vase—not the one the gardener had provided but one of antique cranberry glass from her curio cabinet—tightly against her chest as she ascended the outer stairs and went, with Baldwin’s aid, through the door. She glanced round the room and spotted the Squire standing behind the section of the table that bore his rose; she was relieved to see it was a paltry yellowof no consequence, and certainly not her Christmas rose.
Whether it was pique or pride that led her to set up her own entry on the table right next him, she could not say. However, the image of the Squire with his eyes bulging in surprise as he beheld her Christmas rose was reason enough. He seemed to recover his aplomb quickly, however, and approached her with a paper in his hands.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace! It is, as always a pleasure, yes, a pleasure to see you! This is the entry form, one that I trust you shall have no trouble filling out, however, in the case you do I am, as ever, at your service.”
“Thank you,” Her Grace said in a voice cold enough to freeze the Sahara as she daintily took the paper between the tips of her gloved thumb and forefinger. “I am afraid I should have been quite lost without you.”
“It is my pleasure, my pleasure, to be sure!” If he were suffering from anxiety over the Dowager’s rose, he showed no sign of it.
With a dismissive air, she turned from the Squire and placed her vase on the table. She spent some minutes arranging the blooms to her satisfaction before she addressed Ginny and her demeanor. “Stand up straight, girl, and do wipe that sour expression from your face. We are not burying anyone today!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Ginny said but her air of grief failed to dissipate.
“Do you not recall that my Anthony shall wait on me here, my dear?” she asked more gently and reached up to pinch the girl’s cheeks. “There, that is better. You have such a lovely color when you are not white as a ghost.”
Her words had the effect she desired as Ginny blushed at her words and her cheeks flooded with pink. “There, that is much better. I am sure you wish to look your best for such a fine gentleman as my Anthony.”
At her words, Ginny blushed even more deeply and turned away. Yes, indeed, it was too soonto hope for a match between the two of them but one day all should be arranged as the Dowager wished.
It was Baldwin who returned her attention to the entry form. “I believe you must fill this out, beggin’ your pardon,” he said and handed her a pencil.
“Oh, my yes, how could I have forgotten?” she asked, her heart as light as a feather and filled with naught but goodwill for all mankind. She need only write her name, (Regina, Dowager Duchess of Marcross) her direction, (Dunsmere) and the name of her entry, (The Christmas Rose) and she had nothing further to do but sign her name; she would leave the details of how the rose was propagated and grown to Baldwin to compose.
However, just as she commenced to write, her eyes filled, inexplicably, with tears. Aghast, she noted that the squire, whom she had all but forgotten until that very moment, seemed to loom unnaturally large at her right. She turned to see how he hovered over her shoulder and beads of perspiration were brought on by his obsequious smile. Suddenly she knew with every fiber of her being that he had the truth. How, she couldn’t say, but the realization caused her to see her actions in a new light, and she was ashamed.
She had had no cause to feel shame in many a year. Or, perhaps, she had only been unwilling to allow herself to fall victim to such a lowering emotion. It was far from pleasant, and she looked to her left for assurance from her gardener. Whatever his thoughts, his grave expression, replete with something that might even have been hope, failed to produce the desired support. Ginny, who stood just behind him with her handkerchief to her nose, was looking pointedly away, her disapproval apparent in the rigid lines
Whether it was pique or pride that led her to set up her own entry on the table right next him, she could not say. However, the image of the Squire with his eyes bulging in surprise as he beheld her Christmas rose was reason enough. He seemed to recover his aplomb quickly, however, and approached her with a paper in his hands.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace! It is, as always a pleasure, yes, a pleasure to see you! This is the entry form, one that I trust you shall have no trouble filling out, however, in the case you do I am, as ever, at your service.”
“Thank you,” Her Grace said in a voice cold enough to freeze the Sahara as she daintily took the paper between the tips of her gloved thumb and forefinger. “I am afraid I should have been quite lost without you.”
“It is my pleasure, my pleasure, to be sure!” If he were suffering from anxiety over the Dowager’s rose, he showed no sign of it.
With a dismissive air, she turned from the Squire and placed her vase on the table. She spent some minutes arranging the blooms to her satisfaction before she addressed Ginny and her demeanor. “Stand up straight, girl, and do wipe that sour expression from your face. We are not burying anyone today!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Ginny said but her air of grief failed to dissipate.
“Do you not recall that my Anthony shall wait on me here, my dear?” she asked more gently and reached up to pinch the girl’s cheeks. “There, that is better. You have such a lovely color when you are not white as a ghost.”
Her words had the effect she desired as Ginny blushed at her words and her cheeks flooded with pink. “There, that is much better. I am sure you wish to look your best for such a fine gentleman as my Anthony.”
At her words, Ginny blushed even more deeply and turned away. Yes, indeed, it was too soonto hope for a match between the two of them but one day all should be arranged as the Dowager wished.
It was Baldwin who returned her attention to the entry form. “I believe you must fill this out, beggin’ your pardon,” he said and handed her a pencil.
“Oh, my yes, how could I have forgotten?” she asked, her heart as light as a feather and filled with naught but goodwill for all mankind. She need only write her name, (Regina, Dowager Duchess of Marcross) her direction, (Dunsmere) and the name of her entry, (The Christmas Rose) and she had nothing further to do but sign her name; she would leave the details of how the rose was propagated and grown to Baldwin to compose.
However, just as she commenced to write, her eyes filled, inexplicably, with tears. Aghast, she noted that the squire, whom she had all but forgotten until that very moment, seemed to loom unnaturally large at her right. She turned to see how he hovered over her shoulder and beads of perspiration were brought on by his obsequious smile. Suddenly she knew with every fiber of her being that he had the truth. How, she couldn’t say, but the realization caused her to see her actions in a new light, and she was ashamed.
She had had no cause to feel shame in many a year. Or, perhaps, she had only been unwilling to allow herself to fall victim to such a lowering emotion. It was far from pleasant, and she looked to her left for assurance from her gardener. Whatever his thoughts, his grave expression, replete with something that might even have been hope, failed to produce the desired support. Ginny, who stood just behind him with her handkerchief to her nose, was looking pointedly away, her disapproval apparent in the rigid lines
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