“Is this for me, sir?” Even as he nodded, she took the pot in her hands. “This is a chrysanthemum plant, is it not?”
“Aye, my lady. Lord Blackwood, he was passing by, for our cottage is near the sea, and spied my wife tending the garden. A generous man, my lord. Says I’m to bring this planting and this here note.”
Carefully setting the pot on the wide rim of the central fountain whose shepherdess eternally poured water from a pail onto the stones around her feet, she reached for the small piece of paper he thrust toward her.
“Sweetheart, I’m reliably informed these red chrysanthemums are symbolic of true love. Think of me as you tend this symbol of my deep, abiding affection. Blackwood.”
Embarrassment burned her skin, scorching her throat as she realized she’d spoken the intimate words aloud. Stricken, she stared from Mr. Thurston, who continued to nod enthusiastically, to Wilkens, whose stern demeanor suddenly blurred a bit around the edges.
“Very thoughtful. Thank you, Mr. Thurston.” The duchess’s musical voice bridged the awkward moment. “Wilkens, see that Mr. Thurston has ample food and drink for his journey home.”
The men retired from the scene while the duchess tactfully admired the plant, giving Serena a moment to recover.
“Will it bear blossoms? I fear horticulture is not a particular interest of mine.”
“Yes, Your Grace, in autumn there will be lovely red blooms which will return year after year if attended properly,” she finally managed.
“Perhaps we should turn it over to the gardener for care.”
“Oh, no, Your Grace! I shall attend it myself,” Serena put in hurriedly. “Gardening is an interest of mine.”
As if Serena had said something that pleased her greatly, the duchess gave her a deep, warm smile. “I’m delighted to hear it. I have something else which I hope will interest you.” She lifted a slim volume from a small marble table nearby. “This is Matthew’s favorite book of poetry. Perhaps reading what has given him pleasure will bring you closer to him. But now, I fear, I must attend His Grace—this is our reading hour.”
Left with Blackwood’s book of poetry and his gift, Serena carefully chose the best spot in the conservatory for the plant. She felt the soil, added more water, and removed two yellow leaves. It was strangely reassuring to have some tangible evidence of Blackwood’s regard, for their time together did seem dreamlike, almost a figment of the romantic nature that had blossomed within her so recently.
In reality she had new responsibilities and challenges which excited her as nothing had before. Perhaps dear Buckle was right, she was like a kitten curious and eager to explore her new world and discover all its mysteries and delights.
She clutched the volume of poetry to her breast. If this was his favorite, then it would be hers, too. Blackwood had touched something within her she’d never dreamed existed. Was it quite proper to feel as she had on their wedding night? She blushed now remembering it. Whatever the quality he possessed that made her instinctively trust him had been reinforced by all she’d learned in the last few days about the kind of man he was. With insight that was no longer so rare, she recognized how fortunate she was in that discovery.
She stayed reading in bed until the candles sputtered. Even when she closed her eyes, the lines of poetry danced across her lids. Her vision of Blackwood as her romantic hero filled her dreams.
Over the next few weeks the duchess presented her with more books that she said Matthew had enjoyed. As Serena read them, a picture of her husband’s true personality began to take form. It began to give substance to the dreamlike figure he always appeared to her, taking him out of the realm of larger-than-life and into every small detail of her days.
The Season continued its feverish pursuit around them, but the Avalons refused more invitations than they accepted. Often the four of them, Serena, Cecily, and Their Graces, would spend a quiet evening at home playing whist. Blackwood’s father was not well, his ashen color showing a weakness of the heart the Prince Regent’s physician himself shook his head over.
With kind thoughtfulness all Blackwood’s family made her feel welcome, all but Longford. His apparent disdain was a constant, albeit slight, mar on her new life.
There was no disdain on the marquess’s face the night he burst into the library, where she and Cecily sat reading Shakespeare aloud.
“Where is Father?” he demanded sharply.
Fear gripped Serena, holding her perfectly still; but Cecily sprang to her feet.
“Long, what is it?” she asked with a frightened little catch in her voice.
“Dispatches have arrived about a great victory at Vitoria. Matt is well or we would have heard.”