The shock of the joke brought a spluttering laugh out of Teresa, which seemed to please Mr. Brewster. Perhaps she had caught him on a good day, or perhaps he was not quite so particular as Belinda had made him out to be.
Maybe, the same is true of other such creatures of habit…
“Will once a fortnight serve?” the gardener asked. “If I keep the bulbs on ‘em, they’ll last longer in the vases, and I can replant ‘em when they want refreshing.”
Teresa blinked. “That would be… marvelous, Mr. Brewster.”
“As for the autumn and the winter,” he continued, gesturing back at the greenhouse with his cloth, “I’ll see what I can spare.”
“Are you sure?”
He frowned again. “You’re the Duchess, aren’t you? If you want fresh flowers in the castle, it’s not my place to refuse.” He paused, shrugging a little awkwardly. “Besides, I think it’s a fine idea. Not so many people come into the gardens anymore, so at least people will see the flowers in there. Don’t mistake me, I don’t grow ‘em so people will look, but… the flowers like it.”
It was Teresa’s turn to look at him as if he were a little odd. “The flowersliketo be seen?”
“They grow better,” he replied shyly. “They flourish.”
Teresa chuckled despite herself, blurting out, “I do not suppose you have a corner of the garden for a duke, do you? A sunny spot where one might grow better and wish to be seen?”
Regret rushed in a moment after, the gardener’s face clouding over, all trace of his smile and surprisingly easy rapport vanishing. He twisted the clean cloth between his hard-working hands, nudging a clump of dirt with the toe of his boot.
Teresa had thought she was free to jest with this man, but it seemed she had put a foot wrong.And it was all going so well…
“Apologies,” she mumbled. “I do not know why I said that. If you will excuse me, I think I shall take myself to the rose gardens; I have taken up quite enough of your time. And thank you for being so generous with your flowers. I look forward to seeing them brightening the halls of the castle.”
She turned to leave, burning with the heat of her foolishness, breathless with the sudden weight of the homesickness that crashed down upon her. At Grayling House, she did not have to try to be something she was not, and though it had only been a week, she was beginning to think she was not designed to be a duchess at all.
Isolde has always made it look so easy, but she always madeeverythinglook easy.Most of all, she made love look easy.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Brewster called out, bringing her to a halt.
She turned, praying her cheeks were not as red as she feared they were. “Yes, Mr. Brewster?”
“I know why you said that, and you’ve no need to apologize for it,” he replied, his eyes soft. Pitying almost. “I don’t have a sunny spot for him, since he doesn’t much like these gardens, but… I can tell you why he has no wish to be seen.”
Teresa stared at the gardener in disbelief, quickly walking back to him in case he changed his mind.
For the past week, she had done her best to prize tidbits of information from Belinda, her lady’s maid, and the other servants she crossed paths with, but when it came to their master, they were all infuriatingly tight-lipped. Indeed, Belinda’s parting words at breakfast were the closest Teresa had come to getting an idea of who Cyrus was, beyond the little she already knew. So, hearing Mr. Brewster willingly offer to speak about Cyrus was an unexpected gift indeed, almost as thrilling as the letters in her hand.
“There’s a table and chairs in the greenhouse,” the gardener said, gesturing to the elegant glass doors of the entrance. “I’ll just wash my hands and be with you, Your Grace.”
Teresa mustered her cheeriest smile. “You have my thanks, Mr. Brewster.”
The gardener bowed his head, mumbling sadly, “You mightn’t want to offer them once you have heard what I have to say.” He raised his head again. “I won’t be a moment.”
As he walked off down the side of the greenhouse, Teresa took herself inside, finding the table and chairs he had mentioned. It was intensely balmy within the glass building, as if she had entered another world entirely, where exotic plants bloomed, and delicious fruits grew in plump abundance.
Swallowing down her desire to explore the avenues of unknown plants and flowers, she settled into a wrought iron chair, set her unopened letters on the table, and waited for the only story she truly wished to hear:The Mystery of Cyrus Deverell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Are you certain I can’t fetch you something to drink?” Mr. Brewster asked in earnest, for the fourth time, as if searching for any excuse not to begin his tale.
Slicked in a glaze of sweat from the cloying heat of the greenhouse, Teresa shook her head for the fourth time, smiling politely. “I am quite all right.” She hesitated. “Mr. Brewster, if you have changed your mind about telling me something of my husband, I will not hold you to it. I understand that I am a stranger here, and my husband is your master.”
It would devastate her if the gardener didnotreveal something of Cyrus’ character, but if she was to be happy at Darnley Castle, as she had vowed she would be, then making friends with the staff was of paramount importance. She would not make enemies of anyone, if she could help it.
They are just starting to trust me.She thought of Belinda’s earlier words.I should not push them too much, too quickly.
