After wiping the bits of wax and sticky spots from the table, she walked through the tall, wild grasses that plucked at her heavy wool skirt and boots, until she stood once more by the colony.
The bees were subdued, having been smoked earlier when she removed the honeycombs, and in a flash of bravery, she tugged off her hood, letting her hair fall in sweaty clumps around her neck and shoulders. The site of the sting burned, but she ignored it.
“I need to tell you something,” she said, her voice raspy from lack of use.
Speaking to the hives was an ancient tradition, one she rarely ascribed to; Marigold disliked speaking to anyone, but apiary lore said the bees must be informed of changes in the household or they may leave. Or worse, die.
She cleared her throat. “I’m divorcing the marquess. He’s the one you hate,” she added in an undertone. The bees did not respond, not that she expected them to.
“I met someone, a man. He’s helping me with the divorce. His name is Archibald, Archie.” She swallowed, surprised to find a prickling behind her eyes. “He is kind, and I made a mistake with him, a terrible one. But I don’t regret it. Is that awful of me?”
The base of the sun had only just dropped over the edge of the rolling hills in the distance, painting the fields in coppers and lavenders. The buzz of the hive seemed to settle, as though theswarm was preparing for sleep. Apparently, her confession had bored them.
“But I’d do it again,” she said in a rush, realizing the words had been on the tip of her tongue, but she’d lacked the bravery to say them or even think them. “If I knew for certain I wouldn’t be caught, I’d do it again.”
She heard hoofbeats sounding from the road that snaked around the rear of the property up to Harrow Hall. The butler, Addington, had been pleasantly surprised to see her and insisted on running into the village to gather supplies for a light supper before she returned to York and, knowing the marquess was still in London, she’d accepted his offer. She should return to the house and help him prepare, as she needed something to occupy her time until her carriage returned to collect her.
“I need to go,” she said, stepping away from the hive towards the path that would lead her to the house. “But I will return as soon as I’m able.”
When would she be able? As she picked her way along the path, she cast one look at her hive and at the shed just beyond. She patted the jar of honey in her apron; she planned to give it to Archie the next time she saw him, because she owed him an apology, and her gratitude.
She entered the house through the terrace doors and crossed the empty ballroom that had never seen a ball in the years she was marchioness. When she reached the parlor, she froze, her hood and mask falling to the floor with a clatter.
Her husband glanced up from the stack of invitations in his hand, then down again, still in his riding clothes. “Those damned insects aren’t dead yet?”
Her throat was a desert, and her response sounded like it was scraped across gravel. “You’re here?”
“Unfortunately.” He flicked one card to the table with a sneer. “I invited Sir Phineas to test out his new stallion on a hunt. Need to repair things after that stunt your tawdry sister pulled.”
Her younger sister Violet had intentionally ruined herself to avoid marriage to Sir Phineas, not that her husband would have understood such desperation. Her insides were turning to stone, gradually creeping into total stillness. “You were in London.”
“And I came back.” He didn’t bother looking up. “That bat Graney said you were there. She was wrong, clearly. You’ve been here all along.”
“Iwasthere, at Croydon House. I haven’t b-b-been here.”
He grunted, took a card, and tore it in half. “Another Knollwood party? If he thinks I’m coming after what he—”
“Roger!”
He looked up,finally, his mouth hanging open like a fish.
“I haven’t lived here in t-t-two months,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice. “I asked for a d-divorce, and I meant it. I’m only here to check my b-b-bees.”
His gaping mouth snapped shut, and he dropped the cards back on the table. “What is this about? Are you still complaining about Reginald going to Felton?”
“St-still?” Now it was her turn to gape. “I’m not merely complaining. I’m not allowing it.”
He tilted his head quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
“A d-d-divorce, my lord,” she spat. “I am ending our marriage.”
He chuckled. “You’ve truly lost your mind. Do you hear yourself? A divorce. You can barely say the word.”
Hot, sticky shame swamped her, filling her nostrils and ears until she wondered if she’d drown in it. “I mean it,” she said, but it was low, a whimper. “I met your mistress. P-p-pearl. In London.”
The marquess’ lips flattened while he nodded, stepped closer. Every instinct she possessed told her to step backwards, but she held her ground. “How is Pearl? Poor, deluded girl. I’ll bet she told you we had more than an arrangement.”
Marigold’s mouth parted on a silent gasp.
