Garden of Hope

by Daphne Bloom

  “No!” I say, moving to get up. But then I remember my blasted cane and decide against it. I shift uncomfortably, my leg stiff from disuse. “No. I don’t want you to hook some girl with the promise of some grand match only for her to find out she’s betrothed to an invalid.”

  “You’re not an invalid,” Father says, not unkindly. “Not yet. But the doctors say that the injury to your spine could worsen. You can still walk for now. Still…father a child. But in two or three years, it might no longer be possible.”

  I run my fingers through my hair and grunt in annoyance. “Exactly! I don’t want to marry anyone in this state. It wouldn’t be kind. What if a child doesn’t come in time? Shall I doom some poor girl to a motherless existence?”

  “It might not come to that,” Father says. “It could go either way at this point. You could heal up, especially if you keep up with your treatments. Then all your worrying will be for nothing.”

  “You mean stretching and massage?” I scoff. “Such silliness. It can’t possibly work.” Other than being relaxing, I haven’t found the treatments to help my back or leg heal at all, and it has been nearly half a year since my return. I spent weeks in hospital, then more weeks bedridden. I’ve only been up and about under my own steam for two months. At first, I had diligently attended my massage sessions and did the stretches daily. But they were exhausting and painful and I often felt worse afterward. The doctors claimed they saw some improvement, that the pain meant I was healing, but I couldn’t sense a change. I only do the treatments now when under order or direct supervision, but having someone watch me struggle with even the slightest movements is horribly embarrassing.

  “We don’t have to lie to the girl,” Father says, growing exasperated. “We could tell her of your…challenges. Of the need to at least try and have an heir quickly. I’m sure we could find a girl amenable to the situation. It just needs to be handled delicately.”

  “The only girl who would agree to such a horrid arrangement must be money-grubbing indeed. Why is this so urgent anyway. George has a son, Timothy.” Though as soon as I said it, I knew it would bring up painful memories for Father. Father glanced at the portrait of his own dear brother, Austin, along with his wife and two children—all of whom perished at sea when traveling to visit her family in America. The death of my uncle and his children is the only reason my father is Lord Pembroke now. Father had also been a second son, and he never imagined that one day he would be the one responsible for carrying on the family name and title.

  “Life is terribly uncertain, my boy,” Father says solemnly.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, but Father waves his hand.

  “I know this is an unfortunate situation to be in, but here we are. Yes, we have George, and we have Timothy. And, God willing, you will never have to bear the pain and responsibilities that I have. But neither can we be naïve. You must marry and have a son of your own if we want the family to be secure.”

  “But…look at me…” I say, motioning to my leg. I am wearing trousers, naturally, but he knows about the scars up my leg, hip, and lower back that I am referring to. “What woman would ever choose to be with me of her own free choice?”

  “Such arrangements are common—”

  “I don’t want to force a woman to be my wife!” I say firmly. “I won’t force a woman to share a bed with a freak.”

  Father and I stare at each other, back at the same place we always end up. It isn’t that I don’t understand his concerns. I do. I remember Uncle Austin, Aunt Clare, and my dear cousins well. I also remember how devastated Father was when they died. We all mourned heavily. It was difficult for Father to take his brother’s place. We didn’t move into Pembroke Manor for well over a year after their deaths. And I know he is afraid for George and of something terrible befalling him and his small family. Though, George is a typical country gentleman. He likes nothing more than riding and hunting and helping to manage the estate. And his wife’s family home is mere miles from ours. The chance that some tragedy could befall George is rather minute, much less something happening to Timothy as well.

  And yet, it is a reasonable concern, isn’t it? There are even rumblings among the royal family as to who will succeed the king because none of the princes have yet had a son. If Timothy never has any brothers or a son of his own, it would be my sons who inherit the title after his death. Even if that is decades off in the best of circumstances, it is something that needs to be planned for now. I certainly couldn’t have a son decades from now.

