Upon getting up, he went straight to his study, and shortly after, his butler brought him the morning correspondence.
“Have my wife sent up here, please,” Alexander urged his butler, without taking his eyes off the envelopes in his hand, reading the names of the senders and arranging them in the order of priority.
“Your Grace, uhm…” That was the first thing that Alexander heard. He lifted his gaze to meet the butler’s. “She has left this morning.”
“This morning?” He was stunned to hear that and almost dropped the letters in his hand. “Where has she gone off to?”
A million frightening thoughts started to swarm inside his mind.
“To promenade with her sister, as I have been instructed to tell you,” he explained.
“Aha,” Alexander felt relieved.
In fact, he felt ridiculous for thinking what he was thinking. He smiled at his butler. “Thank you, Milligan. That will be all.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler bowed respectfully, then closed the door behind him.
Alexander raked his fingers nervously though his hair. For a moment, he thought something else, something dreadful. He quickly shook his head, reprimanding himself for such silly thoughts. She had no reason to leave him. Why would she ever do such a silly thing when they had a good arrangement?
He paced about the room, deciding that it was perhaps best not to mention what happened at all. It would only stir up unnecessary commotion once again. If not mentioned, it might be swept noiselessly under the carpet, and they would be able to continue as they have so far. Maybe even better.
“Yes,” he said aloud to himself, more for the purposes of convincing himself than anything else.
He went back to his writing table and began opening the letters that had arrived for him that morning. The commotion was over. All they had to do was forget it ever happened and keep pretending as they had so far. Things would settle down again, and everyone would be happy.
It all sounded simple enough. Only, things rarely happened as one planned them out.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Phyllis didn’t feel bad at all that she hadn’t mentioned to Alexander her prior plans to meet with her sister and the viscount to promenade. In fact, she considered this a good thing. It would give them both some time apart from each other, to see the situation objectively and think about their own actions. However, one thing was certain. That kiss could not happen again. Ever.
Under the gentle warmth of the sun, the sprawling gardens surrounding the park echoed with the rhythmic cadence of footsteps. Phyllis, adorned in a delicate gown of pale peach-colored silk, strolled beside her sister and her betrothed. It was a pleasant morning, perfect to be outside in the sun.
The vibrant colors of blooming flowers served as a picturesque backdrop, framing the trio as they meandered along the finely manicured paths. Phyllis observed the couple with a mix of curiosity and nostalgia, her gaze shifting between her sister’s radiant smile and the viscount’s unwavering affection.
The viscount, a distinguished gentleman with refined manners, exuded an air of genuine care and admiration for Joyce. His hand delicately intertwined with hers, a silent testament to the blossoming love between them. As they ambled through the garden, their laughter mingled with the melodious chirping of birds, creating a symphony of joy. If Phyllis didn’t know any better, she would think that they were lost in a world of fairy tales, where everyone got their happily ever after. Everyone, but her.
Phyllis tried not to think about herself right now, but rather about the couple she was with. Little by little, she had to admit that she might have been wrong about this man the entire time. She listened to him speak to Joyce with words that painted a future filled with happiness and shared dreams. He always asked for her opinion, instead of merely ordering her. He seemed genuinely interested in what Joyce had to say, what her thoughts were on the matter at hand. Phyllis couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing, a reminder that such love was only for the fortunate few, it seemed. Still, she was grateful and happy that Joyce was one of those fortunate few.
“How about those flowers?” Joyce pointed out into the distance, her delicate fingers lingering in the air.
“The purple ones?” the viscount wondered, as if he were speaking to a sweet little child and he wanted to feed that curiosity about the world that the child was exhibiting. “Yes, I don’t see why not.”
“And the red ones?” Joyce continued, her voice soft and tender, brimming with love for the man she was speaking to.
“Purple, red, yellow, orange, whatever color you wish,” the viscount agreed, smiling the entire time. He obviously had the patience to answer all her questions, and he did so gladly, without any hint of impatience. That was a trait very few men had, in Phyllis’ opinion. “Our garden will be yours to plant whatever flowers you wish. Even if you don’t wish for a garden but would rather have it grow into a jungle of lush greenery, I would still take you by the hand and stroll through the wilderness with you, my love.”
Joyce chuckled at those words, which were silly but filled with tenderness and love. The sun cast a golden hue on the scene, lending an ethereal quality to the promenade. The trio eventually found themselves near a serene fountain, its waters sparkling in the sunlight. As Phyllis watched the viscount press a tender kiss to Joyce’s hand, she couldn’t deny the beauty of their connection.
It seemed that they existed in a world of their own, a world they had created for themselves, and for them, nothing else mattered. This brought Phyllis much joy. At least one of them would get to live the rest of their lives the way they had imagined. That was more than enough comfort for her.
“That is one of the rare things I remember about Mother,” Joyce spoke unexpectedly as her gaze fixated on the fountain in front of them. “Flowers. Lots and lots of colorful flowers.” Then, she turned to Phyllis. “Isn’t that right?”
Phyllis nodded, swallowing heavily. It was difficult to talk about their mother. After all, they knew so little about her, for she decided to leave them all when Joyce, Charlotte and Phyllis were just little girls. Phyllis barely remembered the woman’s face, her eyes, her smile. Everything others took for granted was something that Phyllis and her sister never experienced.
The memories they had of them were but mere snippets of happiness that had been so rudely taken away from them. For Joyce, it was difficult to miss something she never had. It was more difficult for Phyllis because she was the older one, and as such, she remembered their mother more. In this case, remembering more meant being in more pain. She gladly took it upon herself, choosing to fill Joyce’s mind with happy images of their mother, filtering out the sad ones. As for Charlotte, she chose simply to pretend that their mother never existed. For her, it was more painful than Joyce and Phyllis both, as she remembered their mother the most.
“Yes, while she was… alive, our garden was always a colorful oasis,” Phyllis smiled, purposely choosing the word alive instead of anything else, as if her life belonged to them. It did not but remembering that meant opening yet another wound which did not heal at all. It simply hurt less.
