Chapter One

The day that my life veered dramatically off course, you could taste spring in the air, clear and sweet like rain-soaked grass.

As I stood on the footpath in the cold sunshine listening to Simon Earnshaw break off our engagement, I was struck by the pool of golden flowers that surrounded us. Earlier, I had felt nothing but joy at the view of the smudged blue-grey sky hanging over London, at the sight of the cheery yellow daffodils blooming in Hyde Park. Then I thought those daffodils meant brighter days were ahead. Now I saw the truth. As I should have done in the first place; after all, I understood the language of flowers better than anyone.

Daffodil. Narcissus. Meaning: unrequited love.

Nature was not troubling herself with subtlety today, and even in such a dire situation as this one, I could appreciate the sly humour: the way the flowers nodded their heads like matronly gossips delighting in calamity, as if to say, We told you so.

"You see, this is exactly what I mean, Marigold," Simon said with a put-upon sigh. He was frowning at me. "I'm trying to tell you that we're not suited, and you look as though you're about to burst out laughing. It's not right. It's not … becoming."

Becoming.That was an interesting word, wasn't it? I could never be quite sure what it meant. Simon, on the other hand, had a lot of ideas about what sort of behaviour was becoming for a young lady. It seemed they could mostly be reduced to this: the absolute opposite of Marigold Bloom.

"I'm sorry, Simon," I replied, swallowing my amusement because the situation really wasn't funny at all. "I promise I will try harder to—"

Simon cut me off with an impatient wave of his hand. "It's too late, Marigold. I've tried and tried, but there's no use… You're just not what a wife should be."

That was new. Something icy weaselled along my spine. "What should a wife be, then?" I asked, and I hated how small my voice sounded.

Simon's eyes ran over me, and I knew what he saw: a wild riot of curly rose-gold hair that stubbornly refused to behave, a pair of steady grey eyes in a round, dimpled face, and a body that drew attention wherever it went – a fat body, a voluptuous body, a generous body of soft, wide curves. Mine was a body that tended to inspire one of two reactions – a nose-wrinkling desire that I make myself smaller, or a salacious interest in getting under my dress. Simon had always seemed to feel both.

Perhaps that was the problem.

"You know, Mari, you're just…" Simon paused, considering. He waved his hands around in a gesture that encompassed all of me. "Too much," he exhaled finally.

I stiffened, blood rushing to my cheeks.

Too much. It wasn't the first time he'd said something like that, but it hurt nonetheless.

Because I liked myself. I liked my body. I liked my hair. I liked that I stood out in a crowd.

Once, I thought Simon liked those things about me too. He had certainly seemed to when he had been busy kissing me and telling me how lovely I was while trying to undo the back of my dress, making breathless promises for our future together, as his busy hands moved over me. Then, it seemed, I was perfect.

Now that we were past that part and into the bit where I was set to become his actual wife, things had changed. The rules were different, and they'd shifted so fast I couldn't keep up.

The comments had started a few months ago – small, innocuous observations about the clothes I wore (too bright, too gaudy, too extravagant), who I spoke to (the boy on the corner selling newspapers, the lady with the yappy Pomeranian in the park, really anyone who crossed my path), the way I laughed (too loudly, too easily, too often). All that soon piled up into a general sense of dissatisfaction.

At first, I laughed it off. Then, when the remarks continued, I told Simon that he was hurting my feelings. He was all sincere apologies, pointing out that he was only trying to help. That I must understand that I would need to behave differently when we were married, that his wife would be a reflection on him. That he was a serious man, a respected man.

I tried to listen. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted to make him happy. But I never seemed to get it quite right. That was when it had started – the hot, queasy feeling that had taken me weeks to identify as shame. Simon's words had planted that seed of shame, and then week after week I'd felt it grow.

Now, his handsome face was set in grim lines. His blue eyes were cold, his mouth pulled down.

My heart sank as anger and pride and hurt jumbled inside me. And just a sliver of fear. Because this wasn't only about me. Marrying Simon was a way to look after my family, and right now that plan was in serious jeopardy.

