She looked at him curiously as they went back to the garden in which she had first seen him. “Do you work in all of the gardens?”
He hesitated, then said, “No, not all of them. The Grecian one—have you seen it?” At her nod, he continued, “That one is of my mother’s design, which I leave for the gardeners to tend. She likes a more structured garden than I do. I like color, and so will bring in roses and flowering trees from the conservatory or greenhouse, once the plants are strong enough.” He gave her a long look. “You do not find this strange?”
“What, that you have an avocation you enjoy?” Annabella asked. “Not many choose to work as you do. But there is nothing wrong with useful occupation, whatever it may be, and a harmless one at that. It is not as if you were in trade, after all.”
“But so very ... common,” Mr. Wentworth replied, and she could hear self-mockery in his voice.
She smiled. “I see you have not been in London much. No, no, Mr. Wentworth, you are very uncommon. You should take advantage of it, you know.”
He gazed at her warily, but said nothing, clearly waiting.
“It is an eccentricity, and those are all the rage,” she explained. “Were you to make it known, with complete assurance, that you cultivate rare and exotic plants—and I suppose you do cultivate rare and exotic plants?”
He nodded, and his lips quirked up for a moment.
“Well, then! Make it known that you are a connoisseur of rare flora, and that you breed only the best. If someone asks you to view their attempts at cross-breeding, then you should accept the invitation. But be chary of your praise! Make sure to criticize the plant thoroughly, and if you can, try to point out some disease or mildew on it. You will then be very sought after, and your habit of doing the work yourself—for, of course, you could not entrust the care of your precious plants to anyone else—will be copied by society’s best.”
Mr. Wentworth chuckled. “I see I have much to learn about society. I thank you for your instruction; I shall endeavor to put it into practice.” He nodded at a rose bush in front of them. “There is one of them—my rare plants. I give each one of them a name after I’ve successfully bred and cultivated them. This one is called Corazón because of its color.”
She started and stared at him. “What language is that, Mr. Wentworth ?”
He gazed at her with raised brows. “Language?”
“Corazón ... what does it mean?”
“Why, it is Spanish, and it means ‘heart.’” He smiled. “Are you wondering why I gave it a Spanish name? My family has Spanish blood in it, you see. I remember my grandmother speaking it, long ago.”
“Do you speak it, then?”
“I? Not fluently. Perhaps a few words, that is all.”
Annabella gazed at him, and a ridiculous idea came to her: Could Mr. Wentworth be the Cavalier? There was the Spanish, and yes, the same chin. But surely not! Why, the two men were totally different in nature! The Cavalier was dashing and brave, and while she did not know if Mr. Wentworth was as brave, he was certainly not dashing. The Cavalier had outrageously asserted himself in claiming her company, to the point of wrecking a country dance. She was certain such a thing would never occur to the reticent Mr. Wentworth —he would have blushed to have even thought of it, and she had never seen the Cavalier blush at all. And the Cavalier was taller—or was he? It must be someone else who resembled the Wentworths—or Lord Grafton himself? Lord Grafton would be wholly capable of acting outrageously ... but she hoped it was not he, for she did not like Lord Grafton at all. But who else could it be? She thought of the story Caroline had told her, of the Cavalier’s ghost that haunted Wentworth Abbey, and shivered.
“Is there something the matter, Miss Smith?”
Mr. Wentworth ‘s voice startled her out of her thoughts, and she stared at him. “I—no, nothing, only a silly thing, really.”
His expression was concerned, but he nodded and looked as if he understood.
They had passed out of the garden in which Mr. Wentworth had been working and entered another, much smaller garden, almost equally full of flowers. Late tulips, red and yellow, filled the beds, and budding rose bushes were behind them. Flowering quince stood at attention at each corner of the garden, and sweet alyssum covered the ground and overflowed the brick that attempted to confine them. A low stone bench stood in the middle of this garden, with statues of cherubs flanking it. Annabella drew him to it, and they sat.
