Garden of Hope

by Daphne Bloom

  Garden of Hope

  Daphne Bloom

  Red Empress Publishing

  www.RedEmpressPublishing.com

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  Copyright © Amanda Roberts

  www.AmandaRobertsWrites.com

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  Cover by Josephine Blake

  www.CoversAndCupcakes.com

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recoding, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Letter from the Author

  Thank You For Reading!

  Also by Daphne Bloom

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Lily

  I put my trowel aside and dig around the delicate roots with my fingers instead. Now that it is summer, I’m moving little saplings from my greenhouse to the garden east of the house. The dirt moves aside easily, the tiny granules falling around my fingers like water. The cool dirt on my hands is soothing and I let out a sigh. I’ve been waiting for summer all through the cool winter and spring months so that I could return to gardening outside. Dirt in pots simply is not as satisfying to dig in as dirt in the ground.

  I see the tail of a little earthworm wiggle as it tries to escape the growing sunlight. I dig it out and move it away from where I am currently working, covering it back up with the protective soil.

  “There you go, little friend,” I whisper. My sisters are terrified of worms, but our old gardener, Mr. Wright, taught me how necessary they are for a healthy garden. How they till the soil and leave fertilizer behind. So I always try to keep the little creatures safe when I garden.

  “Lily!”

  I cringe even before I look up to see my mother standing over me, her hands on her hips. “Yes, Mama?”

  “Look at you!” she says as if she doesn’t find me in the same position nearly every day. “You’re filthy! Hurry, go inside and get cleaned up and changed.”

  “Why?” I ask as I get to my feet and wipe my hands on my apron, which I wear over a maid’s uniform so old and tattered even a maid couldn’t use it. I salvaged it from the rubbish bin just so I wouldn’t get any of my other clothes dirty. I thought Mama would be pleased with me, but I had been sorely mistaken. She seemed even more upset that I had a designated gown for gardening than she was at me getting my old house dresses dirty. I didn’t understand it.

  “Lady Astley is here,” Mama says, placing her hand on my back and leading me away from the garden. “Her son is returning from India specifically to find a good English wife. She’s obviously putting together a list of suitable matches to present to him upon his return. So you must do your best to impress her.”

  “Wait!” I say, pulling away from her. “I can’t leave the seedlings exposed, they’ll dry out. And my tools will rust.”

  “Lily, do forget about the silly garden for a moment. You have plenty of seedlings. Lady Astley is waiting now.”

  “It won’t take but a moment,” I say.

  “Lily!” Mama says in her firm voice that means she’s about to get angry. “Inside. Now.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Lily,” a warm voice says, and I see Mr. Wright coming toward me with his bucket of tools. He has on dirty coveralls and his forehead is sweaty, his hands covered in more dirt than my own. “I’ll take care of everything for you. Go on to the house like your Mama says.”

  I give him a grateful smile. “Thank you. Be careful of the earthworms. I put them under a mound of dirt just there.”

  “Sure thing, Miss Lily,” he says with a nod as he gets to work. I’m hesitant to leave. Of course Mr. Wright knows what he is doing, but I raised those seedlings myself and had been excited to plant them.

  “Come along, Lily,” Mama says, and I know I can’t stay.

  Mama leads me down the small path to the larger main walkway that extends from the back of our home. Over the years, Mr. Wright and I have turned what was a mere respectable garden into a veritable rainbow of colors and designs. We’ve added a dozen meandering garden paths, between each of which there is a perfectly selected collection of flowers, bushes, and even trees where appropriate. We’ve planned out each section so that there is always something in bloom, even in the winter. When people come to visit, they always remark on how stunning our garden is. Mama always seems proud of it, smiling and thanking the guests for the compliments. She even mentions how glad she is to have Mr. Wright on staff. But she never mentions the work I’ve done. And she’s always annoyed when she finds me in the garden, or when I visit the garden shows in London, or when I come home with a new cutting from someone else’s garden.

  At the top of the stairs to the back door, my maid, Abigail, is waiting.

  “Abigail,” Mama says, “do be quick about it. Scrub her nails especially. We can’t leave Lady Astley waiting. How is she?”

  “She’s having tea with Lady Brunswick,” Abigail says. Lady Brunswick is my sister, Constance, who is married to Lord Brunswick.

  “Good,” Mama says. “I shall leave Lily in your capable hands while I make sure Lady Astley does not become bored waiting.”

  “Of course, my lady,” Abigail says with a curtsey. She then leads me upstairs to my room and the adjoining washroom. There’s no time to heat the water, so we just use a brush, a cloth, and a bucket of room-temperature water, which makes me shiver considering how warm I got working in the garden.

  “Why so glum, my lady?” Abigail asks me as she scrubs my hands and arms with a rough brush.

  “You know why Lady Astley is here,” I reply. “She’s looking for a wife for her son.”

