Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Charlotte pushed aside the leaves of the small fern plant. “You look thirsty.”

Charlotte winced as she reached for the mister high on the shelf, stubbornly kicking the stool over beside her foot. She didn’t wish to be coddled any longer. She wouldn’t deny a warm bath sounded like heaven either. Or perhaps curling up by the fire and reading a book.

In winter, the world turned into itself. It quieted as a chill settled over Cumbria, and the hope of spring at times seemed a miracle if ever reached. That was how she had felt for years. She didn’t know if it was the fact that Ian had returned or if she had fought for her life after being thrown from her horse, but she knew spring was on its way.

Soon, her feet would be in the sun-warmed grass, and she could tilt her head up toward the sky as birdsong filled her heart. Soon, she would smell the earth and roam the estate in search of new flora and fauna to send to her peers at the Naturalist Society.

Soon, everything would return to how it should be. As it always was.

Charlotte bent closer, inspecting a discolored leaf on the new tiger lily she had received after Christmas. She pinched back the new growth and discarded the tender leaves into the cracked terracotta pot on the workbench, satisfied it had survived.

The light was waning, but she wasn’t ready to return inside yet.

“Susan told me I could find you here.”

Charlotte stiffened at the sound of Ian’s voice behind her. Instead of saying anything, she glanced over her shoulder a moment, acknowledging him, then returned to her work.

There was no protecting herself any longer. One look and her heart squeezed in her chest, and she was certain she would either break down or confess the secret thoughts she had kept locked away for years from her husband.

“I didn’t come to order you back into the house.”

She heard the soft footfalls of his boots against the stone floors of the conservatory. Her hands shook as she grabbed the nearly dull shears. She would need to have them sharpened soon. Still, she remained silent.

This was her space.

This had been her house after he left.

Her safe place.

“I only brought you this.”

She felt the heavy weight of the shawl collapse onto her shoulders, cascading down her arms and back, shielding her from the chill of the conservatory.

The candle on the bench flickered as it settled around her, and she was met with the smell of fresh air confusingly clinging to her husband’s clothes, and the scent of him, something she had missed for years.

And suddenly, it made gooseflesh break out over her arms as a shiver chased down her spine.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Charlotte couldn’t force herself to turn around. It wasn’t until she heard the hushed groan in his throat, as if her rejection had cut him, that she braced herself and slowly spun to face him.

Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, but she could still make out the dimple on his chin. Her index finger fit there perfectly. That she remembered. How she used to settle her finger against the spot, then trace the line of his jaw to tip his lips to meet hers. Like Ian, his lips always possessed contradictions—soft to touch, yet powerful and hungry.

For Charlotte.

Years ago, now.

It might as well have been lifetimes.

He remained still, as if he were afraid he might frighten her. She lingered in that pause, sweeping a gaze over the corner of his mouth. God, how she missed his smile and the sound of his laugh. Then up to his eyes, so brown they might as well have been black and all-consuming. Charlotte always wondered if others noticed the way his eyes were flecked with gold when the light fell upon him just right.

Once, she swore every room centered around him. Once, she had made him her entire world, her own personal sun. And perhaps it was still true. But it couldn’t be. If she were to survive, she must find a way of freeing herself from loving her husband—this near stranger. If she had discovered anything, it was that remaining in his shadow left her little light to grow. It was like the flush of wildflowers by the hedges near the bees, and if left to grow without a trim now and again, the hedges soaked up the light, leaving little for the flowers in their shadows.

That was Ian.

And Charlotte, who had once adored him, could barely bring herself to finally look him in the eye, far too vulnerable.

A soft rain fell against the glass, filling the deepening silence with an echoing drup-drup .

“I tried to care for them all while you were recovering.” He lifted his hand above her shoulder, and she pushed herself to rest against the bench, weary of his touch. “I’m afraid that one might have received too much water.”

Charlotte didn’t have to look to know he meant the tulips she had overwintered in the conservatory, favoring to savor their beautiful purple inside while she sorted through her journals and drawings as she had each spring. There was always so much to prepare before the flowers began to wake up at Stonehurst.

“The bulb rotted.”

“I apologize.”

She nodded, then peeled her gaze away and glanced up at the roof. “Well, thank you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Don’t pretend to be humble now, Ian.”

He reached out and tapped his boot against her slipper. “Will you tell me more about what you’re doing here?”

The question was innocent enough, but that didn’t explain why it felt like a battering ram against the small sanctuary she had hidden away in all these years. Beyond walking the park at Stonehurst, this room brought her the most joy.

She frowned down at his foot, and he removed it, straightening and clearing his throat.

