Chapter Twenty-Four
“The roses are blooming.”
Helena looked up from the letter she had been reading, correspondence from Mrs Blackwood regarding arrangements for her mother’s move to the Dower house, to find Edmund standing in the doorway of the morning room.
His expression held something she had not seen before: a mixture of excitement and vulnerability that made him look almost boyish.
“Which roses?” she asked, though she already knew. He had been checking the experimental beds every morning for weeks, watching the buds swell on the hybrid plants he and Mr Greenway had been cultivating for years.
“The twice-bloomers. The grafts took. Helena.” He crossed the room in three quick strides, taking her hands and pulling her to her feet. “You have to see them. They are extraordinary.”
She let herself be pulled, laughing at his enthusiasm.
This was one of the things she valued most about him, the passion that emerged when he forgot to be composed, when he allowed himself to want something openly.
The Duke of Westmere might be reserved and careful in public, but Edmund Ridley, in the privacy of his own home, was capable of being utterly, endearingly enthusiastic.
They walked through the house together, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, and Helena felt a warmth settle her as she walked together with her husband. “I received word from Mr Hartley this morning,” she said as they walked. “He has formally requested permission to propose to Rosalind.”
Edmund glanced at her with a smile. “And you will grant it, I assume?”
“I already have. I wrote back immediately, I did not want him to suffer unnecessary anxiety.” She paused. “He is a good man, Edmund. He will make her happy.”
“I know.” Edmund squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm. “I have had several conversations with him over the past weeks. He is exactly what you said, kind, attentive, and genuinely interested in Rosalind as a person rather than a conquest or a connection.”
“Like someone else I know.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Helena laughed. They had reached the garden door, and Edmund pushed it open with the enthusiasm of a child anticipating a long-promised treat. The spring air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of growing things, earth and grass and, beneath it all, the unmistakable sweetness of roses.
The experimental beds were at the far end of the formal garden, tucked behind a hedge that sheltered them from the worst of the wind.
Helena had visited them often during her daily walks, watching the bare canes slowly come to life as winter receded.
She had seen the first leaves emerge, the buds begin to form, the careful tending that Edmund and Mr Greenway had provided.
But she had not seen this.
The roses were in full bloom. Not just blooming, but exploding with colour, a profusion of red and pink and white that seemed almost impossible.
The hybrid plants, which Edmund had worried might produce weak or sickly flowers, had instead produced blooms of extraordinary size and vigour.
They covered the beds in waves of colour, their petals catching the morning light, their fragrance perfuming the air.
“Edmund,” Helena breathed. “They are beautiful.”
“They are more than beautiful.” His voice was rough with emotion.
“They are proof. Proof that the grafting technique works, that we can produce roses that bloom twice in a season. This will change everything, Helena. Gardens across England could have roses in summer and autumn both. The implications for horticulture.”
He stopped, seeming to catch himself.
“Forgive me. I am boring you with so many details.”
“You are not boring me at all.” Helena moved closer to the nearest bush, bending to inhale the fragrance of a deep red bloom. “I positively adore watching you talk about something you care about. You come alive in a way that reminds me why I formed an attachment to you.”
Edmund was quiet for a moment. Then he moved to stand beside her, his hand finding hers among the roses.
“I came alive because of you,” he said quietly. “Before you, I had forgotten how to care about anything. The roses, the estate, my own future, it all felt like obligation rather than passion. You reminded me that passion was possible. That wanting things was not weakness.”
Helena turned to face him. The morning sun was warm on her back, the roses blooming around them like witnesses to something sacred.
“We should publish your findings,” she said. “As I suggested before. The horticultural societies would be fascinated.”
“A Duke does not publish papers about flower cultivation.”
“This Duke does.” Helena smiled. “Or at least, this Duke should. You have knowledge that could benefit gardeners everywhere. It would be selfish to keep it to yourself.”
“You said that before.”
“And I meant it before. I mean it even more now.” She gestured at the blooming beds. “This is not a hobby, Edmund. This is a genuine contribution. Your grandfather would be proud.”
