“A new b-b-blend,” Marigold said. The proprietor had given her samples of every tea in the shop before she made her selections, hoping the bright and citrusy tea would delight the girls and be refreshing for the summer. “Only recently imported from South Africa.”
Archie’s sisters stared at her, mouths agape. “Gracious,” their mother whispered.
“Mum,” Archie hissed.
She blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Come, please sit. Supper is nearly ready. I only need to take out the bread. Girls, will you help her ladyship to the table?” When they didn’t immediately move, still gaping at the tea, their mother’s voice darkened. “Girls?”
Eloise rolled her eyes while Samantha snapped to attention, and together the girls guided her to a seat at the head of the table. Someone had tied a cushion to the sturdy bentwood chair, and Marigold sat gingerly.
“Your dress is very pretty,” Samantha whispered, then flushed.
Marigold smiled at the young woman. “Thank you. So is yours.”
Samantha’s eyes lit up like she’d been named the diamond of the season, and she bounced as she hurried over to help her mother move dishes to the table, squabbling with Eloise about who would carry the potatoes.
Archie put a large serving tray with a lamb roast on the center of the table, then gave her a conspiratorial wink. “They’re always like this.” He jerked his head towards his sisters, who were yanking at the bowl while their mother arranged slices of bread in a basket.
“They’re lovely,” she whispered, and his grin lit up the room.
“You say that now.” He winked, and she felt a wholly inappropriate tug deep in her core.
Marigold had never experienced a meal with quite so much noise. Despite growing up with four siblings, meals were staid affairs with calm voices. By the time her youngest sisters were old enough to sit at the main table, she was married and living in her own household. Any meal she shared with her husband was served with a side of terse silence.
The tension ebbed from her body as the evening progressed, no doubt because of the delightful food. Thick hunks of buttery bread, sweet peas and slivered onions, delicious slices of tender lamb crowded her plate. She sipped Ceylon tea from a chipped cup instead of wine from a crystal goblet, ate from mismatched plates instead of heirloom china. Laughter and gentle teasing punctuated the conversation, and before long, she noted her cheeks ached from smiling.
And through it all, Archie watched her, his gaze catching hers every few moments, assessing her comfort, refilling her plate untilher stomach protested, steering the discussion away from any topics that might make her uncomfortable.
Mrs. Grant asked about Marigold’s children and her bees. Samantha asked Marigold about fashion and what the London season was like. Eloise…
Suffice it to say, Eloise and Matthew would have gotten along smashingly.
“Have the bees ever swarmed you?” The girl’s expression fell when Marigold answered in the negative.
“I only approach in the evening when the sun is setting. I also have a smoker that calms them d-down and makes them less likely to fly. My bees are used to my presence and rarely make a fuss.”
“Have they ever stung you?” Apprehension tinged Samantha’s question.
“A few times, yes.” She touched the raised mark on her neck. “Just the other d-day, here.” Samantha shuddered while Eloise leaned in for a better look. Her gaze darted to Archie to see his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the spot.
Her stutter had faded, as though being at this table was natural, something she’s been born to do. So distant from her life as an aristocratic wife, it was barely recognizable.
“How on earth did you discover such a hobby?” Mrs. Grant looked at Marigold with palpable fondness, its intensity such that Marigold couldn’t decide if she was startled or desperately pleased by it.
“My son d-discovered them and was curious,” she said, affection blooming. “He needed me to be brave, so I was. My interest in keeping b-bees grew from there.”
Archie’s hand twitched on the table, and she wondered if he’d restrained himself from reaching for her.
Eloise scoffed. “Mummy wouldn’t approach bees for us. She doesn’t even like honey.”
Mrs. Grant’s head tilted. “I raised seven children, my dear. I’m hardly a weakling.”
“Have you ever danced with a prince?” Samantha’s expression was wistful.
“No, but I met a princess once.”
Eloise gasped and Samantha shrieked. Archie leaned back in his chair, his smile fond as he watched her. Something in her middle warmed, a glow spreading through her limbs and into her fingertips. By the time the plates were empty, her stomach ached from laughter and eating far more than she was accustomed to.
“Girls, you make sure the sheep are all in the pen, and Archie can get the horses squared away.” Mrs. Grant stood, put on her apron, and looked at Marigold. “If you’d like to sit in the parlor, milady, I’ll fix you some tea.”