Annabella pressed his hand briefly. “You are very good, Mr. Wentworth ... and if you do not mind, I would count myself fortunate if I could call you friend.”
Parsifal opened his mouth, then closed it. He did not expect this, that Miss Smith would wish to be his friend, and he felt an odd mixture of elation and discontent. “I do not mind, Miss Smith,” he said at last.
She hesitated, then said, “It is a silly thing, but ... Caroline took me to the gallery earlier this day and told me of the Cavalier’s ghost. She said you knew more of it than she. Could you tell me more of the ghost?”
He smiled at her, feeling more at ease. It was easy for him to talk of his ancestors, for he liked the stories his father had told him of them, and liked the sense of his family reaching back into time, like a tree with deep roots. “Caroline is up to her tricks again, I see, and trying to make our family more romantic than it is. My father did tell us of the Cavalier and his ghost haunting the house. Indeed, Father said he had once seen him, as well. But while the stories about the Cavalier and his death are true, I am not at all sure that my father saw the ghost, or whether it was something he said to amuse us.”
“But his vow of vengeance—is that true?”
“Yes. As he lay dying—and I think perhaps he was not aware he was—he whispered to his servant that he would take revenge on anyone who hurt his wife or the people he protected. I imagine he would have said the same for his own death, for he was a man who was quick with word and deed, and it seemed he was betrayed by his own brother, although it has never been proved. But the servant wrote a memoir of the earl and sent it to the countess, and we have it in our library now.”
“What ... what did he look like? Caroline showed me a miniature of him, for the large portrait of him had been taken down.”
Parsifal grimaced. “I will have to disappoint you there, Miss Smith. I am afraid he bore a strong resemblance to me, or so my mother says. He was, however, a man used to commanding respect, and very brave, so if you wish to form romantic notions about him, you may dwell on those aspects of him.”
She stared at him then and gave a tiny shake of her head. “I ... I think I have seen the Cavalier, although it hardly seems possible.”
“Excuse me?” He looked at her, a little troubled and wary, wondering if she might be making fun of him, as others had done. On the other hand, she might have seen the ghost—and he felt a little envious, for he had often wished he could see it himself.
Annabella gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oh, it is silly, I know!” She rose and paced in front of the bench. “There was a Cavalier at the masquerade, and I am sure he was the same one at the Laughtons’ ball. He saved me from Sir Quentin and chased him away from my mother. He was all the things you and Caroline said of the thirteenth earl— dashing, brave, quick-witted, and strong. And a little impetuous, as I imagine the earl must have been. I thought he was real ... he felt real—” She blushed. “That is to say, when we danced. And then he disappeared so quickly, without a sound! But what nonsense! Surely, no ghost would manifest as ... solidly as the Cavalier did.”
I should tell her. Parsifal opened his mouth, but Annabella spoke on, hurriedly.
“I thought perhaps it might be Lord Grafton in disguise, but he has not been here, has he?” She gnawed her lower lip, clearly concentrating on solving the puzzle.
“No, he has just returned today,” Parsifal replied. He wondered if she would guess that he was the Cavalier, and what her reaction would be if she did. He hoped she would not be angry and thought perhaps he
should not tell her just yet. Cowardly of him, he knew, but she had just asked to be his friend, and he would not want to ruin that—it was all he could claim from her at this time, and he wanted to hold on to it for just a little longer.
“I am glad it was not Lord Grafton.” She cast him an embarrassed glance. “For I must confess, I am foolish enough to have formed an infatuation for the Cavalier—for someone who could very easily be a rogue! And I do not mean to malign your brother, but I do not think we would suit at all.” She sighed. “Oh, I have been wondering forever who it might be! I even thought it might be the Duke of Stratton, for Caroline did point out the family connection. He was at the masquerade, but I doubt it was he.” She laughed. “Do you know, I thought for a moment the Cavalier might have been you—and I can see by your astonishment that you are not the Cavalier, and I feel so silly for thinking it!”
