Should she give it to him? Dare she take the risk again? Yet how could she not when he was her husband and the father of her child? How could she turn her back on a chance at happiness when she loved him and always would?
Could she trust him, though? Could she ever give her whole heart to him again?
Unsure, but knowing her path led back to the house and to Jack, she stopped and turned around to retrace her steps.
Chapter 28
The next ten days passed in much the same way as the ten before them-with a few very important differences.
Each morning when Jack greeted her, he now also said those three important words.
I love you.
And every night at her bedroom door, he told her again. Often giving her a sweet, soft kiss that lingered on her lips long after he'd sought his own solitary bed.
He spoiled and cosseted her, bringing her interesting little gifts that ran the gamut from a new set of sable-tipped paintbrushes to a trio of smooth stones he said would be perfect for skipping on the little pond not too far from the house.
Every day brought a new delight and a new experience as her body continued to change. When she complained about putting on weight, he told her the extra pounds only made her more beautiful. Expectant women were supposed to glow, he informed her, and she was more radiant now than the sun itself.
After a few days, she realized that it was almost as if he were courting her, seducing her all over again, as he had during those halcyon days in Bath.
Only this time was he courting her for real? she found herself wondering more and more often. Or was she only imagining what she wanted to believe?
She was no closer to knowing the answer, as October moved into its second week. So far the temperatures had been unusually warm for fall, allowing the plants and flowers to bloom long past their usual growing season, as if nature had given them all a reprieve.
Deciding to take advantage of the clement weather, Grace gathered her art supplies, and with the help of a footman, set up a table and chair so she could paint in the garden. If Mother Nature changed her mind and brought cold temperatures tonight, this might well be her last chance until next spring to capture the colorful blossoms. And with Jack away in the village for a few hours, painting seemed an excellent occupation.
Actually she'd been doing a great deal more painting lately, resuming her work on the flower folio at Jack's urging-and Terrence's, as well.
She'd had a lovely letter from Terrence about three weeks ago, in which he'd expressed his delight at learning of her pregnancy. He shared the latest goings-on in London. Then he went on to tell her about his efforts to expand the business with his new partner and how much happier he was of late. In closing, he assured her that her artwork would always be welcome at Cooke and Jones Publishers and to send word when her next set of paintings was complete.
Later, when she'd mentioned Terrence's comment to Jack, he instantly agreed.
"Of course you must paint!" he stated with an emphatic tilt of his chin. "It would be nothing short of a crime if you did not."
And so with lighter spirits and a renewed enthusiasm for her creative endeavors, she'd pulled out the partially completed folio and set to work.
Seated now in the garden, she swished her brush clean before twirling the soft bristles over a small block of yellow paint. Humming under her breath, she mixed it with a little blue and watched a compelling, muted shade of green spring to life. She smiled and feathered the new shade in light strokes over the watercolor paper.
///
Pausing, she took a moment to study the results.
"'Tis a right fine 'un, that picture, if you don't mind me sayin' so," declared a wizened voice from somewhere over her right shoulder.
Glancing around, she saw the gardener standing a few feet distant, his squat body and nearly bald pate always putting her in mind of a monk. But the old man, with his twelve children and twenty-two grandchildren, was far from a somber or celibate holy man. Although, as she'd long ago noted, he did seem to have an almost miraculous ability with plants. Everything he touched seemed to thrive.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Potsley. Come to tend the grounds?"
"Right y'are, missus … I mean your ladyship. Although I'd have likely been here sooner if I'd known ye were going to be outside. Prettiest flower in the garden, ye are," he said, giving her a friendly wink.
She laughed, not the least offended, since Mr. Potsley was not only married but had just celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday last month. Despite the impropriety of a servant addressing his employer in such a casual manner, she didn't mind his harmless banter. Lighthearted conversation was simply part of who he was, in the same sort of way that charm was an intrinsic part of Jack. Neither could help who they were.
Nor would I want them to, she realized.
Pushing aside the thought, she swished her paintbrush clean again. "Well, I shan't keep you from your work. I'm sure you're anxious to take advantage of this beautiful day."
He nodded. "Exactly so. And ye as well. These blossoms won't keep past the first frost. I see ye're paintin' them pinks."
"The dianthus, yes."
"I just know 'em as pinks," he said with a shrug. "Same as I know the marigolds, the honeysuckle, and the hollyhocks. Now, that'll be the last of those 'til next year, since they're not so hardy as the others. 'Tis a wonder they've lasted as long as they have. Mebbe ye ought te paint them first."
"Yes, well, luckily I have already finished a rendering of that particular variety."
He grinned and shook his head again. "Ye sound jest like his lordship. He's always puffing on with them fancy names and fancy words."
Was he? How curious. But doubtless Jack was discussing something other than plants with Mr. Potsley. Though what else she couldn't easily imagine.
"Still," the old man stated in a proud tone, "I get things to grow whether I know their fancy name or not."
"That you do," she agreed with a smile. "And very ably, too, I might add."
"Thank ye, milady," he said, glancing away, as though he were embarrassed by the compliment. "I do my best."
"You've obviously put a great deal of care into this garden. I've rarely seen one so lovely and with such a thorough range of plantings. Sitting among so many gorgeous flowers always lifts my spirits, no matter what they might be. I expect the former owners of the house used to feel the same."
His grey brows drew tight. "No, ma'am. Least I don't suppose they did. But then I didn't tend to the property when the Chesters lived here."
This time her brows furrowed. "Oh, but I assumed you'd worked here for years."
He shook his head. "Just started a few months ago, right after his lordship bought the property. Until then, weren't all that much call for a gardener."
"Why not?"
"Cause there was hardly a garden to tend. Least not one worth mentioning. The trees were here and some of the shrubs, but the flower beds were thin and sad. The Chesters said nature should see to itself and whatever grew, nor didn't, was fine with them."
"So you cleaned up what was here?"
"Ripped out most of it, more like. His lordship told me he wanted this garden to be a showplace and that whatever I couldn't seed by summer, I was to find and transplant. Wanted it to look established-like with color for every one of the seasons. When I said it would cost him plenty, he told me he didn't care. No expense to be spared, he says."
She laid her paintbrush aside, hardly able to grasp what she was being told. "You designed the garden then?"
"Oh no, 'twasn't meself at all. His lordship did all the work. Had drawings and lists of every plant to be used and knew exactly where he wanted 'em put. Knew all the Latin names of 'em too. Saw that first plan meself with all his notes and jots before he gave me another copy with the common ones writ out so I could tell what they were. He asked me what I thought and if a lady would like it. Says as I thought the Queen herself would approve."
///
Breath grew thin in her lungs, her pulse speeding faster in confusion. Jack had done all this? Had arranged for the planting of this garden months ago before she'd even known about the house?
"Yup, even a Queen would like it, I says," she heard the gardener continue. "An' do ye know what he says back?"
"No," she whispered in a faint voice. "W-what did he say?"
He gave her a smile. "He says it don't matter if a Queen likes it, cause the only woman who matters is his wife. ‘If this garden makes her smile,' he told me, ‘then my efforts will have all been worthwhile.'"