“Why wouldn’t I approve of improvements?” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Your observations are considerably more useful than the original text in most cases.”
More useful. More insightful. More evidence of the brilliant mind you hide behind all that practical competence.
The flush that crept up her neck was charming. “They’re just notes. Nothing important.”
“Oh really.” He repeated with gentle mockery. “Yes, I can see how detailed pharmaceutical knowledge would be completely useless.”
She opened her mouth to argue then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she turned toward the nearest glasshouse, her expression shifting from embarrassment to wonder as she took in the vast array of plants within.
“Oh my,” she breathed.
Hugo followed her inside, watching as she moved from table to table with growing excitement. Here was chamomile in neat rows, there lavender in various stages of growth. Mint and rosemary, thyme and sage, dozens of medicinal plants he recognized from her careful marginalia.
“Look at them all,” she said, her voice full of delight. “The variety, the quality—I never imagined such a selection would be available outside London.”
There it is. The spark I was hoping to see.
She moved through the space with newfound energy, examining leaves, checking root systems, and asking the proprietor detailed questions about growing conditions and harvest times. The lost, hollow look had vanished from her eyes, replaced by the focused intensity he’d glimpsed when she’d treated Rosalie’s injuries.
This is who you really are when you’re not trying to be what you think I want.
“The echinacea looks particularly healthy,” she was saying to the owner, a weathered man who seemed delighted to have found someone who appreciated his work. “And the quality of your feverfew is exceptional.”
“Ah, you know your plants, Your Grace,” the man beamed. “Most ladies who come through here are only interested in the roses and such.”
“Most ladies haven’t spent years learning which herbs can save lives,” Sybil replied with a smile that made Hugo’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
He found himself watching her hands as she examined the plants, noting how she kept her gloves on despite the delicate work of checking leaves and stems.
It struck him as odd—surely she’d want to feel the texture of the plants properly, and gloves could only hinder such detailed inspection.
Perhaps she’s more careful about appearances than I thought.
But even as the explanation occurred to him, it didn’t quite fit. Sybil had never been particularly concerned with maintaining a pristine appearance, especially when engaged in work she cared about.
“Hugo, look at this!” She turned toward him with enthusiasm, holding a small pot containing what appeared to be a rather unremarkable green plant. “It’s comfrey—I’ve been wanting to try making a proper poultice with fresh leaves instead of dried ones.”
“Fascinating,” he said dryly though he found her excitement oddly compelling.
“It is, actually. The fresh leaves contain compounds that dried ones lose, and if my theories are correct, a poultice made fromfresh comfrey should be significantly more effective for treating bruises and sprains.”
Your theories. Based on careful observation and practical experience.
“In that case, we’d better take several plants,” he said.
Her face lit up. “Really? You don’t mind me conducting experiments in your garden?”
Your garden. You still don’t understand, do you? It’s not my garden I’m planning—it’s yours.
“I think I can survive the scandal of having a wife interested in useful knowledge,” he replied.
The proprietor spent the next hour helping them select plants—lavender for its calming properties, mint for digestive issues, calendula for wound healing, and a dozen others that Sybil chose with the careful consideration of someone who understood exactly how each would be used.
“The cart’s loaded, Your Grace,” the man said finally. “That’s quite a collection you’ve chosen. Planning something ambitious, are we?”
“Something like that,” Hugo murmured, watching Sybil practically vibrate with excitement as she surveyed their purchases.
Back at Vestiaire Castle, Sybil stood in what had once been a corner of the gardens, gesturing animatedly as she explained her vision for the empty space.
