Page 25 of Charming Artemis

It was the closest thing to matrimonial advice he had from his father. Every morning he and Artemis had been at Brier Hill, Charlie had gone to the garden, selected a handful of blooms, and asked Mrs. Giles to take them with her when she tended Artemis’s room, refreshing the bouquet in there with newly plucked flowers. His new wife never mentioned his offerings, but he hoped she found some joy in the blooms.

Mr. and Mrs. Giles were in the circular sitting room when he returned with the small bouquet he’d gathered that morning. A table had been brought up, and the two faithful retainers were setting it with the needed plates and utensils and a small spread of breakfast foods.

Charlie set his flowers in a vase he’d asked Mrs. Giles to include in the arrangement.

“That’s a lovely handful,” she said. “Your father also had a knack for creating a pleasing collection of blooms.”

He hoped Artemis agreed, even if she did so silently. She used to be almost overwhelmingly present in every moment. Yes, she had often been playing a part, but she had at least been a participant. He could generally sort through the facade to identify what lay beneath. Now, though, she kept herself so firmly tucked away that he felt like he knew nothing. It was like living with a statue of the ancient Greek Artemis instead of with the lady who was now his wife.

Mrs. Giles set the last of the utensils in place as her husband carefully adjusted the breakfast foods.

“Will you be requiring anything else?” the butler asked.

“Requiring?”

“Wishing for, then, sir.”

Charlie pushed out a tense breath. “Brandy, Giles.”

They all three smiled at that.

“All will be well, Mr. Jonquil,” the housekeeper said. “You’ll see.”

“And if not,” her husband said, “I’ll have a decanter waiting.”

Charlie laughed. “Good of you.”

The couple slipped out through his bedchamber.

Charlie sat in the circular sitting room, waiting for Artemis. If this little scheme of his didn’t do any good, he hadn’t any other ideas. He’d chosen casual attire, assuming that was appropriate for a private tête-à-tête over breakfast. If that assumption was a poor one, Artemis would likely let him know. She put a lot of store in appearances. She likely foundhisoff-putting. He hadn’t Philip’s flair for fashion. He also didn’t have Philip’s income.

While Charlie wasn’t hoping for a fashion critique with his morning meal, at least it would be a conversation. And if his manner of dress was important to Artemis, he couldn’t entirely neglect it without adding to the difficulty of their current circumstances. He didn’t want her to be more unhappy than she already was.

The door that led to Artemis’s bedchamber opened, and she stepped into the sitting room. She held herself as regally as ever, but she was attired casually. He’d made the right assumption on that score.

Somehow, her simpler hairstyle and clothing made her even more beautiful, which was admittedly a feat. Perhaps it was that she was less intimidating. When she wielded all of the weapons in her arsenal—wit, confidence, fashion perfection—she could seem somehow not quite human. Seeing her now, he could almost believe she was someone who could be a friend.

Almost.

“I have to admit, Charlie, I have been intrigued by this idea since you suggested it last evening. I have not ever eaten breakfast anywhere other than a breakfast room or on a tray.” She looked over the table with its spread of food. “This is rather nice, isn’t it?”

He could have shouted with relief. This hadn’t proven a horrid miscalculation.

“This seemed a nice place to begin one’s morning.” He kept himself calm and dignified as he crossed to her. She smelled of something similar to evergreen but not quite. And citrusy but not exactly. It wasn’t unpleasant, not in the least, but he couldn’t begin to identify it.

He pulled out a chair for her, and she sat. Seeing her situated, he sat as well.

“I do think there is something to be said for breaking one’s fast while being treated to a view of those mountains,” she said. “It is far superior to the unbroken walls one usually finds in a breakfast room.”

They were keeping themselves to topics usually reserved for those who had nothing to say to one another. Yet, it felt like a triumph.

“The countryside is particularly beautiful in this corner of the country,” Charlie said. “Though I was quite young during our visits here, I do remember that about Brier Hill.”

“Some childhood memories can be very vivid,” she said. “While others seem to be broken or missing entirely.”

Indeed. His memories of his father were often vague and unhelpful. But mixed in with the broken bits were some recollections as clear as if they’d occurred mere days earlier. Father tending to the flowers in the Brier Hill garden and the Lampton Park conservatory. Bringing handfuls of those flowers to Mater. Father running around the grounds of Lampton Park, playing games with all the brothers. Father holding Mater in his arms.

But Charlie only remembered what Father looked like because he’d seen portraits. He couldn’t remember the sound of his voice. He hadn’t any true reassurance that his father had loved him. He believed he had. He hoped he had. But he couldn’t actually remember.

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