“Ever,” Oliver agreed.
Phillip nodded. “For me as well,” he said softly. “For me as well.”
***
It started with a note.
Later that night, as Eloise finished her supper and her plate was cleared away, she realized that there had been a piece of paper tucked underneath, folded twice until it formed a small rectangle.
Her husband had excused himself, claiming that he needed to find a book that contained a poem they had been discussing over pudding, and so, with no one watching her, not even the footman, who was busy transporting the dishes to the kitchen, Eloise unfolded the paper.
I have never been good with words,
it said, in Phillip’s unmistakable handwriting. And then, smaller, in the corner:
Proceed to your office.
Intrigued, she stood and exited the dining room. A minute later she entered her office.
And there, in the middle of her desk, was another piece of paper.
But it all started with a letter, did it not?
Followed by instructions to take herself to the sitting room. She did, this time having to concentrate quite hard on keeping her half walk, half skip from turning into a full-fledged run.
A small piece of paper, again folded twice, sat on a red cushion positioned at the very center of the sofa.
And so if it started with words, it ought to continue with them, too.
This time she was directed to the front hall.
But there are no words to thank you for all you have given me, so I will use the only ones at my disposal, and I will tell you the only way I know how.
And at the bottom corner of the note, she was directed to her bedroom.
Eloise headed up the stairs slowly, her heart beating with anticipation. This was her final destination, she was sure of it. Phillip would be waiting for her, waiting to take her hand, to lead her into their future together.
It had, she realized, all started with a note. Something so innocent, so innocuous, and it had grown into this, a love so full and rich she could barely contain it.
She reached the upstairs hall and on quiet feet made her way to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, just an inch or so, and with shaking hand she pushed it open, all the way—
And she gasped.
For there, on the bed, were flowers. Hundreds and hundred of blooms, some clearly out of season, picked from Phillip’s special collection in his greenhouse. And written in blossoms of red, against the backdrop of white and pink petals:
I LOVE YOU.
“Words aren’t enough,” Phillip said softly, stepping out of the shadows behind her.
She turned to him, barely cognizant of the tears trickling down her cheeks. “When did you do this?”
He smiled. “Surely you’ll allow me a few secrets.”
“I—I—”
He took her hand, pulled her close. “Speechless?” he murmured. “You? I must be better at this than I thought.”
“I love you,” she said, choking on the words. “I love you so much.”
