Chapter Twelve
A Garden Party Dilemma
I looked out Papa’s office window at the courtyard behind Nineteen Fournier. The little stretch of clipped grasses and yellow aconite flowers waved in the breeze dancing in front of the thick hedges. A lovely spring garden. Mama surely knew how to make any place special.
My eyes hurt from straining. I tugged off my spectacles and put them upon the desk.
I jiggled open Papa’s top drawer. That’s where he kept his folding knives. He’d had many made after his brother’s death. I liked the pearl-handled one the best. I slipped it into my pocket and closed the drawer. A little protection for outside couldn’t hurt.
If I talked myself into being brave, surely I could walk outside, but the yard was different than the pavement out front. Most thought the garden safer, with its delicate twirling petals.
Not to me.
It seemed like a clearing in the woods, and I found myself looking for a way to escape. It was completely nonsensical, but that didn’t stop my pulse from pounding.
Gripping my hands together, I felt my palms slipping against my thin satin gloves. Mama and Ester thought me so proper. They didn’t understand how I needed the fabric to wick away my perspiration. The gloves hid my fears very well.
I fingered my watch on my chain. It was at least fifteen after two.
Where was Mr. Marks?
If he were here, I could walk with him into Mama’s garden.
Putting on my spectacles, I peeked through the window. Nothing of the barrister or anything I imagined Adam’s cousin to look like. No clear look at him, but I hoped he was like Adam. A small bit of me wanted him to share Adam’s nose or his eyes.
Adam.
I’d dreamed of him last night.
He was alive, making me laugh, singing to me and Chris. In my dream, he liked my son. He loved him. Once my boy was in bed, Adam returned to me, walking with that swagger. With my eyes closed, I kissed him. It was everything, everything I wanted and missed. Then I awoke alone, lying on Wycliff’s cape.
Ester poked her head into the room. “You can’t hide in here. The party is in your honor.”
“Mine?”
“Yes, Mama thought this might help nudge you along with Mr. Marks—an excuse to wear a pretty dress and have a suitor about. That’s what I overheard her saying to Mrs. Fitterwall.”
“A party for me. I suppose I can’t watch from the window.”
My sister came into the room. She looked like spring in her muslin dress of saffron yellow with India ink-printed jasmine flowers. A wide straw-brimmed bonnet, rimmed in matching grosgrain ribbon, shadowed her lovely olive face and the strand of pearls Mr. Bexeley had given her for her birthday. She looked so elegant and was so loved by her husband.
“Take my hand, Ruth. Come with me. You bolstered yourself and went to Blaren House. You can take a few paces outside into the garden.”
I twiddled my spectacles and searched for reasons to delay. A headache, a coming storm. Nothing that would stop a pushy, well-meaning sister. “There are known dragons out there, Ester.”
“There are people who will protect you, too. I’m here.”
I smiled at Ester and prayed my expression mirrored hope and happiness, not the anxiety of waiting for Wycliff.
“Barrister Marks will be here soon,” I said. “He’s big and tall and can fight all the ghosts I let play in my imagination. With him, I’ll venture out.”
“Nothing is going to hurt you, sis.” She extended her hands toward me. “I won’t let them.”
Clasping that open palm seemed too far to stretch. It required too much strength, strength I was saving for Mr. Marks, for our couple’s walkabout. I didn’t know if I could go into the garden twice. “Mr. Marks will be here soon.”
Ester lowered her hand. It hit the desk with a bang. “I don’t mean to push, but I don’t know how to help. I want you to trust me again. I want to know how to fix us.”
Didn’t she mean fix me, her crazy sister?