  “That’s good news, though,” Abigail says. “You’re twenty-two, and Lord Astley is quite well-off.”

  “He’s stationed in India!” I say. “Can you imagine living on the other side of the world?”

  “Plenty of people do,” Abigail says, finally satisfied with my hands and helping me into a light day dress. “Besides, don’t you have orchids from India? Imagine how much more beautiful they would be in their native soil.”

  My ears perk up at that. I’ve read stories of men who have traveled to places such as India and South America in search of beautiful new flowers. It would be exciting, certainly, but I could never do that. I don’t particularly like wild, untamed woods or jungles. I just want to tend to my garden.

  “You know he won’t pick me,” I say glumly as I watch in the mirror while Abigail pulls my blonde hair up as best she can. My hair is a pretty golden color, but the strands are rather unruly and hard to maintain.

  Abigail doesn’t reply for a moment. What can she say? Of course he won’t pick me. I haven’t been picked yet. I’m too strange. Too weird. Too peculiar, as Mama says. I don’t deny that I’m not like other girls. I don’t care for dancing or clothes or even marriage, really. If I could live in a cottage and tend my garden I would be content. I’m hoping, praying that Papa will eventually change his will, leaving my dowry as a maintenance for me instead of being earmarked for a possible future h
usband. The dowry is large enough that I could live by myself for the whole of my life as long as I lived simply. But Papa is old-fashioned and still set on having an heir to leave the estate to.

  I am the youngest of three sisters. Both Constance and Elise are married and have children—all girls. Whoever has a son first, that boy will inherit everything—including my dowry if I’m not married. When Papa dies, I’ll have nothing and will be dependent on the kindness of my family to take care of me.

  I certainly don’t want to become a “poor relation,” but I don’t imagine I’ll marry. But if Papa changes his will, I’ll be a respectable spinster. Hopefully I will not need to worry about that for some time. My father is not an old man, and he knows the challenges I face in finding a husband. I’m sure it is only a matter of time before he sees sense and gives me my dowry. Or one of my sisters will finally give birth to a precious boy and I will no longer need to marry and have children. He would surely give me my dowry then.

  But until then, my mother, like all mothers, is determined to see me married. I’m not against marriage, I suppose. My sisters seem happy enough. And Papa has always been good to Mama. But I don’t wish to marry someone who only needs my dowry or his own heir. I’d like to marry someone who loved me. Someone patient and kind. But… Well, let’s just say I’m not particularly easy to love.

  “There she is!” Mama says as she comes toward me with a smile so big I can’t help but look back over my shoulder to see if it is meant for someone else. She takes me by the hand and leads me into the room. “Lady Astley, I believe you’ve met my daughter Lily before.”

  Lady Astley, a tall, thin woman with a beak-like nose, stands and takes my hand. “Yes, though it has been a few years. Since my own Josephine married and James has been abroad, I’ve not attended many Season events, so many of the younger girls have slipped my notice.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I say and then wait for Lady Astley to release my hand. When she doesn’t, I wonder if there is something else I’m supposed to say. I look to my mother, and she nods encouragingly, but I don’t know what to do. I feel flustered and wish for the solace of my garden.

  “You’ll have to excuse my sister,” Constance says, stepping forward and taking my hand. “She was in the garden and I think she must have gotten a little too much sun.”

  “Yes,” Lady Astley says, motioning toward the large window that looks out over the south lawn. “I’ve heard about your gardens, Lady Derby, and I must say the praise was not exaggerated. Lovely.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and Lady Astley looks at me with surprise. I’m about to explain when Mama interrupts.

  “Lily has helped the gardener with some of the plant selections for this year,” Mama says. She then motions toward the various chairs. “Shall we sit? Madeline, please pour.” Madeline, a housemaid, steps forward and pours tea and passes plates of pastries.

  “When is James returning?” Constance asks. “I haven’t seen him in an age.”

  “In a few weeks,” Lady Astley says. “The trip takes forever, apparently. I’d never venture on such an excursion myself, but he seems to enjoy it. He always did have an adventurous spirit.”

  “You must be so glad to see him again,” Mama says, and again she gives me a look that must mean she wants me to do something, but I don’t know what.

  “Yes, we—”

  “I have orchids from India,” I say, remembering what Abigail said earlier. Mother makes a strained sound, but Lady Astley seems not to notice the interruption.

  “Oh?” Lady Astley says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Three varieties of fox brush orchids, in fact. You can find two varieties thriving in the garden, but the third I’m still nurturing in the greenhouse. It’s still small, but I think it is taking well. I purchased it the last time we were in London from—”

  “Yes,” Mama interrupts. “Lily loves flowers. I certainly gave her a fitting name.” She then chuckles, though I don’t see what’s funny, or why she cut me off. I must have said something wrong.

