of her girlish figure.
The Dowager bent to look down once again at the paper she was meant to complete and felt as if she would faint. Quickly, she stood and looked up to see the handsome face of the approaching Anthony, beloved son of her very own John, so good and benevolent, so different from his detestable brother James who dared to live when John had not. She doubted Anthony would have anything to sayto the subject of the flower show entry and was reminded that she had established Ginny as a remedy to Anthony’s current lack of an acute moral fiber. Yet, she had not cared to weigh Ginny’s opinion on the matter of the Christmas rose.
Thoroughly ashamed and determined to do right, she cast about for a means of saving face. If she were to sacrifice first prize at the flower show, she would do so without affording the squire a thimble’s-worth of satisfaction. “Baldwin,” she crooned as if about to sign her marriage certificate, “how is it your dear daughter spells her name? Am I right to assume it is with a ‘y’?”
Though she felt satisfied she witnessed a flash of astonishment in his eyes he responded with a remarkable composure that gave nothing away. “Yes, Your Grace, that is right, H-O-L-L-Y.” His self-possession had a most unexpected effect on her poise so that she spelled Baldwin with a ‘y’, as well, and was so uncharitable as to blame it on the way Ginny had jerked round to stare at her when the Dowager revealed her intentions.
“There we are,” she said brightly just as her grandson strode up to the table. “The Holly Rose entered by Holly Baldwin. Yes, that is all as it should be.”
“The Holly Rose!” the squire blurted out. “You can’t, no indeed, you can’t name a rose ‘Holly’. It would be, somehow, quite wrong!”
“Holly shall name her rose whatever she pleases,” the Dowager said with a haughty air exactly as if she had never been anything but in the right.
“But, Grandmama, I had thought you were vying for the win this year,” Sir Anthony said as he leaned over to peck her cheek.
“Yes, I had thought so, too, but someone or some
thing
,” she said with a sidelong look at the squire who crouched in the background, “broke into my greenhouse and stole my entry.”
“Never say so!” Sir Anthony said with a shake of his head adorned by a strikingly exquisite hat. Taking up his quizzing glass that hung from a gold chain about his neck, he bent to examine the roses. “These are lovely, just the same. Well done, Baldwin!” he said with a smile for the gardener.
“Yes, indeed, they are,” the Dowager intoned. “And when all is said and done this day, they shall honor Dunsmere as the winner of the flower show!”
At her words, the squire spun about and stalked off while Baldwin appeared to have something in his eye as he turned hastily away. Ginny laid her hand on the Dowager’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You have done so much good this day, Grandaunt,” she said with a tremulous smile.
“Not as much good as you do me, my dear,” the Dowager said in spite of herself.
They rode home in excellent spirits as the trophy, a silver rose bowl, reposed in a place of honor on the backwards-facing seat so as to be admired all the way home. It would be collected on the morrow by the committee in order to have it properly engraved, but for now the Dowager was determined to have it within her sight.
Shortly after the carriage had moved through the gates of the estate, it came to a halt and swayed as Baldwin jumped to the ground. He touched his hat and nodded to the ladies and turned to attend to whatever needed doing, or so the Dowager surmised. So suddenly that even she knew not what she was about, she rapped on the quarter light to call him back. He paused and turned, then came forth to open the carriage door.
“Your Grace?” he asked.
The Dowager, still unsure of what it was she intended to say, and afraid whatever it was should prove fatal to her
The Dowager bent to look down once again at the paper she was meant to complete and felt as if she would faint. Quickly, she stood and looked up to see the handsome face of the approaching Anthony, beloved son of her very own John, so good and benevolent, so different from his detestable brother James who dared to live when John had not. She doubted Anthony would have anything to sayto the subject of the flower show entry and was reminded that she had established Ginny as a remedy to Anthony’s current lack of an acute moral fiber. Yet, she had not cared to weigh Ginny’s opinion on the matter of the Christmas rose.
Thoroughly ashamed and determined to do right, she cast about for a means of saving face. If she were to sacrifice first prize at the flower show, she would do so without affording the squire a thimble’s-worth of satisfaction. “Baldwin,” she crooned as if about to sign her marriage certificate, “how is it your dear daughter spells her name? Am I right to assume it is with a ‘y’?”
Though she felt satisfied she witnessed a flash of astonishment in his eyes he responded with a remarkable composure that gave nothing away. “Yes, Your Grace, that is right, H-O-L-L-Y.” His self-possession had a most unexpected effect on her poise so that she spelled Baldwin with a ‘y’, as well, and was so uncharitable as to blame it on the way Ginny had jerked round to stare at her when the Dowager revealed her intentions.
“There we are,” she said brightly just as her grandson strode up to the table. “The Holly Rose entered by Holly Baldwin. Yes, that is all as it should be.”
“The Holly Rose!” the squire blurted out. “You can’t, no indeed, you can’t name a rose ‘Holly’. It would be, somehow, quite wrong!”
“Holly shall name her rose whatever she pleases,” the Dowager said with a haughty air exactly as if she had never been anything but in the right.
“But, Grandmama, I had thought you were vying for the win this year,” Sir Anthony said as he leaned over to peck her cheek.
“Yes, I had thought so, too, but someone or some
thing
,” she said with a sidelong look at the squire who crouched in the background, “broke into my greenhouse and stole my entry.”
“Never say so!” Sir Anthony said with a shake of his head adorned by a strikingly exquisite hat. Taking up his quizzing glass that hung from a gold chain about his neck, he bent to examine the roses. “These are lovely, just the same. Well done, Baldwin!” he said with a smile for the gardener.
“Yes, indeed, they are,” the Dowager intoned. “And when all is said and done this day, they shall honor Dunsmere as the winner of the flower show!”
At her words, the squire spun about and stalked off while Baldwin appeared to have something in his eye as he turned hastily away. Ginny laid her hand on the Dowager’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You have done so much good this day, Grandaunt,” she said with a tremulous smile.
“Not as much good as you do me, my dear,” the Dowager said in spite of herself.
They rode home in excellent spirits as the trophy, a silver rose bowl, reposed in a place of honor on the backwards-facing seat so as to be admired all the way home. It would be collected on the morrow by the committee in order to have it properly engraved, but for now the Dowager was determined to have it within her sight.
Shortly after the carriage had moved through the gates of the estate, it came to a halt and swayed as Baldwin jumped to the ground. He touched his hat and nodded to the ladies and turned to attend to whatever needed doing, or so the Dowager surmised. So suddenly that even she knew not what she was about, she rapped on the quarter light to call him back. He paused and turned, then came forth to open the carriage door.
“Your Grace?” he asked.
The Dowager, still unsure of what it was she intended to say, and afraid whatever it was should prove fatal to her
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