“The tall herbs should go along the back—the comfrey and echinacea need more room to spread,” she was saying, her cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. “And we could create a proper drying shed just there, where the morning sun would hit it but the afternoon heat wouldn’t be too intense.”
Hugo found himself nodding along though he understood perhaps half of what she was explaining. What mattered wasn’t the specific details of her plan but the way her whole being seemed to come alive when she talked about something she was passionate about.
This is what was missing. This sense of purpose, of building something meaningful.
“Your Grace, shall we have the gardeners begin preparing the beds?” Peters approached with deferential caution, clearly uncertain about the protocol for this unusual project.
“No.” The word came out more sharply than Hugo had intended. When both Peters and Sybil turned to look at him in surprise, he felt heat creep up his neck. “That is, I think we can manage the initial planting ourselves.”
We. As if I have any idea what I’m doing with herbs and soil.
Sybil raised an eyebrow. “You want to help plant them? In those clothes?“
“They’re just clothes,” he said, already shrugging out of his coat. “And you’ll need someone to carry the heavier plants.”
You’ll need someone to watch over you and make sure you don’t overexert yourself trying to prove you can do everything alone.
For a moment, she simply stared at him, as though trying to understand this departure from his usual ducal dignity. Then her face broke into a smile that made his breath catch.
“Very well,” she said, pulling off her own gloves with decision. “But don’t blame me when your valet despairs over the state of your shirt.”
My valet can manage. When did you last look this happy?
The next two hours passed in a blur of soil and sweat and surprisingly companionable conversation. Hugo found himself hauling bags of compost and digging holes under Sybil’s careful direction, while she kneeled in the dirt, arranging plants with the precision of someone who understood exactly how each would grow and spread.
“A little more to the left,” she instructed as he positioned a large lavender bush. “They need room to breathe but close enough that the scents will blend properly.”
“Like this?” he adjusted the plant’s position, noting how she’d somehow managed to get soil streaked across her cheek despite her careful movements.
“Perfect.” She sat back on her heels, surveying their work with satisfaction. “By next summer, this whole section will be blooming. We’ll have enough lavender to make sachets for the entire household, and the chamomile should provide plenty for teas and tinctures.”
We. Our. You’re already thinking of this as permanent.
“You’re still wearing gloves,” he observed, noting how she’d somehow managed to plant an entire garden without once removing the leather from her hands.
She glanced down, as though surprised by the observation. “Oh. Yes, well. They’re an old pair anyway.”
An old pair. That explains precisely nothing.
But before he could press the issue, she was on her feet again, moving toward the next section of the garden with renewed energy.
“The mint needs to be contained, or it will take over everything,” she was saying, her voice warm with the kind of professional knowledge that came from years of practical experience. “And we should plant the calendula near the kitchen garden—it’s useful for so many preparations.”
Hugo listened with half his attention, the other half focused on the way she moved through the space they were creating together. She was in her element here, confident and capable in a way that had nothing to do with social graces or ducal expectations.
This is who you are when you stop trying to be what you think others want.
By the time they finished, both of them were thoroughly disheveled. Hugo’s shirt was stained with soil, his usually immaculate hair falling across his forehead in damp strands. Sybil looked even worse—her dress was torn at the hem, her hair had come loose from its pins, and there was a particularly large smudge of dirt across her left cheek.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
The thought hit him with surprising force as he watched her survey their work with obvious pride.
“It’s going to be wonderful,” she said softly. “I can already imagine how it will look when everything’s established. The colors, the scents, the way the morning light will hit the lavender…”
“You have dirt on your face,” he said, the words emerging without conscious thought.
She raised a gloved hand toward her cheek, missing the smudge entirely. “Where?”