  “Indeed,” Lady Astley says. “Flowers are a perfectly feminine pastime. Arranging the flowers is the one aspect of hosting dinner parties I truly enjoy.”

  “Me too!” I say, perking up. “Mama always leaves the flowers to me when we host. Though, it has been a while since our last gathering.”

  “Well, you should host again soon,” Lady Astley says with an approving smile at me, and I feel much lighter than I did before. “I should love to see your arrangements, my dear.”

  But as I look at Mama, I can see that she is—not angry, exactly, but neither is she pleased, so I’m unsure of what to say next. I look down and fidget with a ruffle on my dress, afraid of upsetting her further, and another awkward silence fills the room.

  “Will James be returning to India after his visit here?” Constance asks.

  “Sadly, I believe so,” Lady Astley says. “At least for a while. He’s decided to set up a merchant venture for himself, though I have no idea why.”

  “It is admirable for a young man to try and make his own way in the world,” Mama says, but Lady Astley scoffs.

  “Then what is the point of acquiring all this—” She motions around the room. “—if there is no one to inherit it? No, I hope that once he arrives and has all the comforts of England and finds a suitable wife he will wish to settle down here at home.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Mama says.

  “He will have to return to India for at least a short while,” Lady Astley says. “Just to wrap up his obligations there. But hopefully it won’t take long. What do you think, Lily?” she says to me. “Would you like to visit India? Or live there if the situation demanded it?”

  “Not particularly,” I say. I know I’ve said the wrong thing when Lady Astley’s face falls and I hear Mama choke on her tea. “I mean… I suppose I would go if I had to. And India has lovely flowers. But I wouldn’t choose to. I’d rather stay here. Tend my own garden.”

  That seems to satisfy Lady Astley as she gives a small smile and nod. “Nothing wrong with that at all, my dear.” She then stands to excuse herself. “Well, thank you so much for tea, Catherine.”

  “It was our pleasure,” Mama says as she escorts Lady Astley to the door.

  “And do let me know when you next host here in your lovely home,” Lady Astley says, and she gives me another smile and nod before leaving the room.

  I sigh and slip back to my chair, thinking that I must have done well since the baroness seemed pleased. My sister smiles as she sits next to me and opens her mouth to say something, but Mama interrupts.

  “Not particularly?” Mama says. “She is trying to weed out potential brides by asking if you would like to travel to India, where her son lives, and you say, ‘not particularly’?”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I say. “I was talking to Abigail, who asked the same thing earlier, and I told her the truth, that I would certainly not like to go to India, so when Lady Astley asked the same thing, it just slipped out.”

  “I think Lily covered perfectly well,” Constance says, patting my hand. “Lady Astley appeared pleased. She and Lily seem to share a love of flowers.”

  “A love of flowers?” Mama asks, plopping herself into a chair. “Do you really think Lady Astley would be found dead with her hands in the dirt like Lily? No! I’ve told you before that we must downplay your odd obsession with growing things until after you are married.”

  “But I don’t know what else to talk about if not flowers,” I say, and Mama groans. Not that I blame her. We have the same discussion—the same argument—anytime the topic of marriage comes up.

  “Lily, why don’t you let Mama rest,” Constance says. “She’s obviously a little flustered by Lady Astley’s visit.”

  I know that what Constance really means is that she and Mama intend to talk about me, but I’m not about to argue. But neither am I about to go to my room except to change back into my gardening dress and return to my seedlings.

&nbs
p; Chapter Two

  Henry

  My mind begins to wander and I look out the window to the garden as a slight breeze rustles the leaves of a lemon tree I had brought back on one of my leaves from northern India several years ago. It had been little more than a stick at the time, and I’m surprised and delighted that the thing finally took and began to grow new leaves after the careful tending of the estate’s supremely talented gardener. I see that is has been moved from the greenhouse to the rear garden. There are some bright new lemons growing on it; I should check to see if they are ready to be picked. Some fresh lemon in my tea would not go amiss—

  “Henry!”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” My father, Darcy, Lord Pembroke, is scowling at me.

  “You didn’t even hear what I said,” he grumbles.

  I sigh and click my fingers, summoning Rashi, my pet squirrel, to me. From seemingly out of nowhere, the little—well, actually, he’s significantly larger than English squirrels—jumps onto the back of the sofa and looks at me anxiously for a treat. I hand him a small biscuit, which Rashi takes in his little hand, and then he pounces away and perches atop the back of a winged chair to nibble at it.

  “That you want me to pick a wife, Father,” I say. “I know. You repeat it often enough.”

  “It’s the middle of the Season!” Father barks as he waves Rashi away from the chair and sits down. Rashi scampers away and sits in a windowsill. “If you don’t find a wife this year I worry you won’t find one at all. At least not of your own choosing. Your mother and I could always arrange something. There’s never a shortage of women who would be glad to marry the son of an earl.”