The conversation resumed as she crossed to the door.
“We need to decide on the hymns,” Aunt Marjorie, the eldest of the three sisters, said. “The vicar will want to know when he arrives.”
“Andrew and I can go to Town and meet with the cabinet maker,” Papa said. “If the service is going to take place tomorrow, we’ll need a coffin.”
“How about…”
Emily missed the rest of Uncle Andrew’s words as she slipped from the room. It was a bright and sunny day outside, though perhaps a bit chilly, she reflected as she headed toward the rose garden. Maybe she should have collected her shawl. She stopped for a moment and considered returning to fetch it, except she really didn’t wish to go back inside Seaton Hall right now.
What she needed was the liveliness to be found in the rustling of leaves and the twittering of birds. Grandmama had been an avid gardener. Her spirit was far more present out here than it was in there.
Hugging herself, Emily followed the graveled path toward the roses. It had always been her favorite spot here, not only because of the perfect blooms or the lovely scent they produced in the summer, but because of the domed folly that stood just beyond it. Emily had always imagined it to be extremely romantic – the sort of place where a knight might find his maiden when he returned from the Crusades.
Her fingers trailed over a box-cut laurel hedge lining the path. She took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of autumn. Already, the leaves on the trees had turned bright shades of red, yellow, and orange. Soon the ground would be littered with them.
She smiled at the thought. When she was little, her grandparents would take her for walks as soon as there was a thick enough layer of leaves for them to stomp through. They’d all loved the crisp sound beneath their feet and the pretty display when they kicked the leaves up in the air.
The memory tightened Emily’s throat. God, how she’d miss her grandmother.
Drawing to a halt, she stared at the rose bushes. All had been trimmed to the ground with not a single bloom left in sight. The bleakness of those thorny branches, devoid of colorful blooms, caused Emily’s eyes to well with tears once again. She swiped them away with the back of her hand.
The sound of gravel crunching behind her made her to turn.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Callum said, his expression grave. “I merely wanted to ask if you’d like some company.”
She pressed her lips together and sniffed, attempting to collect herself. “Only if you’re willing to cheer me up.”
“There’s nothing wrong with crying.”
“I know, but Grandmama wasn’t a dreary person. I think she’d prefer a lively tune played in her memory to the oppressing cloud of gloom everyone seems so determined to spread.”
Hands in both pockets, he moved toward her slowly. “Very well. I’ll do what I can to brighten the mood, although I’m not sure I’ll be very successful. You see, there’s a matter I cannot ignore. It must be addressed before you and I can move forward.”
“I know.” It was unfortunate, but he was correct. The book he’d written was like a huge boulder wedged between them. They had to acknowledge that it existed.
She resumed walking, keeping her pace slow until he fell into step beside her.
“You turned me away last night,” he began.
It wasn’t exactly a question, more of a factual statement, though it still demanded a response.
“Yes.”
He sighed. “I can only assume this to be because of the book I helped write. There’s a section in there that echoes the nature of our relationship prior to us becoming friends. I’m sorry for it, Emily. My intention was never to hurt you.”
“I’m not sure I believe that. The incidents you describe in the book are identical to the ones you and I have shared in the past. Only, in the book, you come across as the poor mistreated victim while I’m a cruel shrew. It’s not an accurate portrayal and contrary to what you’ve just said, it seems extremely vindictive.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. Emily, those characters aren’t you and me. They’re fictional. Miss Parker and Mr. Dalton were always intended to be at odds. Writing them was a challenge. I struggled to find a reason for them to be constantly clashing with one another, and that’s when I thought I’d let myself be inspired by true events.”
“Yet you chose to paint Mr. Dalton in a favorable light while making Miss Parker an awful person.”
“Only because I was hurt.”
She stopped at this and turned to face him. “How so?”
He glanced away, sending his gaze across the garden before speaking next. A slight twitch at the edge of his mouth and the way his throat worked as he swallowed, suggested he struggled to find the right words.
Eventually, he admitted, “I think I’ve had a bit of a tendre for you for a very long time. Since your debut.”