For one moment Parsifal was astonished—and elated that she had guessed he was the Cavalier. But she had obviously dismissed the notion as soon as it had come upon her. Of course, she could not think it, and she had felt shy even entertaining the idea.
“You needn’t have felt silly thinking it, Miss Smith,” he could not help saying, and smiled wryly.
She looked at him, startled, then remorse showed clearly in her eyes. “Oh, I didn’t mean—I am so sorry! After you have been so kind to me and to my mother! No, I am sure you would be brave, should the occasion arise. And certainly you are strong—that is to say, it looked as if you would be, the way your mus—Oh, heavens!” Her face turned pink, and Parsifal knew she was thinking of the way he looked without his shirt. He felt heat creep into his face as well, knowing that he had embarrassed her.
But she looked unhappy, and he was certain it was because she felt she had hurt him. She was a kind and dutiful young lady; and of course it would distress her if she thought his feelings had been hurt. He put on a smile and shook his head.
“Never mind, Miss Smith. I know I am not at all dashing. And let us forget you saw me working in the garden, and pretend it was only a rough farmer you saw in passing.”
She cast an apologetic and grateful glance at him. “Thank you, Mr. Wentworth, you are very kind.” She impulsively took his hand and pressed it. “And a good friend. I would be pleased if you would call me Annabella if ... if you do not mind.”
He was certain she offered this familiarity to him to make up for her faux pas, and his hurt pride made him inclined to refuse it. But he knew she would be just as hurt at his refusal, and he could not bear that. He smiled and brought her hand to his lips. “I am honored—Miss Annabella,” he said. “You may call me by my Christian name as well ... although I never did care for it much. But it will sound better to me when you say it.”
She looked up at him, and he received his reward: Her eyes were full of warm gratitude, her soft lips parted in a hesitant smile. She was so close to him that the scent of her perfume—lilacs—came to him and lured him to move closer to her. He stared at her, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss her and hold her close in his arms.
Silence fell between them, and the only sound in the garden was that of the breeze through the trees. She did not move away, but stared at him in return, and her expression changed to an odd, puzzled wonder.
“Ohhh ... I did not think ...” she whispered.
The sound of her voice broke the silence and broke the trance that had come over him. He released her hand and tried to gather his thoughts together.
“And—and why did you think it might not be the Duke of Stratton?” he asked abruptly.
Annabella looked startled, and a little dazed, as if she had just wakened from a deep sleep.
“What—oh! Oh, well, he is too tall, though he does bear a very slight resemblance to your family. Then, too, I recognized him easily, for he wore no costume, but a mask and domino. His character is wholly different from the Cavalier’s, I am certain. While I am sure the Cavalier is a man of honor, he is clearly impetuous, and the Duke of Stratton is not impetuous. Indeed, there is no other man I know with such a spotless reputation for correct behavior as the duke.” The tone of her voice became flat at the end, and Parsifal looked at her questioningly.
“Then why did it occur to you that he might be the Cavalier?”
Annabella looked away from him, and her shoulders rose a little, as if resisting some burden laid upon them. “He has asked for my hand in marriage. Perhaps he wished to impress me in some manner—I do not know. But I am sure it is not he; he would never wreck a country dance to be at my side.” She smiled briefly. “No, he would never do anything so improper as that.”
Marriage. The duke had asked her to marry him. A wave of despair overcame Parsifal—how could he compete with the Duke of Stratton? He swallowed his despair and took in a deep breath.
“My felicitations, Miss Smith.” He was glad his voice sounded steady, even congratulatory.
Annabella looked at him, her expression startled.
“Felicita—Oh, goodness, no, we are not betrothed! Not yet, at any rate. I ... I could not give him an answer. But my parents expect me to... to ...” She sat down on the stone bench again, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. “What am I to do?” Her hands fell to her lap, and she clutched her skirts tightly in her fists.
