She gestured at a row of apple, pear, and quince trees espaliered to the southern wall of the garden. “Mr. Johnson, our new head gardener, believes that these fruit trees may yet be saved. He and his apprentices pruned back years of overgrowth just last week. Mrs. Gibson is waiting for them to bear fruit to make jams and preserves.”
“Will the fruit trees be the only ones bearing fruit in Henley Park next year?” asked Mrs. Graves. “Your father is eager to know.”
“We’ll also be putting in beds of strawberries—they will bear fruits. But if Father is referring to a grandchild, then I’m afraid he’ll have to wait quite a while longer.”
“Does Lord Fitzhugh not visit your chamber?”
Embarrassment singed Millie’s cheeks but she kept her voice detached. “That is another one of our joint decisions. I know Father would prefer a grandson as soon as possible, but neither Lord Fitzhugh nor I want children now and our wishes should count in this matter. More than Father’s.”
Mrs. Graves was silent. They walked past beds of dormant weeds that had yet to be cleared and an old wooden beehive, the residents of which had long ago left for better blossoms elsewhere.
“Your own garden, my dear, have you given any thoughts to it?”
Millie exhaled in relief—and gratitude—at her mother’s acceptance. “Yes, I’ve thought about it. But I’ve yet to set anything into motion.”
Mrs. Graves twined her arm with Millie’s. “Don’t forget it come spring.”
Millie looked toward her empty house. “Will it make me happy?”
“That I cannot answer, my love. But it will give you something to do and something to look forward to—as well as a place of your own.” Mrs. Graves set her gloved hand briefly against Millie’s cheek. “It may not equal happiness, but it is not a bad place to start.”
Fitz returned on a Sunday afternoon.
The servants had the day off; the house was silent. He went through the correspondence that had accumulated for him. A letter from Colonel Clements caught his attention: The Clementses planned to visit him after Christmas.
He immediately went in search of his wife.
She was not in the house. He looked in the gardens, the stables, and near the badly choked trout stream—no sign of her. Finally, as he approached the house from the north side, he heard the sounds of demolition.
But it was Sunday. The village men were at their pub; no one worked.
He rounded a wall. His wife, hatless, in a sack of a dress and a brown cloak, stood in a room that had now become detached from the rest of the house, wielding one of the smaller sledgehammers, going after a fireplace. She’d broken through the facade of the mantel and now swung the sledgehammer at the bricks underneath.
The door was already gone. He knocked on the window frame.
She spun around. “Oh, you came back.”
“What are you doing?”
“Well, when you did it, you seemed to enjoy yourself. So I thought I’d have a go at it.”
Sometimes he forgot that he was not the only unhappy spouse in this marriage. That she too wanted to smash things.
“You are going to give yourself blisters.”
“Not yet.”
She swung the sledgehammer again and dislodged several bricks. She also managed to dislodge a lock of hair from her chignon, which was too old a style on a seventeen-year-old girl, even if she was a married ladyship.
He took off his overcoat and picked up a bigger sledgehammer. “Need some help?”
She glanced at him, surprised. “Why not?”
They settled into a steady rhythm. For a girl who’d never done anything more strenuous than lifting a teacup, she was quite handy with her sledgehammer—and strong. They each swung in turn at the fireplace, and she kept up with him strike for strike.
When all that remained of the fireplace was a pile of bricks, they were both panting. She placed her hand over her heart, her cheeks brightly flushed. “Well, that was good.”
He tossed aside his sledgehammer. “Is there anything to eat?”
“We’ve a sponge cake and a beef pie in the larder.”
They made their way together to the kitchen, where several stock pots sat simmering. He filled a pot with water, stoked the fire, and set it to boil. She, meanwhile, found some plates and silverware, and located the sponge cake and the beef pie.
“Missing your fellow?” he asked after he’d finished his portion of the beef pie.
She raised an eyebrow in question.
“That was why you were wrecking the fireplace, wasn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
He felt a pang of sympathy for her. He could always find someone willing to give him a few hours of oblivion. How did she cope?
“How was London?” she asked. “Did you enjoy it?”
He caught an undertone in her words. Goodness, she knew precisely what he’d been up to in London. The girl was not as prim as he’d made her out to be. “It was all right.”
“Good,” she said. “I’m glad.”
He caught something else to her tone. “Are you?”
She looked directly at him, all maidenly innocence again. “Why wouldn’t I want you to have a good time?”