Eleanor woke with tears upon her cheeks and her mother’s voice lingering like an echo in her ears.
***
The seventh day dawned grey and chill, an unseasonable cold that seemed to reflect the temper within the house.
Eleanor rose early, as had become her habit, and dressed for another day of diligent occupation—labour that served chiefly to distract her from the emptiness she herself had fashioned. She had perfected the routine: rising before the household stirred, taking her tray in solitude, burying herself in correspondence until the ache within her breast dulled to something bearable.
Yet when she opened the door of her sitting room to retrieve the breakfast tray the maid would have placed outside, she found something unexpected awaiting her.
A single rose.
It lay upon the silver tray beside her tea—a flawless bloom from the gardens Benjamin’s mother had cherished, its petals the deep crimson of claret. There was no accompanying note, no explanation. Only the flower, offered in silence.
Eleanor regarded it for a long moment.
He left this,she thought.He came to my door at dawn and left me a rose, even after all I have done topush him away.
Why?
She knew why. In the part of herself she had struggled so fiercely to silence, she knew that Benjamin was not a man inclined to surrender easily. He had fed a wary cat for months without reward. He had borne guilt that might have broken a lesser man. He had endured fire and battle and loss—and yet emerged with his capacity for kindness intact.
He was striving for her. In the only manner that felt natural to him—not through eloquence, which had never been his gift, but through deed. Through presence. Through steady, patient care.
The marriage was necessary, she heard in her memory.I required someone who would not expect—
But what if those words did not mean what she thought they meant?
What if he had been confessing fear rather than apathy? What if‘I fear I shall harm her’had not been regret, but the terror of a man who cared so deeply that the possibility of inflicting pain was unbearable?
It would be better if she did not—
She had not heard the end of that sentence. She had fled before it was spoken, had allowed fear to complete it for her. She had retreated behind walls erected in haste, shielding herself from a blow that might never have been aimed.
You heard what your old hurt instructed you to hear,her mother had said in the dream.
Eleanor picked up the rose.
The petals were cool and silken beneath her fingers, the fragrance subtle and sweet. It had been cut but recently; the stem remained fresh, the bloom unblemished. Benjamin must have gone to the gardens at first light, selected this particularflower with care, ascended the stairs, and placed it at her door—uncertain whether she would treasure it or cast it aside.
He is trying, she thought.Despite every effort of mine to push him away, he is still trying.
The question is—have I the courage to do the same?
She stood in the doorway, the rose cradled in her hand, the weight of decision pressing upon her, and for a long moment she did not move.
***
It was late in the afternoon when Eleanor sought out Mrs Harding in the servants’ hall, the rose still resting upon her desk where she had placed it that morning. She had worked through the day without truly seeing a single word she had written.
“The rose on my breakfast tray,” Eleanor said. “Do you know when His Grace left it?”
The housekeeper regarded her with an expression composed equally of hope and prudence. “Before dawn, Your Grace. He came to the kitchens himself to request a cutting from the garden.”
“He came himself.”
“Yes, Your Grace. He was…” Mrs Harding paused delicately. “Forgive me, but he appeared much distressed. He inquired what flower you might most favour, and when I mentionedthat roses are the customary choice for—well—for apologies—he insisted upon selecting one with his own hand.”
An apology.