"Simon…" I cleared my throat, trying again, trying to keep the (unladylike) bite of anger out of my voice. "Please, I—"

"I've asked Sarah Hardison to marry me," Simon blurted out, and a splash of pink spread across his cheeks, even as he tipped his chin in a defiant gesture, as if daring me to have something to say about it.

"You've…" I blinked. "How could you have asked Sarah Hardison to marry you," I asked slowly, "when you're already engaged to me?"

Simon tugged at his collar. "You and I never had a formal arrangement—"

"You proposed a year ago, Simon. We planned an autumn wedding."

At least he had a tiny morsel of guilt left in him, enough to look uncomfortable. I racked my brain, trying to picture Sarah Hardison. She was nice, I thought. We had spoken once or twice when she had been in the shop. She looked like a tiny porcelain doll and her father was in quite a senior position at a bank.

Simon waved his hand. "That was only talk, Marigold. What we've had, it was good, wasn't it? Pleasant. A childhood fancy. But we're eighteen now – it's time to be serious; it's time to settle down and stop sowing wild oats."

I had the feeling Simon was parroting his father's words here. It certainly sounded like his father, who had made it clear that he thought his son could do better than the granddaughter of a florist.

"I thought we were serious."

The look he gave me then was pitying. He reached out and patted my hand. Patted my hand! A surge of fury blazed within me. I had never hit anyone in my life, but my fingers curled into a fist.

"This is for the best," Simon said, oblivious to the fact that I was fantasizing about squashing his head like a grape. "Now, let me take you home."

The whole situation seemed like a bad dream. Could this really be happening? Could things fall apart so quickly, so easily? A handful of words spoken on a walk in the park upending an entire life. Several lives.

I shrugged his hand off. "No, thank you." I ground the words out, determined to retain some shred of dignity. I was relieved to find I still had that thread of steel left inside me; I'm certain there was part of Simon that had been expecting a scene. Indeed, there was part of me that could happily have provided it, a part that wanted nothing more than to cry, to beg him to reconsider. I wasn't going to let that happen; instead I kept my face and voice expressionless, a mask of bland indifference that only a fool would truly believe.

He didn't even bother trying to hide his relief at my calm acceptance. "Oh, well then." He was already stepping away. "I'll let you get on your way. No hard feelings and all that. I'm sure I'll see you soon."

And on that incredibly anticlimactic note my relationship with Simon ended. Almost two years of my life, all my plans for the future … gone.

I stood, absorbing the moment like a blow, and breathing deeply as I settled back into my body.

Here in the park, you could almost forget you were in the middle of the city. Here, green shoots were bursting through the dirt, flowers were starting to bloom – splashes of vibrant colour that wanted to spill over on to the well-trodden footpaths. I wriggled my toes in my boots. Under the earth, I knew that life whispered, gathering itself, preparing to blaze upwards, reaching tender, twining fingers towards the sun. The breeze stirred through the newly uncurled leaves over my head, bright and fresh and full of promise.

I've always loved spring the most. It makes sense, I suppose, for a florist. It's the time when the world seems to wake up and stretch, to shake off the dreariness of winter and come alive again. It is a time of new beginnings, fresh starts.

Nothing could be that bad, I reminded myself. Not really, not when the world was green and alive.

I tugged at my drab, grey coat. I'd bought it because Simon hadn't liked my old one, with its bright crimson lining and pretty trim. He'd said it was flashy. That it drew the wrong sort of attention. Surely, he had said, the only attention I really wanted was his?

That would change now. Everything would change now.

Bending down over the riot of daffodils, I snapped one carefully at the stem, threaded it through my buttonhole – a defiant flash of gold against my throat.

I needed to tell my family what had happened. I wasn't sure how I was going to do that, not when Simon's decision affected them almost as much as it did me.

I was going to need another moment before that, I thought on a ragged sigh. A moment to collect myself, a moment of steadiness.

There was only one place I wanted to be.