“None,” Tristan hastily amended. “They are beautiful. I suppose it is I who is the problem.”
The older man grunted. His frizzy white hair hung about him like a cloud. He sniffled into a handkerchief before rising to his feet and wobbling over to Tristan.
“Seems that way. But there’s little that a garden can’t fix if you spend enough time out here. Perhaps you should dig a little, like the Duchess.”
“The Duchess?”
“Aye. Is she unwell? I’ve missed her company. No one’s mocked my mustache in days,” Mr. Wagoner snorted.
At that moment, Tristan realized he didn’t know his gardener that well. The man had been employed by his parents, having been raised near the grounds and cared for them longer than anyone else. There were two apprentices now, though Tristan didn’t see them about. But the face of the strange, old man who talked to the trees was familiar enough.
Then, Tristan frowned, wondering what the gardener meant. “Why does the Duchess mock your mustache?”
“Oh, she is splendid company. A fine lady, Your Grace. A very fine lady. She’s charming and clever. Sharp tongue. I’ve always enjoyed a good jest. And she’s happy under the sun. Not like you,” the old man added, much to Tristan’s annoyance.
“It’s rather bright.”
“Aye. Helps the plants grow. Often grows a smile on folks’ faces. Can’t say the same for you, I’m afraid. If you’re not enjoying the flowers out here, then what are you doing?”
Tristan opened his mouth and then closed it, finding he didn’t have an answer. Or at least not a good one.
“My apologies, Your Grace.” Mr. Wagoner sniffed in the silence and hesitated. “I don’t talk often to nobility. I forget myself.”
“No, you asked me a good question, and you have the right of it. But I’m afraid my answer will only disappoint you.” Tristan glanced around warily. “Perhaps all of me disappoints you. Did the Duchess come out here frequently to keep you company while you worked?”
Mr. Wagoner bustled about now, moving his bucket and weeds and things. Tristan only recognized a few of the tools. “Aye. Good company she is. She has the most intriguing stories. And she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. Took some convincing, I tell you, letting her touch anything. But she’s a natural. Said she loved managing her own garden before marriage. After all, once you start gardening, it’s difficult to stop.”
Verity has to return. She must. I keep thinking this, and yet she hasn’t come back. Will I ever see her again? The servants are aligned with her, refusing to tell me where she went. I don’t even know if I would follow her if I knew.
Except he did know. So he pushed the thought away to focus on the gardener.
“Why is that?” he asked, unable to help himself.
“Because we are all in search of growth. I myself like to think I’m growing like these plants.” The gardener tapped the side of his nose. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
Judging by the fact that he didn’t even reach Tristan’s shoulder, it wasn’t working. But the old man spoke jovially, like he enjoyed the story and conversation more than the false potential of growth.
Tristan nodded and glanced around, wondering what it must have been like for Verity out here. He thought he had known most of her schedule. When had she made time for the gardener?
Seeing the damp brown dirt and the lush greenery, Tristan found himself asking, “I may not be a gardener like the Duchess, but perhaps I can join you today. If you don’t mind giving instructions?”
The very notion made the old man chuckle with glee and rub his hands together. “Putting a duke to work! What would my wife say about that? Do come along. Let’s find you some gloves, and then I’ll show you the poppies. They’re just darling.”
So, this was what Verity liked to do. I wish I asked her more questions. If only we had more time. If only I found a way to talk to her.
Mr. Wagoner and the gardens were a welcome distraction.
Tristan found himself enjoying hearing the odd tales and learning about the plants. It was easy to see why someone like Verity loved the friendly authenticity of the world in her hands.
Time passed, and he hardly realized it until a footman came, gaping before informing him that he had a guest.
“I must be on my way,” he told the gardener, rising to his feet.
His back ached as he returned the gloves. It was hard work; indeed, the man probably needed a raise he would have to find a way to provide.
“Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Wagoner.”
“Do join me anytime,” the old man said cheerfully with a wink. “I can always use the extra help.”
