday when the staff had lined up to greet James’s wife.
Cordelia watched him, her features expressionless, save the slight furrowing of her brow.
Then Heslop removed his hat and bowed.
“Lady Bedford, ma’am,” he said. “You must forgive my absence when you arrived yesterday. I trust I gave no offense. It was my Molly, you see.”
“Molly?”
“Aye, my wife. Been married nigh on thirty years, we have. She was taken sick the night before last, and I dared not leave her, what with the ague that did in old Mr. Crippen, from Fircombe. I know I was expected here, but she needed me.”
“As it should be, Mr. Heslop,” Cordelia said, smiling. “I’d not expect a husband to do anything less for his wife. Your loyalty is to be commended. I take it she’s recovering?”
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am. She said this morning that I was gettin’ under her feet somethin’ bad, and she fair shooed me out of the place. But she’s a right bad cough on her. Kept me up all night, she did.”
“Then perhaps she’d appreciate a visit,” Cordelia said. “I used to keep a jar of honey and lemon that was excellent for easing a cough. I’m afraid I didn’t bring it with me. But perhaps Mrs. Vaughan might have something similar.”
“Is that from London, ma’am?” Heslop said. “I’ve not been myself. Is it as noisy and crowded as they say? I heard—”
He broke off and Cordelia flinched, her color deepening.
“Perhaps I can give you something to take to your wife, Mr. Heslop, if you’d rather I didn’t visit,” she said.
James’s chest tightened at the shame in her eyes.
But there was nothing he could do to ease it. The world would always vilify her for the life she had led, and judge him for choosing to unite himself with her. Heslop’s reaction was perhaps the most courteous he should expect—a slight show of discomfort rather than outright hostility.
Then Cordelia inhaled and gave an overly bright smile.
“The garden is beautiful, Mr. Heslop,” she said. “I daresay it takes a lot of work to tend to all the different roses with such care.”
“Aye, it does, ma’am. But it’s good work. I like to feel the sun on my back and I take pride in a job well done.”
“You must work very hard.”
“I do my best, ma’am,” the gardener replied. “I can cut some blooms for you, if you’d like.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble?”
“No, ma’am. Are there any in particular that you fancy?”
“Perhaps you might you choose for me, Mr. Heslop,” she said. “I’m afraid I know little about tending to roses, though I promise to admire them.”
“Heslop, why don’t you pick the same roses that are in James’s painting?” Margaret said.
The gardener eyed Cordelia with interest. “Are you the young lady that the master gave the painting to?”
“Yes,” Margaret said, before Cordelia could reply. “She chose it over all the other gifts, didn’t she, brother? And the other gifts included a diamond necklace and a townhouse.”
“From whom did you hear that?” James said.
“Miss Flint told me that Georgiana said—”
“A young lady oughtn’t gossip, Miss Margaret,” the gardener said, casting a glance at Cordelia. “Did ye like the painting, ma’am?”
Cordelia nodded. “Very much. Did you see it?”
“I did, ma’am.” Heslop glanced at James, his expression conveying his opinion of James’s skill with a paintbrush. “Why did ye choose it, if ye don’t mind my askin’?”
Cordelia blushed. She glanced at James, then sighed.
“It was the only true gift,” she said.
The gardener’s expression softened.
“What do you mean, a true gift?” Margaret said. “James, do you know what she means?”
“I do, Miss Margaret,” the gardener said, his face cracking into a smile. “Only a very particular sort of lady would reject a necklace in favor of the master’s painting.”
“It’s in Cordelia’s bedchamber,” Margaret said. “Tilly told me it has a whole wall to itself, so Cordelia can look at it when in bed.”
“Margaret, I don’t think what my wife does in bed is a suitable topic for discussion in front of Mr. Heslop.”
Cordelia drew in a sharp breath, and James cursed himself. Why could he not say anything that didn’t refer to her previous life—and in front of the bloody gardener?
“It’s replaced Mama’s painting,” Margaret continued.
Cordelia shook her head. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
“Oh no!” Margaret said, smiling. “It’s not Mama’s chamber anymore. It’s yours. You can put what you want in it. Mr. Heslop, will you cut some roses for Cordelia? They’d look very pretty with the painting.”
The gardener smiled. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Margret.” He nodded to Cordelia. “And I’m sure my Molly would appreciate a visit, ma’am. We’d be honored—that is, if it’s no trouble.”
“It would be a pleasure, Mr. Heslop,” Cordelia said.
James could swear he saw a slight coloring of the gardener’s cheeks, and a flicker of admiration, perhaps even devotion, in the man’s eyes. Had he fallen for a doxy’s spell?
No. Cordelia was no doxy. She might have played the part in the Lyon’s Den, but here, in the country, she was just a woman, trying to make a home for herself in an unfamiliar environment.
A kind, generous woman whose eyes had clouded with compassion and concern upon her hearing about Mrs. Heslop’s illness.
Ladies of the manor were expected, out of duty, to provide alms for the poor and comfort for the sick.
But in Cordelia, who had not been schooled in the manner of a viscountess, such kindness came naturally.
Perhaps that was why he’d fallen in love with her in the Lyon’s Den, during those long nights by the fireplace in her boudoir when he’d spoken of his home and his sisters. Not for her body or the pleasures she could give him—but for her soul.
Margaret began to fidget, as all children did when they’d spent too long in one place.
“Do you want to see my favorite tree now, Cordelia?” she said. “I want you to see me climb it. You can climb it also, if you like.”
“Very well.” Cordelia took the girl’s hand. “Do excuse us, Mr. Heslop.”
The gardener touched his forelock and watched the two of them cross the garden, Margaret tugging at Cordelia’s hand.
“You chose well there, Master James, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”
“What—in painting the picture as the gift?”
“In your choice of bride.”
“I didn’t make the choice,” James said. “I was merely honor bound to abide by it.”
“But if you’d not wanted her, surely you wouldn’t have married her?”
James sighed. “No, I would have still married her, but I might have regretted it.”
The gardener smiled. “You’ll not regret marrying that young woman, Master James.”
“But you must have heard who she was before.”
“I never listen to gossip, Master James, and neither should you,” the gardener said, his voice hardening.
“She’s a rare woman, that she is. My Molly’s the best woman in the world, and I’ve only ever wanted as good a wife for you.
And you’d never have been happy with one of them fine London ladies.
What does it matter what others say? It’s what you feel that matters.
And a man is a damned fool if he chooses a lady over a woman who loves him. ”
Bloody hell, from where had that speech come? Heslop hardly ever spoke out of turn. By rights James should admonish him for his forwardness…if the man hadn’t spoken the truth.
“What makes you think…?” James hesitated, unwilling to voice the question that would expose his weakness.
The gardener rolled his eyes. “Be off with you,” he said. “I’ve got them weeds to tend to, and you…”
“I have a wife to tend to?”