“I am not sure it has ever been so thoroughly esteemed by anyone before.” He smiled of his own accord. “In addition to all this wildness”—he waved his hand about—“we have an elegant rose garden. Would you like to see it?”
“I would like that very much.”
“I will show it to you, then.” Theodore placed his hands on the wheels and started down the path, surprised to feel that he, too, would like that very much.
THE ROSE GARDEN was as unique as the rest of the grounds. Like a traditional English garden, it was groomed. Unlike anything Beatrice had visited before, it formed a spiral, the neat path leading one in circles to the very heart of the garden.
“Oh my,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in delight as she took in the tall, newly opened blooms bowing toward the center of a tiny, circular courtyard. Two curved benches faced each other on the little terrace, only a few feet separating them. Beatrice seated herself upon the one opposite Lord Hughes’ chair.
“This has become my favorite place of late—since the roses started blooming,” he said.
With hands braced on either side of her on the bench, Beatrice leaned forward, eyes closed, as she inhaled deeply, the sweet scent making her almost giddy. “I can see why.”
“It’s a good reminder to me that I haven’t lost all the joys of life,” he said. “I am still able to enjoy the fragrance of roses, to savor the taste of Cook’s fresh-baked loaves, to appreciate the lovely melody you were humming this afternoon.”
Beatrice blushed and felt grateful he could not see her, then instantly felt terrible for having such a thought again. “The fragrance of this garden and the taste of Cook’s fresh-baked bread are much more delightful than a few notes of an old song.”
“What old song was it? I did not recognize it. The tune was unusual.”
Beatrice wondered and worried about where he was going with the question. Thus far, everything she had told him he had twisted to use against her. She answered warily.
“It is an Indian melody. My mother used to sing it to me.”
“Was she from India?”
Beatrice smiled. Had Lord Hughes been able to see her pale skin, he would have known that was impossible. “No. But that is where I spent my childhood. Father moved us there when I was just an infant.”
“Did you like it there?”
“Very much.” She dreamed of it still—her lavish bedroom and the four-poster bed with its airy curtains that were drawn around her each night, always making her feel as if she were a princess in some fairytale. The landscape had been so different in India—England was prettier, she now granted—but the sights and sounds and unique smells of her childhood held strong in memory. She had loved her home. Her parents. Her brother.
Lord Hughes cleared his throat as if something uncomfortable were stuck in it. “You said your parents perished when you were twelve?”
“Our home caught fire.” Now she was the one with something caught in her throat. Fourteen years later, the memory still seared her heart as much as the heat had her skin that night. “I was the only one who survived. My mother pushed me out the second-story window of my bedroom.”
“And you lived to tell of it? Obviously,” he added quickly with a solemn nod.
“My arm was broken in the fall, made worse because I rolled on it in an attempt to stop it burning. The curtains were on fire, and they touched the side of my nightgown...” Shedidn’t describe any more. It was enough for him to picture what had happened, and it was more than she cared to remember. Whenever she thought about it too long, she could feel the flames scorching her skin and remember the absolute terror of those moments. She still had the scars to remind her every day.
“My mother used a vase and then a candlestick to shatter the window glass. She helped me onto the ledge and pushed me. Then she went back inside to help Father find my brother. I never saw any of them again.”
“Good God,” Lord Hughes murmured. “What a terrible lot to have endured—and at such a young age.” His lips pursed as if he were holding back something more. Though she could not see his eyes, it was apparent, in his shallow breaths and the slow shake of his head, that he was stricken by her tale.
She was surprised at the genuine grief lining his face. “It was. A lot.” Aside from her uncle, he was the first person who had ever acknowledged such. Who had expressed any sort of understanding or considered that she’d not only suffered the terror of that night and the painful injuries she’d sustained but the loss of her entire family, the loss of her life as she had known it—forever.
“Afterward you returned to England—to your uncle’s home?”
“It was a few months afterward. I was in hospital for some time. But yes, eventually, after arrangements had been made, I was put on a ship to England.”
“By yourself? No one came for you?”
Beatrice smiled sadly. “No one came for me. Another family my uncle was acquainted with was traveling to England, and it was agreed that I should be under the care of their governess as well, for the duration of the voyage. So I was not entirely alone.” Though she had verymuch felt she was. Feelings that had been made worse by witnessing that whole and functioning family—what she once had but that had been taken from her. Beatrice recalled crying more on that voyage, particularly as they left India behind, than she had during her weeks in hospital. Before, she had been able to pretend she would be going home again, that her parents and brother were still to be found. Sailing away from India had made her loss real and permanent.
Across from her, Lord Hughes drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. A contemplative expression pursed his lips, and she wondered and worried again what he must be thinking. Would he still honor his word to pay her way home tomorrow? She was reluctant to go, to leave this place of beauty and respite—even working as she had this week had felt rejuvenating—but at least at her aunt’s home she knew the expectations, knew how to endure and survive. Here she remained uncertain whether he was friend or foe. Whether he would turn her out at once—as he had threatened that first day—or if he would show compassion. And how her heart might react to either.
“Did you not find a new family in your aunt and uncle and cousin? Were they not welcoming?”
“My uncle was.” Beatrice chose her words carefully, as she always must, lest the truth of her living circumstances return to her uncle’s ears, and her aunt make her life the worse for it.