“Do you not wish to marry him?” Parsifal said the words carefully, struggling against the hope that rose in him.
“No—I do not know.” She gazed at him, her eyes miserable. “I should, for it is what my parents want—they have told me that I cannot wish for a more virtuous and well-situated man than the duke. I know they are right. But though I have felt a fondness for a few gentlemen in the past, I cannot feel it for the duke! Indeed—” She gave a short, despairing laugh and gazed at him pleadingly. “I think I may have fallen in love with—with someone else, someone of whom they may not approve.” She laid a hand on his arm, an imploring gesture. “Do you think my parents are right, and my feelings will change if the duke and I married?”
He wanted to tell her to ignore her parents’ advice, to refuse the duke’s proposal of marriage. He wanted to tell her that she would be unhappy with the duke, that he would be a monster to her and treat her badly and that she should run from him. But he knew no such thing of the Duke of Stratton, and to tell her to disobey her parents in this case would be dishonorable in the extreme. Indeed, if the Duke of Stratton loved her as much as he, Parsifal, did, then it’d be best if she married the duke, for the duke could give her so much more than himself, the second son of an earl. No, surely no one could love Annabella as much—it was an impossibility, for he hurt with it, thinking of her possible marriage to someone else.
It was no use thinking of it. Even if he advised her to refuse the duke, she had still fallen in love with another man. She would choose between the duke and that other man; if she considered him, Parsifal, at all, it would certainly be as her last choice.
“I am afraid I do not know if your feelings will change,” he replied honestly. “I only know that my love—that is, were I deeply in love with someone—would not change.” He paused, firmly tamping down the sadness that came to him as he said these words. “That is all anyone can say of emotions—what they, themselves, would feel. It is very difficult to say what course another person’s love will take,” He took her hand in his and rubbed the palm of her hand with his thumb, wanting to comfort her, and allowing himself some comfort in the sensation of the warmth of her hand in his.
“But perhaps because the duke is a virtuous man, I should come to love him eventually?” She did not take her hand from his, but leaned closer to him instead. She seemed not to mind that he sat close to her, and he was glad. He had that, at least.
Parsifal gave her a wry smile. “Virtue does not necessarily attract love, I am afraid. My brother is not virtuous at all, but it does not stop ladies from falling in love with him. I suppose a good man might have someone love him ... someday.”
“But what should I do? I have gone about with the
duke for a month now, and my feelings have not become any warmer toward him. But I should not refuse yet another gentleman’s offer of marriage—my parents have been lenient with me so many times already. They only wish the best for me—and see what has happened to my mother because of my selfishness! How can I refuse?”
“You could not know—”
“If I had agreed to wed one of my suitors, Sir Quentin would not have tried to compromise me or hurt my mother. You cannot deny that.”
Parsifal looked at how she pressed her lips together tightly, with a stubborn tilt to her chin, and felt it would be useless to argue the point.
“Has the—the other gentleman not spoken to your parents?”
Annabella looked down at her lap. “I do not think he has thought of me as a prospective wife. I do not know what he thinks of me.”
Then he is a fool, thought Parsifal, and does not deserve you. He clenched his teeth, wondering who the gentleman might be, and wanting to smash the man’s nose if he ever saw him. “He has not tried anything ... untoward has he?” It was a blunt, awkward question, but he could not help himself.
Annabella’s gaze rose to his, her eyes opened wide. “Oh, no! He has always been very gentlemanly, and so kind to me! But I am certain he is always so to everyone, and there is nothing remarkable in his attentions.”
Worse and worse. Parsifal almost groaned. The man was gentlemanly and good also, and hardly someone against whom he could advise, much less from whom he could protect Annabella.
“Perhaps he will come to know you better, Miss— Annabella,” was all he could say. “Then, surely, he will come to care for you as you deserve and will make his affection known.”
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