Dear Miss Kirkland,
I write to you seated on the grand terrace of Algernon House, a profusion of lavender hydrangeas all about me. It is quite a likely place for falling in love, especially in the afternoon of a spring day, when the light is golden and liquid, and the air warm upon the cheeks.
I wish I could send the affections of that perfect stranger via the Royal Mail. But alas, such gifts are not in my power. Please accept, in lieu of your heart’s desire, a sheaf of instruction from my head gardener, a lovely and well-spoken man, to help you in your effort at propagating the hydrangeas in your own garden.
Please also accept a tin of my housekeeper’s famous spiced apple cake as well as a bottle of the butler’s raspberry wine, of which he is justifiably proud.
Alas, would that it were as easy to appease the heart as it is to satisfy the stomach.
Do let me know if you should ever make headway with your beloved. If not, keep me informed at least about the hydrangeas. I hope they take root in your garden.
Yours truly,
Clarissa Lexington
She snipped the hydrangea stems before sunrise the next morning, wrapped the cut ends carefully in strips of moist toweling, and sent off the crate to the village post office.
It felt nice to do something for someone, now that she didn’t have Christian to pamper anymore.
To her surprise, a response came the very next day, accompanied by a large, beautiful conch shell.
Your Grace,
You cannot imagine my surprise and delight.
The hydrangea stems I shall pare and pot to the best of my meager abilities. The cake will serve as my treat at tea and the wine something to look forward to at supper.
At the moment, however, I have just finished a most unsatisfactory survey of my possessions and found nothing worthy of a thank-you present, except perhaps this conch shell, which I have had since I was a child, and which to me has always evoked the spirit of hope and adventure.
I enclose it with much gratitude.
Yours sincerely,
J.M.K.
P.S. I will endeavor to keep you abreast of any developments concerning the hydrangeas. As for my elusive beloved, only time will tell whether anything will come of it. But while I cannot recommend falling in love—the yearnings will prove my undoing—I have become most enthusiastic about falling in friendship.
Clarissa turned the conch shell around in her hands. It was surprisingly heavy. And when she put it to her ear, she heard a low hum, almost like the soughing of distant waves.
Falling into friendship, she liked that. She set the conch shell on the mantel, picked up her pen, and began her reply to Miss Kirkland.
Chapter 2
***
Algernon House
Four years later
Clarissa almost could not recognize herself in this dress.
There was nothing extraordinary about the fabric or the construction—it was a simple day dress of wool poplin—but oh, the color, like a glorious sunrise, set off by trimmings of cobalt blue.
The saturation of the hues was intense; her younger self would never have worn such eye-wateringly brilliant colors. Then again, her younger self hadn’t had to wear mourning for two entire years.
But as of today, her regulation mourning period had ended and she was once again free to dress as she wished, dance as she wished, and even marry as she wished—if she wished it.
A few days ago she had said as much to Miss Kirkland, confessing that the house party she was hosting at Algernon House was actually a secret plot to assess all the gentlemen of her acquaintance for matrimonial possibilities.
Clarissa had been joking, of course, but perhaps not entirely, for she had invited Mr. Kingston, and he had arrived at Algernon House an hour ago, according to her servants. She had seen little of him since their first meeting, but she had not been able to put him out of her mind—and there was no better time than now to find out whether there was anything to substantiate the spark that had ignited in her all those years ago.
She walked to the open window. The fruit trees in the kitchen garden had begun to bloom, the soft buzz of honeybees hard at work vibrated the air, and the breeze that fluttered the curtains, though still cool, carried the first shimmer of warmth.
Spring had returned.
A movement caught her eye. A rider charged across the expansive grounds, weaving amid copses of chestnut and hazel. He followed the bank of the stream that bisected the large meadow behind the house. And when he whipped off his hat, the wind rushing past him ruffling his thick, glossy hair, she bit her lower lip at the sharp dig in her chest, as if her heart had been dented.