  The clock strikes three and I shake my head awake. I was so lost in thought I didn’t realize that so much time had passed.

  “Yes, well,” Father says, standing. “I have a meeting with the land agent.” He looks at me as if to ask if I wish to accompany him, but then he seems to think better of it and leaves the room. I wait until he is gone before I grip my cane and use it to help me stand. How I hate the bloody thing.

  It is beautiful, naturally. The finest English oak with a silver handle shaped like a majestic wolf. But I hate my reliance on it. What it represents. I never needed so much as a walking stick as I scouted around the mountains of Northern India, watching for spies or insurgents, but also taking note of the land, the animals, the plants, and the people who lived in that remote section of the world. It had been such an exciting life. In truth, I had thought about settling down in India, trying my hand at business after my contract with the military ended. But… Well, the accident saw an end to that. The doctors in India saved my life, but the more advanced surgeries and treatments I needed were only available here, in England. Thankfully, my friend Jonathon was able to gather up my belongings. My notebooks, my photographs, my dear little Rashi. I was barely lucid at the time but knew that once I left India, I would never return.

  I decide to take a turn in the garden to check on the lemon tree. I grab a small basket from near the door and take it with me. Just as I thought, they are bright yellow and so large they threaten to fall off the tree of their own accord. I pick one and hold it to my nose, savoring the sharp, clean scent before dropping it into the basket, which I have placed on the ground. I can’t very well hold the basket, pick fruit, and lean on my cane at the same time. Even the simplest of tasks seems beyond my reach anymore.

  How could I possibly burden a woman with myself? I understand Father’s concerns keenly. But he does not seem to understand mine. I don’t want a nurse. Or a social climber who would be just waiting for something to befall my brother and nephew so she could be the next Countess of Pembroke. Nor do I want a woman who only needs money. I would prefer to not marry at all in my current state.

  Before the accident, it was never a question of whether I would marry, though I was in no rush. I much preferred being alone most of the time. Reading or studying or exploring. But marriage and children were simply part of my responsibility and I would do it—eventually. I hoped to one day find a woman I got on well with. Someone who would choose me, and I would choose her. All marriages had troubles, but they were easier to face with an amiable partner. Like what George has with Alice. We’d known her since we were children, the daughter of a baron. I wasn’t here for their courtship, but according to George he couldn’t take his eyes off of her when he saw her at the dances during their first—and only—season together. He said it was as though he was seeing her—truly seeing her—for the first time.

  But now…who would ever choose me? Whenever I do dare to venture out, people don’t see me, but their eyes go straight to the cane.

  I hear a squeal and look over to see Timothy being chased by Rashi. At only six years old, Timothy is significantly larger than the beautiful rodent, but Rashi seems more clever than the average squirrel, often running and playing more akin to a small dog.

  I whistle and Rashi turns toward me immediately, bouncing along in the grass. When Timothy notices that Rashi is no longer chasing him, he turns and runs toward me as well.

  “Uncle Henry!” Timothy says, panting. I reach out and
pat the boy’s cheek.

  “Are you teasing Rashi?” I ask.

  “Never!” he says. “I was walking, and he popped up in the air next to me! I never even saw him!”

  I laugh. Rashi is adept at playful sneak attacks. “Where is Nanny?”

  Timothy shrugs.

  “Timothy?” I say.

  “Probably looking for me,” he admits glumly. I am not surprised by this. The boy is a bit wild, and Nanny Carter is a bit strict. He seems to always look for ways to give her the slip so he can roll in the grass or hide in the woods. On more than one occasion he has sent all of us into a panic by deciding to hide and none of us can find him. He always comes home eventually, but his little demands for freedom only make his father and grandfather want to guard him more closely. He has a younger sister, three-year-old Isabella, but Alice recently lost a pregnancy, so Timothy is currently the only heir.

