Page 62 of Finding Hope
Max had to do something. “This latest letter your wife told me about…how did Hope receive it?”
“It was disguised within a bouquet of yellow flowers, possibly pansies, sent up by a footman. And before you ask, I have already questioned him. He said they were downstairs on a table in a large vase, waiting to be delivered. No one knows who they came from.”
Max cursed. “Did you ask the gardener? It is most likely they came from the estate.”
“Not yet,” Westwood admitted. “There has not yet been time.”
Max felt there was no time to waste, but it would be difficult for him to slip away from the ball. However, this was urgent and he would do it.
Westwood must have read his face. “Are you going now?” he asked. “Would it not be better if I went in your stead?”
“I think he will tell me more, though I appreciate the offer. Will you stand watchman on my behalf while I leave?”
Giving him a look of exasperation, Westwood nodded.
Max found his sister and broke the news to her.
“What am I supposed to tell people?”
“Whatever comes to mind. Tell them I am attending Father if needs be.”
She shook her head and waved him on his way.
He left through the open terrace doors, praying the likes of Lady Matilda did not follow. Hopefully, Westwood would intercede if that was the case.
Once free of the house, he moved quickly through the gardens, just short of actually running. It was a cool, breezy evening after the previous day’s storm, the smell of damp earth still redolent in the air. He entered the trees and followed the narrow footpath, thankful there was enough moon to light the way.
The Dower House was on the way to the gardener’s cottage, and he saw the candles were lit, indicating his mother’s inhabitance. Truthfully, he was grateful for her absence at the ball. The constant disdain and disapproval were wearying and tiresome.
As the gardener’s thatched cottage and the greenhouses came into view, so did a large herbal garden. He walked up the path and knocked on the door, almost sure the gardener would have nothing helpful to say.
“How are you, MacKay?” Max asked.
“Me lord?” old man MacKay asked. He still bore the bushy beard that Max remembered, which had now greyed. His weathered face looked up at Max and wrinkled into a smile. “Is summat amiss?”
“I apologize for disturbing you in the evening, but it is important to ask. Did someone ask you for a bouquet of pansies today?”
“Nay, me lord. ’Twould be a strange thing for a bouquet this time ’o year.”
“Could it have been something similar?”
The man’s weathered face wrinkled and he shook his head. “’Te only flower that might resemble it be henbane, but ’twould be odd indeed, it bein’ known to stupefy.”
“Stupefy?” Max asked with surprise.
“It causes madness, me lord.”
“Are they all over the estate?”
He shook his head. “Nay, me lord. We must keep it from the herds. ’Tis too poisonous to touch. But there be some in the herbal garden. Sometimes ’tis used as medicine.”
“I see. Thank you for humouring me. Good evening to you.”
“And to you, me lord.”
Max walked back to the ball, considering what MacKay had said. Why henbane? And who would know where to find it? It did not yet appear that anyone had been harmed by the poisonous plant, but Max did not wish to take any chances.
As soon as he reached the house, he would immediately order a footman to remove the henbane from Hope’s room.
