He chuckled. “Any man frightened off a woman by Hugh is inherently unworthy of her, but he once warned me away from your mother.”
“So you’re a hypocrite.”
“Of the highest order.”
“I love you, Papa.” Eliza rose and rounded the table to reach her father, then bent to wrap her arms around his shoulders from behind.
“I love you, too, my petal,” he said, squeezing her hands where they wrapped around his chest.
“I’m so glad Mama accepted you even though you were unworthy.”
“Me too,” he forced out between chuckles. “Now go apologize.”
“Yes, Papa.”
After apologizing to her mother,Eliza spent the spring morning fussing in the garden. Though they employed a head gardener, the flower beds were Eliza’s domain. As a child, she would pester the man with questions until he agreed to let her arrange a bed as she wished. One became two, and eventually all four beds lining the pathway to the gazebo were Eliza’s to manage.
Though not her favorite, the roses needed care today. They were attention seekers, requiring the most regular pruning, deadheading, and fertilizing. Eliza preferred a wild look to her rose bed and maintained numerous varieties, all of which had their own needs. Needs that Eliza tracked meticulously, much to Sophie’s amusement, in a ledger.
In recent weeks, Eliza had taken to minding her garden during calling hours, so the present morning’s occupation was nothing new. Tending to her garden was one of her favorite pastimes, but even if it were not, she would have chosen it. She could think of no activity more unpleasant than watching gentlemen fall all over her sister in the most pathetic of displays.
“Lizzie,” Sophie called from the door, a small bouquet in her hand.
“Yes?”
“They’re for you!” Sophie held the bouquet aloft in one hand, beckoning Eliza over with the other.
Eliza rose and tossed her thick leather gloves in her gardening basket before making her way to her sister under the arched door.
“What are you on about?”
Sophie thrust the blooms out at Eliza. It was an elegant, artful arrangement of pale roses and white lilacs with a few foxtail stems. Eliza’s heart skipped as she took them from her sister.
“A footman brought them. Here, there’s a card.” Sophie tugged the card from the pocket of her cornflower-blue frock.
Scrawled across the parchment in an elegant yet masculine hand, wasMiss Eliza Wayland. Eliza was relieved that it was unopened as she slipped a finger beneath the paste.
Without footwork, wit, or impropriety at my disposal, I’m left with gifts.
He’d signed it only B.E.S. And she couldn’t help but wonder what the E stood for, even as she brought the blooms to her nose for a fragrant whiff. Eliza rarely preferred lilacs—but thewhite varietal was lighter and fresher than their powdery purple counterparts.
“Do you like them?” Sophie asked, bouncing on her toes. “You’re smiling. You must like them. Of course you like them—they’re beautiful!”
“I like them very much.”
“What does the note say? Is he going to call?”
“No, nothing about that,” Eliza said, feeling a bit of her delight dimming.
“Perhaps he intends to further the acquaintance first.”
“Perhaps, I’m?—”
“I’m sure of it,” Sophie insisted, then tucked her arm through Eliza’s. “You should come inside. May just returned from Hudson’s, and no one has told Papa yet, so there are still tarts left.”
“The lavender and lemon ones?”
“And the rosemary.”