  “Here,” I say, picking up the basket of lemons and handing it to him. “Take this to Cook and ask her to make some lemon scones. Later, when they are ready, give one to Nanny and promise her that you won’t run off again. Understand? It’s quite upsetting when she doesn’t know where you are.”

  “I know,” he says, kicking at the grass with the toe of his shoe.

  “That’s a good lad,” I say, petting his golden hair. “Off with you.”

  “Come on, Rashi!” He takes off back toward the house, swinging his basket. Rashi raises his head and sits on his hind legs, chittering and wiggling his nose. Rashi comes to me instead, easily climbing up my trousers and jacket to my shoulder.

  “What do you think, Rashi?” I ask. “Will he do as I told him?” Rashi chitters. “No, I don’t think he will. Come on, we better make sure he gets back to the nursery before Nanny has a fit—if she hasn’t already.”

  I slowly make my way up the stairs. By the time I arrive in the kitchen, Timothy will probably be long gone, but I have to do my best to keep an eye on him. One thing is certain. If I don’t marry and have a son of my own, Timothy is the future of our family. I have to do my part to keep him safe.

  Chapter Three

  Lily

  Sitting at the breakfast table with Papa, I’m anxious to go outside and begin my plantings for the day. There was a light rain last night, so the soil is right for a set of African violets I’ve been tending to that my sister Elise gifted to me. Mama takes her breakfast in her bed, so breakfast is usually just myself and Papa. It’s the only time of the day I ever see him until dinner.

  “Don’t eat so quickly, Lily,” Papa says, taking a break from his newspaper. “You’ll choke.”

  I hadn’t realized I was eating faster than usual, but I slow my pace anyway. Through the window across the room, I can see that it is a bright, sunny day. I’ll have to be sure to wear my straw hat with the wide brim.

  “I heard your visit with Lady Astley went well yesterday,” Papa says, and I raise my eyebrows in confusion.

  “Mama seemed to indicate it went rather poorly,” I say as I push my eggs around my plate with my fork.

  “Oh, you know your mother,” Papa says, placing his paper on the table. “Anything less than perfect is a tragedy in her eyes. But she says we need to plan a dinner party this Season, and that your flower arrangements are to take center stage. That must please you.”

  “I shall do my very best with the arrangements, Papa,” I say. “There are several varieties of roses in season. And there is an ivy trellis that needs trimming, so they will do well for contrast. And the carnations—”

  Papa raises his hand with a slight chuckle. “That’s quite enough, Lily dear. You know I don’t have a head for flowers.” He gives a slight cough and I notice that his face seems a little drawn, as though he is rather tired.

  “Are you all right, Papa?”

  “Fine, fine. I haven’t slept well lately is all.”

  “You should have some chamomile tea before bed,” I suggest. I grow chamomile in my garden, along with a few other medicinal plants and flowers. I dry them in my greenhouse for practical uses and the family seems to appreciate my natural remedies.

  “Yes, I will do that tonight. Anyway, the reason I brought up Lady Astley is that her son, James, will be here. Your mother seems to think that if the dinner party goes well, an offer of marriage could easily come. How about that, my dear?”

  My eyes well up at the thought and I look away. “I hate it.”

  “What?” He seems truly surprised and distressed by this. “Why?”

  “I don’t want to go to India!” I cry. “It’s hot. And so very far away. Constance and Elise are my only friends. I’ll be so lonely.”

  “You can make new friends—” he tries.

  “I don’t have any others around here,” I say. “How could I possibly make friends among strangers?”

  Papa presses his lips and nods. “I know you have certain…struggles, darling. But as a proper married lady of a titled lord—

  “A baron,” I mumble. “You’re an earl! Constance married a duke, and when Elise chose a viscount, we all thought Mama was going to forbid the match, she thought it so low. Why is Mama even considering a baron?” I personally care nothing for rank, but the fact that my mother—who very much does—thinks me less worthy than my sisters hurts.