Edmund’s expression shifted, as something vulnerable played beneath the surface. “My grandfather was a proper Duke. He would have been horrified at the thought of publishing under his own name.”
“Your grandfather collected exotic plants from around the world and spent hours in his conservatory coaxing them to thrive. He was passionate about horticulture in exactly the way you are. The only difference is that you have the opportunity to share what you have learned.” Helena squeezed his hand.
“You are not diminishing the dukedom by pursuing this. You are honouring it.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving across the blooming roses. Helena watched him process her words, watched the struggle between the dutiful Duke he had been trained to be and the passionate man he was learning to become.
“Perhaps,” he said finally. “Perhaps you are right.”
“I am always right. It is one of my most charming qualities.”
He laughed, that full, unguarded laugh she treasured, and pulled her into his arms. The roses surrounded them, fragrant and beautiful, evidence of years of patient work finally coming to fruition.
“I am entirely devoted to you,” he said against her hair.
“I know.” She pulled back to look at him, her eyes dancing. “You have mentioned it once or twice. In letters you never sent. In journals where you counted my smiles.”
He kissed her to stop her teasing. It was a thorough kiss, unhurried, the kind that spoke of certainty rather than desperation. The kind that said: we have time. We have all the time in the world.
When they finally separated, Helena was slightly breathless.
“We should go inside,” she said. “Before the gardeners see us scandalising the rose beds.”
“Let them see.” But Edmund released her, offering his arm with exaggerated formality. “Though you are right. We have much to discuss. Your mother’s arrival, for one thing. And the arrangements for Rosalind’s betrothal celebration.”
They walked back toward the house, the roses watching their departure with silent approval.
***
Helena’s mother arrived three days later.
The Dower house had been prepared with meticulous care, Helena had overseen every detail herself, ensuring that the rooms were warm, the linens soft, the furniture arranged for comfort rather than show.
Mrs Blackwood had come ahead to ensure the nursing arrangements were in place, and the local physician had been consulted regarding any special accommodations Mrs Whitmore might require.
But all of Helena’s careful preparations could not quite prepare her for the moment when the carriage pulled up to Westmere Park and her mother stepped out.
Mrs Whitmore was frailer than Helena remembered.
The months since the wedding had taken their toll, not dramatically, not alarmingly, but visibly.
Her hair was whiter, her face more lined, her movements slower and more careful.
She leaned on Mrs Blackwood’s arm as she descended from the carriage, and Helena felt her heart clench at the evidence of time’s passage.
“Mama.” Helena crossed the drive to embrace her mother, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and wool. “Welcome to Westmere.”
“My darling girl.” Mrs Whitmore’s voice was warm, if weaker than Helena remembered. “Let me look at you.”
Helena stepped back, submitting to her mother’s inspection with the patience of long practice. Mrs Whitmore’s eyes moved over her face, her dress, her posture, taking in all the changes that the past months had wrought.
“You look happy,” Mrs Whitmore said finally. “Truly happy. Not the brave face you used to wear for my benefit.”
“I am happy, Mama.” Helena took her mother’s hand. “Happier than I ever imagined possible.”
“I can see it.” Mrs Whitmore’s eyes glistened. “When you wrote to tell me about the matrimony, I worried. A Duke, a stranger, an arrangement made out of necessity, it seemed like a recipe for misery, no matter how you tried to make the best of it.”
“It was necessity at first,” Helena admitted. “But it became something else. Something I did not expect and could not have planned for.”
“Affection.” Mrs Whitmore smiled. “I recognise the look. I wore it myself, once. When your father was alive.”
The mention of her father brought a familiar ache to Helena’s chest. But it was a gentler ache now, less raw, more like the soft pain of a scar rather than a fresh wound.
“Edmund reminds me of Papa sometimes,” she said. “The way he pays attention. The way he makes me feel like my thoughts matter.”
“Then I am glad.” Mrs Whitmore squeezed her hand. “Your father would have approved, I think. Not of the title or the fortune, but of the man himself. He always said you could tell someone’s character by how they treated those who could do nothing for them.”
“I told Edmund that. He seemed pleased.”