consequence, impulsively took up the trophy and handed it to the gardener. “Here, take this to your Holly and see what she thinks of it. You may bring it back up to the house tomorrow first thing in the morning.”
Baldwin stood frozen as if he hadn’t comprehended her meaning.
“You must have it,” she urged, forcing the bowl into his hands. “It was well-earned.”
As if in a daze, Baldwin took the bowl and turned it this way and that so that it sparkled in the last rays of the setting sun. “Ma’am you can’t know what this will mean to Holly. I haven’t the words.”
“No need to thank me, Baldwin. In fact, you may send the girl with the bowl, and we shalldiscuss the propagating of a new rose for the next time,” she said in magnanimous tones.
“Yes’m,” he said with the usual meek nod of his head as he shut the door and turned to face his cottage where waited his daughter.
With a sigh, the Dowager folded her hands in her lap and bided her time as she watched the gardener move slowly towards home. The driver rapped on the roof of the carriage in want of a rap in reply that would signal him to drive on, but she took no notice. There was something about the way the gardener squared his shoulders or, more truly, in the way he carried himself that arrested her attention. He had been so happy and should have been most eager to give his daughter the news, yet he seemed to drag his feet.
To her surprise, when he had almost obtained his goal, he sheered off and picked up his pace as he walked in the direction of the stone chapel, the silver bowl winking in his hands as he went. She knew now that the rumors of his devotion were true, and it brought to mind her own need for gratitude to her Maker. She had won, or as near to it as made no difference, the competition she had so yearned to win, she had a skilled and loyal gardener who would protect her roses and her reputation at any cost, and she had a beloved grandson who held her in affection.
As she rapped on the roof to signal that the driver should carry her to the portals of Dunsmere house, she turned to consider Ginny who sat by her side. She was smiling, but tears tracked her cheeks as she met her grandaunt’s gaze with her heart in her eyes.
“Oh, Grandaunt, Baldwin might not have known what to say, but I do not lack for words! This I must tell you: I have often been lonely since my father died. Since coming here, I have felt entirely alone, even in a house filled to the rafters with people. Yet, at this moment, there is no place I should rather be.”
As she lowered her head to rest against her grandaunt’s shoulder, Regina, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross, realized that this slip of a girl was the greatest gift of all. What was a prize bloom compared to her very own Christmas rose; someone with whom to deck the halls, stir the Figgypudding and commemorate the day? It was true that Ginny was possessed of a few thorns, but she was someone to love and be loved by in return. In point of fact, if the Dowager played her cards right, Miss Ginny Delacourt should wed the Dowager’s dearest grandson and, in time, the sound of children’s laughter would fill the rose gardens of Dunsmere once more.
The Lord Who Sneered
England Dec. 10th, 1818
“I assure you, I am not a’tall misunderstood,” Julian, Marquis of Trevelin insisted. It was in response to the remark of a visitor from Milan who dared to assume the scar the Marquis bore must consistently lead to the misapprehension of all those around him, for whether he was happy or sad, cheerful or angry, it appeared as if he perpetually sneered. “In point of fact, there is little in life that requires any reply save a sneer,” he drawled as he placed his glass on a tray and took himself out onto the veranda to hide his ire.
Or so concluded one Lady Sophie Lundell who observed the entire exchange from her position behind the bats-in-the-belfry Lady Avery and her feathered turban of vast proportions.
Baldwin stood frozen as if he hadn’t comprehended her meaning.
“You must have it,” she urged, forcing the bowl into his hands. “It was well-earned.”
As if in a daze, Baldwin took the bowl and turned it this way and that so that it sparkled in the last rays of the setting sun. “Ma’am you can’t know what this will mean to Holly. I haven’t the words.”
“No need to thank me, Baldwin. In fact, you may send the girl with the bowl, and we shalldiscuss the propagating of a new rose for the next time,” she said in magnanimous tones.
“Yes’m,” he said with the usual meek nod of his head as he shut the door and turned to face his cottage where waited his daughter.
With a sigh, the Dowager folded her hands in her lap and bided her time as she watched the gardener move slowly towards home. The driver rapped on the roof of the carriage in want of a rap in reply that would signal him to drive on, but she took no notice. There was something about the way the gardener squared his shoulders or, more truly, in the way he carried himself that arrested her attention. He had been so happy and should have been most eager to give his daughter the news, yet he seemed to drag his feet.
To her surprise, when he had almost obtained his goal, he sheered off and picked up his pace as he walked in the direction of the stone chapel, the silver bowl winking in his hands as he went. She knew now that the rumors of his devotion were true, and it brought to mind her own need for gratitude to her Maker. She had won, or as near to it as made no difference, the competition she had so yearned to win, she had a skilled and loyal gardener who would protect her roses and her reputation at any cost, and she had a beloved grandson who held her in affection.
As she rapped on the roof to signal that the driver should carry her to the portals of Dunsmere house, she turned to consider Ginny who sat by her side. She was smiling, but tears tracked her cheeks as she met her grandaunt’s gaze with her heart in her eyes.
“Oh, Grandaunt, Baldwin might not have known what to say, but I do not lack for words! This I must tell you: I have often been lonely since my father died. Since coming here, I have felt entirely alone, even in a house filled to the rafters with people. Yet, at this moment, there is no place I should rather be.”
As she lowered her head to rest against her grandaunt’s shoulder, Regina, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross, realized that this slip of a girl was the greatest gift of all. What was a prize bloom compared to her very own Christmas rose; someone with whom to deck the halls, stir the Figgypudding and commemorate the day? It was true that Ginny was possessed of a few thorns, but she was someone to love and be loved by in return. In point of fact, if the Dowager played her cards right, Miss Ginny Delacourt should wed the Dowager’s dearest grandson and, in time, the sound of children’s laughter would fill the rose gardens of Dunsmere once more.
The Lord Who Sneered
England Dec. 10th, 1818
“I assure you, I am not a’tall misunderstood,” Julian, Marquis of Trevelin insisted. It was in response to the remark of a visitor from Milan who dared to assume the scar the Marquis bore must consistently lead to the misapprehension of all those around him, for whether he was happy or sad, cheerful or angry, it appeared as if he perpetually sneered. “In point of fact, there is little in life that requires any reply save a sneer,” he drawled as he placed his glass on a tray and took himself out onto the veranda to hide his ire.
Or so concluded one Lady Sophie Lundell who observed the entire exchange from her position behind the bats-in-the-belfry Lady Avery and her feathered turban of vast proportions.
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