“I don't know if you remember this, but I told you, perhaps the first day we met or our wedding day, that I once had a betrothed. The woman I was initially supposed to marry.”
He was grateful Juliet didn't stop what she was doing to respond to him. It showed how casual she had found their talks to be, and it was lifting some pressure off of him as he spoke.
“Yes. You said you were not ready to talk about it.” Juliet replied.
She knew something had happened to Weston in the past. She remembered the tour around the house with Anne, who had mentioned something along the lines as well. Of course, she imagined that pushing him to tell her anything before he was ready would not yield any good, so she decided to wait. It looked like he was finally ready to tell her about her and she didn't want to come on too strong so she decided to continue her work, while paying rapt attention.
“Her name was Eliza.” Weston continued. “I met her when I was only nineteen. She was the love of my life. She was filled with light, joy, and just—pure happiness. She was also wise like you. We had our life planned together. I was so sure we were both going to get married and head into some part of town where we won't be weighed down by facetious politics and the shackles of society.”
Juliet nodded. “Because you didn't know you would be a Marquess before then?”
“Precisely.” Weston continued. “Everything was on track until, well, suddenly, it wasn't.”
He was telling this story with slightly less difficulty. Usually, remembering Eliza alone would send tears forming behind his eyes or cause him to act out towards other people in some other way. This time, he was relaxed. Juliet had truly healed him, and she did not even know it.
“What happened?” Juliet asked. She knew whatever Weston said next would cause her to stop her work and go sit next to him. And that, it did.
“She fell from a horse one stormy night.” Weston proclaimed.
“Oh, Lord.” Juliet whispered. Now was the time to drop the casualness. She headed to the bench and lowered herself next to him.
“We couldn't get to the physician on time. The rain did not help. She had suffered a major bleed, and the blood wouldn't stop, no matter how hard I tried.”
Juliet looked down and noticed his hands were slightly shaking, perhaps from grief. She grabbed them and squeezed them with hers, giving her husband a reassuring smile.
“She died in my hands, Juliet.” Weston proclaimed.
“That must have been a traumatic thing to go through.” Juliet said.
“It was six years ago.” Weston continued. “Life changed drastically after she died. Everything turned into a giant pile of dull gray.”
Juliet nodded, the feeling familiar to her as well, at least to a point. After her mother had died, she had thought life would no longer be worth living as well. The garden back at Willowbrook was the only thing that had kept her going because when everything felt cold and harsh, it had always provided warmth. Juliet fully believed her mother’s spirit resided in the garden like the beautiful flowers she had planted.
“Then, Richard died a while later. He did not have an heir, so I had no choice but to step in and take over.”
Juliet nodded. “Sometimes, the price for freedom is not always easy to provide. We start to wonder if the things we have to sacrifice will override the pleasures we are going to enjoy.”
Weston smiled. “Right as always.”
This was it. The perfect time to tell her. His hands were still intertwined in hers, and they were alone in the garden. His eyes searched hers to see if his words would have the desired effect. Did she feel the same way he did? Would this all have been for nothing? His eyes traveled to her hands. Despite her affinity for gardening, her hands were soft and gentle. They sent chills down his spine the more he looked at them.
No. He was wasting time, and he needed to stop that.
“Juliet, there is something I need to tell you.” He finally started.
Juliet frowned in worried surprise. “What is it?”
Weston opened his mouth to speak but froze halfway. They had been interrupted. At first, it had started as distant footsteps laced with the crunching of dried leaves. And soon, the owner of those footsteps arrived, holding a small box.
“Mr. Brown?” Juliet whispered, her excitement growing. “You're here!”
“Apologies for the delay, my lady. We just had to make sure the roses were the best of the best.”
Juliet's eyes traveled to the box. “Are those—”
“Yes.” Mr Brown replied.
An excited squeal escaped her mouth as she jumped off the bench and hurried to the box. He opened it, and she looked closer, feeling the fresh fragrance from the roses hit her nose rather pleasantly.”
