Davis lifted a hand in my direction but stopped short of touching me. He glanced away, then back, as he let his arm drop. A measure of hope lifted his brow. “Maybe we can start over. Forget this happened and do things the way we should’ve from the beginning.”
I swallowed a sob at his offer. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Thunder boomed, and lightning struck. The fine hairs on my arm stood at attention.
I didn’t blame him for avoiding the ugly truth. The foundation we’d built upon was quicksand. One part his willful deceit and one part the abandonment of my goal. A recipe for disaster.
“Emma,” Davis pleaded, but no words followed.
We’d already said them all.
I squared my shoulders as the pain gave way to numbness. “Goodbye, Davis.”
I turned away, allowing the sobs to come and moving at double time back to the manor. “Do not follow me.”
This time he obeyed.
Chapter Eighteen
I received another bouquet of flowers the next morning and considered tossing them into the trash can. The card contained only a heart as before, and a call to the florist ended in frustration. Apparently it was a breach of confidentiality to tell me the name on the credit card that paid for them.
Since I couldn’t confirm Davis had sent them, and I loved flowers, I added them to the vase on the kitchen counter and removed the blooms that had already faded.
I decided to fully concentrate on my goal to understand and emulate Emily for the next few days, and I chose to embrace only the positive. Words from the poem that helped me get out of my shell during college came back to inspire me.
Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.
I had only a few weeks to pursue this major life quest, and I couldn’t stop seeking opportunities to embrace the journey and all it entailed.
During my letter-writing classes, and walks in town, I mentally evaluated every interaction I’d had with men since arriving in Amherst. And a few women as well. Someone was sending me flowers. But who?
The mystery was driving me bonkers and taking up more mental bandwidth than I wanted.
Back at the manor, I finished two more embroidery projects. Neither was any better than the first.
When it rained again on Friday, I holed up in the study with another book on Emily Dickinson. I set the tome aside when my eyes grew tired and my lids began to droop. Stretching onto my feet, I waffled between taking an afternoon nap or making a pot of tea. Something on a nearby shelf caught my eye, stalling the decision. An image of a golden peony, embossed on dark-green cloth binding, drew me to the bookcase. I plucked the book from the shelf.Floriography: The Secret Language of Flowers.
Curiosity soared as I thought of the bouquets of white peonies and purple hyacinths. Hardly the typical floral combination. I took the book with me to the kitchen, put on a kettle, then began to read.
It seemed unlikely that my bouquets held a secret message, but the possibility made me smile. I knew flowers were used to send silent messages in the Victorian era. I’d heard, for example, that certain kinds and combinations had special meanings. The petal colors and stages of the bloom did as well. And that the art became very nuanced in an era when eligible women were closely monitored.
I flipped to the glossary where the flowers were grouped by common meanings. My traitorous eyes and hopeful heart ran straight to the romance-related categories. None of those contained peonies or hyacinths.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that I’d received the same set of blooms on repeat. But who would send them?
Mom, Dad, and Cecily had already confirmed the flowers weren’t from them.
Grace didn’t have any reason to send a bouquet. She’d already provided a lovely vase of wildflowers upon my arrival.
I skimmed the names of flowers in every list until I found what I was looking for. Purple hyacinths signified sorrow and regret. White peonies, shame over one’s behavior. Both meanings were tied toGreek mythology, specifically to the god Apollo. Both were meant as apologies.
Davis.
I closed the book, shoved all thoughts of him aside, and doubled down on my embroidery.
I was elbow deep in dough when the doorbell rang two days later. Davis stood outside with my blanket from the park in one hand, a bag of takeout from Clayton’s pub in the other.
I stared coldly, despite parts of Old Emma clapping internally at his arrival. “Yes?”