“If you want to, that is.” When she didn’t immediately reply, he reached around her and grabbed the opened journal from the work surface, smudged with soil. “Like this. Can you explain what you are trying to build?”

“I’m not trying to build anything.” She clenched her fists, refusing to tear the book away from his hands. Spiting him only drew them both into a cycle of hate, and she was far too tired.

“Well…” He stepped around her, then turned, rested his back against the bench and stood there beside her, a hair's breadth away. “You have drawn it multiple times.”

“The math of it is confounding, that is all. I will?—”

“Lottie, what is it?”

She glanced over to him, fighting the urge to bump against his shoulder. Struggling with the familiar feeling that he was home for her. How she had loved to be held by him at one time.

“They kill the bees each September, and I refuse to do it. I have written to several beekeepers who have shared proprietary plans which move bees from skeps to a hive structure that allows a beekeeper to examine it with a removable frame system. ”

“The bees here at Stonehurst?”

“Yes, and beyond. A skep doesn’t allow a beekeeper to examine for pests or disease, and there is no way to access the honey without destroying it, you see.” She pointed to her sketch, wincing as she lifted a shoulder slightly too high.

“Do you need to return to the house?” he asked, something a lot like concern pulling at his features.

Instead of agreeing, though that was likely for the best, she continued, “I am experimenting with several hive designs here at Stonehurst to see what works best. I”—she paused, bracing herself for his reaction—“pass my time here gathering the flora and fauna to study them and submit my findings to the Naturalist Society.”

“That explains those then.” Ian pointed to the stacks of sketches she’d made of what she cataloged.

“I’m hardly an artist.”

“They are beautiful.”

“No need for flattery, Ian. Let’s keep matters easy and strive only to be friendly.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said, his voice ragged.

“Yes, well…” She spun away and grabbed the journal from his hands as the rain continued to gently cascade down the glass roof of the conservatory. “It is all silly and foolish.”

“There is nothing foolish about you.”

“You have made me a fool.”

He tapped his boot against the stone floor, then reached for the mister and placed it on the bench. “I only came to see you didn’t catch a chill. I apologize if I disturbed you.”

Charlotte placed the journal on the table, releasing a slow breath as her shoulders settled into a firm line. This constant pull would wear at them both, just like the stones along the river’s edge.

Very soon she feared she would be just as dull.

“I am sorry.” Charlotte crossed her arms, pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

She was used to his suits perfectly tailored to his body. Instead, he wore a suit worn and patched. Something she swore once belonged to the gamekeeper. Suddenly, he was affected as well. All his sharp grace blunted. Even the hard light in his eyes had softened, toward her.

For her.

“I was remembering earlier,” he said quickly, speaking to the floor. “Of how you used to press flowers when we met and kept them between the pages of your books, hiding them away, as if making a garden only for yourself.”

She nodded. “I would follow the gardener around for days until my mother was mortified. She let him go, and I wasn’t allowed outside without my governess. I never forgave her. I thought if I hid them away in my books, then I could still enjoy the garden.”

He reached back for the journal with the beehive sketches, then flicked through, the hint of a smile hitting his lips as he spotted a pressed yellow iris she had gathered beside the pond last year.

She wondered if he smiled because it reminded him of The Serpentine where they often read together while courting. There had been a cluster of the same irises near their favorite spot.

“I must guess you are furious with what I have done to Stonehurst while you have been away.”

“I don’t believe I have much say.”

“So, are you?”

He turned to her, his eyes combing over her face in that magic way of his. She was hit with a wave of longing.

“My father never wanted to be a duke beyond possessing the power the title afforded him. Stonehurst reflected that… until you. You have made it a home, and it must have been lonely…”

Charlotte closed her eyes. “I do so love my flowers.”

“Sunshine, like you.”

She drew back, surprised at his comment.

“That box there,” he said, suddenly pointing to her seed box. “Is that part of what you work at as well?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s something I do to keep myself busy. But now with the school, I help Lily and…”

“And?”

She crossed her arms. “I don’t know. ”

“It matters, Charlotte. You matter, whether you try to hide away in London ballrooms or a conservatory in Cumbria, your opinions matter.”

It would be so easy to snap back at him, but for what? She was exhausted, and whether he was merely flirting or trying to make amends, it didn’t matter because there was no value in it.

“Well,” he said, turning to leave. “Thank you for sharing all that with me. I won’t bother you any longer.”

She nodded quickly, pulling her shawl tighter. “Thank you for my shawl,” she added awkwardly.

He flashed her a small grin, worry settling into his dark eyes. “Just so it is clear, I think what you’ve done is extraordinary.”

And before she could string a sentence together, too stunned, he left her standing alone in her conservatory.