“Mrs. Rose…” Elswyth said. “I—”
Mrs. Rose raised a hand to stop her. “It is just a story, dear. That little girl doesn’t exist anymore,” she said, forcing a smile, “and it’s not in good taste to speak of tragedies. A lady must always remain positive.”
Elswyth felt as though she would cry. “Yes, Mrs. Rose,” she said.
Mrs. Rose stood and walked over to her. She knelt before Elswyth and took her hands. “But Elswyth… if I may say something, as someone who has had several marriages of convenience in the past… They are not all bad. When there is no pressure to love the other person, it’s easier to become fond of them. And that can turn into love—not just passion, but real, solid love.”
Mrs. Rose patted Elswyth’s knee. “It’s getting late. I should retire.” With that, she stood and moved toward the door.
“Mrs. Rose?” Elswyth said. Her voice trembled.
“Yes, dear?”
“The girl from the story. Did she love her first husband?”
Mrs. Rose smiled sadly. “More than anything in the world.”
“And if she had the chance, back then, to marry someone better… someone with more money, a better reputation… would she have? Would she have given up those ten years with him?”
Mrs. Rose paused for a moment. “No. Not for anything. Good night, Elswyth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hemlock,Conium maculatum, is an extremely poisonous flower best known for its use in the execution of prisoners and as a means of suicide, particularly in relation to the philosopher Socrates. In floriography, it meansYou will be my death.
Lords and ladies wandered through the great central chamber of the Royal Gardens beneath the flickering light of gas lamps reflecting on the glass-paned walls. The great doors were cast open, and a cool autumn breeze drifted inside, mingling with the heavy air of the greenhouse. Overhead, four acrobats twisted on sheaths of ivy that hung from the iron rafters, their bodies twisting slowly, their legs opening and closing like the petals of flowers.
Tonight, Elswyth didn’t try to interrogate anyone. She didn’t consult her commonplace book or calculate sly questions. Prince Oliver wasn’t there that night, nor was Venus Forscythe, although Elswyth had made sure they were invited. She supposed it made sense that they wouldn’t want to attend. So instead of talking to the guests, Elswyth simply sipped her champagne and waited.
Someone cleared their throat behind her. She turned to see Dr. Gall, standing sheepishly in his finest suit. He’d trimmed his hair and mustache, and his spectacles were clean and neatly arranged over his nose. He looked much more dapper than the bumbling doctor she’d met in the Royal Gardens all those months ago.
“Are you ready, Elswyth?” he asked. “We can wait, if you wish, or postpone, you know. It’s not too late.”
Elswyth forced a smile. “I am ready, Dr. Gall.”
“Please, please. You must call me Oleander. You are going to be my wife, after all.”
“Yes, of course. It will take some getting used to. Oleander.”
Dr. Gall smiled thinly—he seemed almost as nervous as she was—and then turned to greet more guests. Elswyth reminded herself that this marriage was perfect. She could finally attend Oxford, and she would have funds for her father’s medicine and funds for her research. Itwasperfect. She just needed to remember that.
Percival stepped up beside her. He, too, had groomed himself. His long gray beard was trimmed neatly, and he wore his gray suit and plum-colored vest. His lion-tipped cane concealed the limp in his left leg as he stepped up behind her.
“Lord Devereux. You came,” Elswyth said. She dipped into a shallow curtsy.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Elswyth,” he said. He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “I wanted to apologize. I know that I have been hard on you recently… but that doesn’t mean your happiness is not—”
The sound of a ringing glass interrupted him.
Elswyth turned to see Dr. Gall in the center of the room,tapping his champagne flute with his fork. “Excuse me! Excuse me! May I have your attention, please—”
He hit the glass with the fork once more, only for it to shatter. Shards of it flew over the floor, champagne splashing out after them.
“Oh, bother,” Dr. Gall said. The people gathered around stared, some of them laughing behind cupped hands or collapsing fans. Dr. Gall’s face turned red as a beet.
“Apologies, apologies—I am rather nervous.” He chuckled, a small good-natured laugh. “Those of you who know me know that I am not a romantic man, and so I will endeavor to be brief. When I lost my Marguerite, I thought that I would never marry again.”
Dr. Gall’s face flickered for a moment, some ancient grief surfacing there. He righted himself and then turned to face Elswyth. “But that was until I met Miss Elswyth Elderwood.”
