Page 57 of My Own True Duchess
“I need a nap,” Jonathan informed the Quimbey wage book. “Fatigue explains why I resented having to stop by the club last night.” He took a sip of milk directly from the little pitcher on the tray.
Fatigue did not explain why he’d longed to follow Theo into her home last night, and bedamned to the club, Moira’s dramas, and a few pesky rumors.
* * *
“I cannot marry Jonathan Tresham.” Theo made this announcement in Bea’s back garden, where no sister, daughter, maid, or footman could overhear.
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Bea replied, snipping the end from an iris stem.
“I am stating a fact.”
Bea’s garden still sported a fountain, though at present, the fountain was quiet. Three broad ceramic dishes of water were stacked like a giant étagère beneath a statue of the Apollo Belvedere, whose proportions put Theo in mind of Jonathan Tresham.
But then, everything put Theo in mind of Mr. Tresham of late.
“You do not state a fact, Theo. You are trying to dissuade yourself from making a brilliant match. Pass me that pink tulip.”
Theo passed over the flower. “I am nobody. I own nothing save one small house rapidly falling into disrepair. I can’t be a duchess.”
“My father was a vicar, and yet, I’m a countess. Somehow, my lofty status has given me no talent for flower arranging.”
“You and your late husband were a love match. I want no part of love matches. You have to decide if your arrangement will be formal or informal, Bea.”
The countess set the shears on the little wrought-iron table. “Flowers are flowers. They smell good, or they don’t. They aren’t formal or informal.”
Theo removed the irises from the vase. “Because you’re using a simple container, you can go either way. Strict symmetry, a limited number of colors and shapes, a bouquet that appeals equally from all sides. You could also attempt a less geometric approach, the balance achieved by assembling many varied elements with an originality that charms for its uniqueness.”
Bea sipped her lemonade. “You lecture me only when you’re vexed. Mr. Tresham’s proposal vexes you, because you do long to marry him. If you did not, you’d thank him kindly, pass the you-do-me-great-honor sentence upon him, and go back to turning your dresses.”
Theo started with a few stems of ferns, then three purple irises. “Who would not want to marry a ducal heir?”
“Precisely my point. You fancy him, or you’d send him packing. That already looks better than what I had.” She walked around the table to stand beside Theo. “Tresham is handsome, wealthy, eventually to be titled, and not given to overt vices. The matchmakers are quivering to bring him down. I would never have thought to put the yellow irises in with the purple.”
“Contrast enlivens most arrangements, and they are the same shape, which provides harmony and variety at the same time. Do you happen to know the basis of Mr. Tresham’s wealth?”
“I do not. Why?”
“Because I left that inquiry to my parents’ solicitors the last time I married, to my very great sorrow. I never hear Mr. Tresham discuss his investments, but when it comes to the ladies, I know this one is a coal heiress, that one will inherit thousands of acres in a specific county. We know what the ladies bring to the bargain. Why don’t we know what the men offer?”
Bea passed her a pink tulip. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Theo jammed the tulip among the irises, where it looked ridiculous and out of place. “I cannot fall in love, Bea. Archie cured me of that malady.”
“You’re scared witless, because you want to be with Mr. Tresham, want to know everything about him. You fall asleep dreaming of his kisses when he hasn’t so much as… Well, perhaps he has. We’re widows. We may do as we please in certain regards.”
Theo took the shears to the lone white tulip. “Find me a few sprigs of lavender.”
“The lavender hasn’t bloomed yet.”
“I want the contrast in the greenery too. Mr. Tresham has not in any regard presumed on my person.” Intimacies had been exchanged, though they’d been enthusiastically mutual.
Bea took the shears and knelt by the lavender border. “Mr. Tresham is an idiot if he hasn’t made romantic overtures. You’re smitten, and he’s asking to court you. Where is the sense in pretending you’re the last Puritan in Mayfair?”
Theo tried moving the tulip to the center of the arrangement. “Archie was no Puritan.”
“Archie is dead, and I, for one, am glad. He was ruining your health and happiness. He left a mess when he died, but at least he spared you greater scandal. Is this enough?” She held a half-dozen long, silvery fronds of foliage.
“One more, so we have an odd number. I have been considering Mr. Tresham’s request.”
