“I-is Mr. Walker unwell?” she asked, glancing about for the elderly gardener.
“I expect he’ll be on the mend soon and back on the job within a matter of days,” the nephew said.
“Oh,” she said, an overwhelming sense of sadness coming over her. “Th-that is good news,” she lied. “I suppose you will be glad to get back to your own home. Wherever that may be.”
He tilted his head to the side, the sunlight catching the golden strands of his hair. “I am looking forward to returning to my home,” he said, his gaze holding hers in a way that was exceptionally forward for a gardener, though Mari found it intoxicating.
“Well,” she said, “I wish you happy travels.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Is there anything else you need here in the garden?”
Now her notion of making a sachet out of the handkerchief seemed exceedingly foolish. He would be leaving soon and she would never see him again.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I just remembered that I need to get back to my friends. Good day, to you.”
Then she turned and hurried back the way she’d come, blinking away tears. Though why she felt like crying over a stranger, she had no idea.
Chapter Three
Mari did her best not to think about Mr. Walker’s nephew. She had peeked from the upper story windows of Talcott House and had not seen him in the garden. No doubt he had returned to his life and possibly a very sweet and sensible wife.
She had longed to know his name, but now that he was gone and she would never see his kind eyes again, the ones that seemed to sparkle with interest whenever he saw her, she was glad she had no name to put with the handsome, if dirt-smudged, face. The easier to forget him.
She had determined not to make a sachet from his handkerchief and had also decided that she must throw the article away. She had put it in the pocket of her dress yesterday, telling herself that when she found the proper opportunity to discard it, she would. She knew it was a sin to be wasteful, especially with such fine fabric. During the day, her fingers had found their way into her pocket to stroke over the luxurious piece of linen. It seemed quite an expensive item for a man working in the garden to have. And even more so that he gave it up so easily when she had hurt herself on the thorns.
As she wandered down the hall, contemplating how to dispose of the item in a way that no one would notice or askquestions—a large piece of fabric like that sitting in a rubbish container would draw attention—she decided that she would bury it in the garden. That made the most sense. Take it back where it came from. Yes, that was the best idea and her burden felt a bit lighter as she made her way through the downstairs of Talcott House toward the door to the garden.
Finally taking a breath of fresh air, she filled her lungs and felt some of her sadness fall away. As though Miss Wickersham would consent to her marrying a gardener. Not even a gardener, but his assistant. For all Marigold knew, he was already married. Yes, that was likely the case because a man with such a kind countenance would be easy to love.
Though he had a stern side, she recalled with a flutter to her tummy. The way he'd chided her when she had used bad language after jabbing her finger on a thorn. He would be the sort of strict Papa Marigold hoped for. One who was kind but also held her to account, with a firm but loving hand.
Enough of this foolishness, she told herself. Looking around the garden she noticed some freshly turned soil near the vegetable patch. The handkerchief could go there and no one would be the wiser. If it was found, it would make sense that possibly Mr. Walker’s nephew had dropped it while working. As if anyone would know to whom it belonged. Anyone besides Mari, that is.
She set course for the vegetable patch, but turned back toward Talcott House when she heard whispers. Near the windows to Miss Wickersham's study, she caught a flash of yellow fabric, next to something pink that was not a flower. Moving closer, she saw Poppy and Violet crouched down below Miss Wickersham's open window.
Mari blew out a sigh. Those two were simply determined to cause mischief. She turned back to her task. It was not her place to save them from their own foolishness. Besides, if they werebusy spying on Miss Wickersham, they would take no notice of Mari's furtive actions.
"There you are!" Lily appeared next to Mari, her usually tidy hair falling in loose tendrils around her face. "I have been looking all over for you. Come along!"
She grabbed Mari's arm and dragged her toward Talcott House. "What are you doing?" Mari asked.
"Hush," Lily said. "You need to hear this."
Before she could respond, Mari had been wedged next to Poppy and Violet in the tight space between a boxwood hedge and the brick wall of Talcott House. Both girls put fingers to their lips, as though it was not clear to Mari that if they were eavesdropping on Miss Wickersham silence was essential.
Eavesdropping was a bad idea. If Miss Wickersham caught them... it would be worse than the naughty chair.
But then she heard her name and realized that nothing would keep her from listening in.
"This is no small matter, your grace," Miss Wickersham said, her voice sharp and refined, as always. "Marigold is a lovely young lady and I will not consent to her marriage unless I am absolutely certain it is in her best interest."
Marriage? To a duke? Mari's head spun with questions. How? Why? He did not even know her.
"I agree," replied a man. Presumably the Duke of Norwich. "I have given the entire matter of whom I shall marry a great deal of thought. In fact, it has been a primary concern for as long as I can remember."
"Of course," Miss Wickersham said. "It should be a serious matter for anyone. Marriage is not to be entered lightly."
"No, and as I have given it the utmost consideration, I have determined, as I said in my letters to you, that I wish to have a bride who is both a wife and a Little girl. My little duchess. Marigold is the one I want."
