Twelfth Night passed, and Henry, alone again, sank into gloom with little to look forward to in the long months ahead except the spring meeting of the everlasting Rose Council. His presence, Aunt Blanche and Jones insisted, would be vital. He had also promised Margaret he would request a moratorium on red or white rose winners.
Winter seemed to drag interminably, but like all darkness, eventually came to an end. March came timidly into life. Restless and in need of both exercise and time alone to think, he decided to ride to York for the meeting. The true goal wasn’t banning red. No. While it would be wonderful if the minds of the judges should broaden to consider the full palette of colors, the far greater goal was to end the ridiculous feud and court Lady Margaret Ansel without family interference. That was a matter for Lord Edgecote, Aunt Blanche, and the others who continued the nonsense.
Those were Margaret’s goals too. At least, he hoped so. He meandered slowly, lost in thought, seeking the best way to approach the council.
You need help, Henry. You can’t do this alone.He needed Margaret. He came to a fork in the road and took the way north, to Northumberland.
*
Margaret stooped toenter the makeshift glasshouse she’d had built against the side of her carriage house. She added wood to the stoves at both ends and thought of Roseleigh’s heating system with envy. Footmen could be trusted to keep the fires burning, but she preferred to do it herself twice a day. The modest space required crowding, but it met her needs. Seedlings at various stages, spaced correctly, filled beds. Healthy examples of her sturdy parental cultivars were at the far end of the little room. Her cuttings had taken root quickly. She used both the Roseleigh and Edgecote heritage samples as well as two older cultivars for size.
Bed three, in early bloom, had produced single-petaled pink blooms. She would have to burn the samples as she did all her failures. She would freshen the soil and try again.
Bed seven held her current hopes. The small plants, which had germinated two months before, had tight white buds. In a day or two, she would know if she had succeeded in her primary goal.
The lush blooms in bed five, a dark raspberry sort of pink with gray overtones, pleased her; she would keep them. They weren’t what she’d set out to do, however. She continued to strive. In two beds, seeds had yet to germinate. In three, sprouts and young plants as yet had no sign of budding. There was time. The York Rose Show was still six months away.
“Lady Margaret? Wilson sent me to fetch you.” Jeremy, her youngest footman, carefully closed the door and came around the flap designed to keep cold air out.
“What is it, Jeremy?” she asked.
“A gentleman has come to call, my lady. A duke.” The boy’s awe vibrated in his words.
Duke. It can only be Henry.Her heart raced, and her thoughts skipped between delight and irritation that he hadn’t allowed her the full year she’d requested.
“Send Miss Mullens to the drawing room, Jeremy, while I clean up.” Her mother’s cousin Ellen Mullens, a quiet, contented sort of woman, had come to be her companion. She met Margaret at the door to the drawing room with a serene nod.
She found him pacing the room, dressed for riding and obviously weary from travel. Even travel-stained with a day’s growth of beard, his attractiveness made her senses tingle. “Tea, Wilson, and sandwiches too, I think. His Grace must be hungry.”
He spun toward her at the sound of her voice, his avid gaze devouring her.Hungry indeed.
She curtseyed properly and introduced Ellen, who scurried to a chair in the corner and picked up her needlework. Margaret held out a hand. “Come, sit. Tell me why you are here.”
“I’m on my way to the spring meeting of the Rose Council,” he replied.
She raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You’re taking a circuitous route. Unless you spent the winter in Scotland.”
His amused grin went straight to her heart. She had no resistance to his good humor.
“I made a promise to you that I’m not sure I can keep. I imagine myself standing up in front of that group (Aunt Blanche plans to attend, by the way) and demanding a ban on red roses. They’ll think I’ve lost my senses,” he said.
“Even if you frame it in terms of respect for the creativity of the northern rose breeders?”
“I thought of that. Even Jones must be tired of red, red, red. But our real goal is a truce. We need to convince your father above all. He might agree to a ban on red, but to be fair, we’d have to ban the pure whites. He won’t have it,” he said.
Tea arrived. The speed with which he grabbed a sandwich confirmed her suspicions about his hunger. She took her time preparing to serve the tea, giving herself a moment to consider what he’d said. “You actually plan to go through with this,” she murmured.
“Ending the everlasting feud, yes. Competition is good. If we broaden that competition, it would take pressure off our families and leave the two of us…” He paused, catching her eyes, his hand holding a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He put it down.
“The two of us where exactly?” she asked.
“Free to pursue courtship. Publicly.”
She glanced over at Ellen and down at her hands. “I don’t think the judges’ problem is the color.”
“What is it, then?” he asked.
“You,” she retorted.