  “Lily,” Papa says with an exasperated sigh. We both know the answer, he just doesn’t want to say it. I would never be a suitable wife for an earl, much less a duke. In truth, even the responsibilities of a countess terrify me. I see how much work Mama has to do, managing over a hundred servants among the house and grounds. The endless social functions she has to host and attend. The charities she runs. I can’t even keep the few events I’m required to attend straight. Surely, without Abigail, I wouldn’t even know what day it was. We all know that even marrying a baron is a rather lost cause, but Mama is nothing if not determined.

  “He won’t pick me, Papa,” I finally say. “You know that.”

  He sighs again and looks away. He rubs his chest and then takes another sip of tea.

  “If there are any other ladies for him to consider, I won’t be the one he chooses.”

  “To hell with him then,” Papa says with surprising vigor. “The world is changing. There are plenty of rich men out there without titles. We can find you one of those. Or maybe an Italian. You should like to go to Italy, wouldn’t you?”

  “It would be better than India,” I say. “But…you know what I want. You know what I think is best for me.”

  “No,” he says firmly. “I’m not giving you your dowry.”

  “Why?” I cry.

  “Because I’m not giving up on you!” he says, slamming his cup down on the table, the tea sloshing over the edge onto the white tablecloth.

  “Sir,” a footman says as he rushes over to blot the mess. I’m stunned into silence. Papa has rarely ever yelled at me. It frightens me and my heart races. I want nothing more than to run away like a startled rabbit, but I stay firmly in my seat, not daring to move. Not even to breathe.

  “Lily,” he says, a bit more in control of his volume, “I love you so very much. I know you think you know what you want, but I am your father. I know what is best for you. The best situation for you will be to see you suitably married with a family of your own.”

  “But I can’t!” I say. “I’m too strange. I try to act correctly, but I don’t know how. I’m simply not made to be a society lady. Please, just let me live my life alone and in peace with a little house and garden of my own. I’ll never trouble you or Mama ever again.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll not hear of it. Marriage is the only path for a proper young lady. And I still need an heir. It is your responsibility to help this family by bearing a son.”

  “Constance and Elisa have four children between them, and none of them are boys,” I say. “What makes you think I’ll be any more successful?”

  “It would at least increase the chance of a son before it’s too late,” he says. “You don’t
want everything to go to your cousin Albert, do you?”

  “I just don’t see how you can love an imaginary grandson more than your own daughter,” I say, and I instantly regret it. I glance at Papa and don’t see the anger I expect, but hurt.

  “I’m sorry—”

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “These matters are simply too complicated for you to understand. Why don’t you run along and play in your garden? Just promise me you will do your best to impress young Lord Astley when the time comes.”

  “I promise,” I mumble.

  “That’s a good girl. Off with you.”

  I jump up from my seat so quickly, I nearly knock my chair over, but a footman is there to catch it.

  “Sorry!” I say.

  “Perfectly all right, miss,” the footman says with a kind smile. Sometimes—well, oftentimes—I think the servants treat me with more patience than my own family.

  I practically run out a side door and around the house, down the back steps, and along a path that leads me to a shaded area where several flowering trees are planted. I didn’t go back to my room to grab my gardening dress or hat, but I don’t care. I get on my knees and use my fingers to pull up some of the grass and reach the cool, damp earth underneath. I don’t plan to plant anything here, there isn’t enough sun, but if I cannot feel the dirt between my fingers soon, I do think I shall scream.

  How can Papa be so cruel? One minute, he says he loves me, but the next he doubts my ability to know my own mind. My own wants. My own needs.

  There are many things I don’t understand in this world. I can’t remember the steps to the most simple of dances. I can’t pay attention to anything other than gardening for more than a few moments. Other than “bonjour” I didn’t learn a bit of French from my kindly—and expensive—French governess. I always say the wrong thing in a conversation, or continue talking far longer than I should—especially about gardening. I don’t understand why Papa, or any father, should overlook perfectly clever daughters like my sisters in favor of a more distant relative simply because he’s a boy.