Christine’s expression turned hopeful, and though he was tempted to refuse, David realized that she’d been confined in this room for nearly a week. For all he knew, these could be her last moments outside.
“Your mother has a moonlight garden, doesn’t she?” Amelia said, pulling the covers all the way down. “It’s full of white flowers. She has hydrangeas, lilies, and roses, from what I’ve seen. Have you ever been there at night?”
Christine shook her head. “No.”
“Then we’ll have to go, won’t we?” Amelia glanced at him, and in her green eyes, he saw that she was clinging to hope as hard as he was. “Your father and I will form a chair with our arms and bring you downstairs and outside.”
She reached under Christine’s knees and behind her shoulders. “David, will you help me?”
He shook his head. “I’ll carry her myself.” When he lifted Christine into his arms, he realized how very long her legs and arms had grown in the past year. She was nearing the end of childhood, and if she lived, she would be as tall as Amelia one day.
His wife appeared slightly disappointed that he hadn’t allowed her to help, but she opened the door and picked up the supper tray Mrs. Larson had left. “I’ll tell Mrs. Menford that we’ll want our supper in the moonlight garden. Then I’ll join the two of you there.”
Chapter Fourteen
The sky was clear and held a golden haze as sunset approached. Amelia walked down the stone steps leading to the gardens. The moonlight garden was one she’d discovered a few nights ago. At first, she hadn’t realized what it was and had dismissed it as a colorless collection of flowers. Then, one night, she’d stood outside while the moon cast its rays upon the earth. The blossoms had turned into silver, and she now believed that if any garden held a piece of Katherine’s spirit, it was this one.
She found David seated beside a low wall. Mrs. Menford followed them with a tray, while Mrs. Larson carried a tureen of soup. Surprisingly, the two housekeepers appeared almost amiable toward each other.
The footmen had brought a table and chairs for the three of them, while the housekeepers laid out the food. Mrs. Larson lit two tapers, and the candlelight added an aura of magic. There was chicken soup, roasted pheasant, sugared peas, fresh bread and butter, and even a small lemon cake.
“It’s beautiful here,” Christine said. “I’ve been to this garden before, but never at night. I didn’t realize how different it would look.”
Amelia fixed a plate for her stepdaughter and set it before the girl. She smoothed Christine’s damp hair back and then raised a forkful of cake to her mouth.
The girl frowned a moment. “Shouldn’t I eat my vegetables and pheasant first? Miss Grant says dessert must always come last.”
“But then you might not be hungry for it,” Amelia said. “Sometimes my sisters and I would eat our cake first and then the rest. Not often, but it made our dinner more fun. Don’t you agree, my lord?”
David ignored his cake and took a bite of roasted pheasant. He might as well have been eating dirt, and Amelia suspected his worry over Christine superseded any ability to take joy in food.
“Papa doesn’t eat cake or sweets,” Christine said. “He never does.”
Amelia set down her own fork. Though she’d heard it before, she questioned the reason. “Why is that?”
He cut another bite of the pheasant and shrugged. “I don’t like the taste.”
“Has it always been that way?” she prompted, raising another bite of lemon cake for Christine to eat.
He stared at her as if to demand,Stop asking questions. “No.”
His daughter glanced at him. “This is about Mother, isn’t it?” Her expression turned serious. “She loved cakes and biscuits, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
From his clipped tone and the way he kept his attention firmly fixed upon his plate, Amelia guessed that he didn’t want to talk about it further. “How do you like the flowers?” she asked Christine.
The girl turned to look at the wild profusion of Queen Anne’s lace. “I used to think this garden wasn’t much to look at. But it’s beautiful at night.” Her gray eyes held wonder, and as twilight descended, the candlelight cast a soft glow over her face.
Amelia helped her to finish eating, but Christine had little appetite. Her mood mirrored her father’s, and both of them looked as if they were facing an executioner. She’d brought them here to cheer them up, and it wasn’t working at all.
“You’re going to get well,” she told Christine. “You need to believe that.”
“It’s hard, when I can’t move my arms or legs,” the girl admitted.
“We should take you back to your room,” David interjected. “You must be tired.”
“No. Wait a moment.” Amelia went over to one of the rosebushes and snapped off a small bud. She tucked it behind Christine’s ear and said, “I want you to think of your mother when you smell this. She’ll watch over you.”
