The Poison Diaries by Maryrose Wood, The Duchess Of Northumberland Page B

history of the world, there has never been a season such as this.
    If this is what love does to the world, how could anyone plant a garden without it?
     
    I T IS STRANGE, keeping a secret from Father.
    But it is wonderful, too, for with every passing day that I resist telling Father what I know, Weed’s secret becomes my secret, and his truth is my truth as well. I—only I!—know what magic he possesses, and the mere act of knowing has transformed me from the commonplace creature I was, to the singular, extraordinary creature I am now.
    I am the girl who knows. The only person Weed trusts.
    I am the one he loves.
    Father does suspect something, as Weed observed, but even his wildest imaginings could not approach the truth of Weed’s gift. And that is not all that he suspects. This morning, as I stand in the kitchen washing up, Father comes in and announces: “Jessamine, there is a good chance I will have to return to London.”
    “When?”
    “Soon. I may be gone a few days. I cannot say more about my business there, but as I may have to leave abruptly, I did not want you to worry.”
    “Oh, it is all right, Father,” I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. “If I know that you are all right, I will manage.”
    “I expect you will.” He clears his throat. “I do not want to leave you in a compromising position. I hope it is not imprudent for me to leave you and Weed here alone. You are both young, and—well, you seem to like each other a great deal.”
    I wring out my dish towel with undue concentration, as if it were the most interesting task imaginable.
    “Do you love him?”
    My blush provides all the answer Father needs.
    “I see.” He frowns. “I am surprised, yet I ought not be. If I have never imagined you growing up, falling in love, perhaps marrying and moving away—that is a failure of imagination on my part. Perhaps I never thought of it because I have lived so long as a bachelor, since your mother died … yet how could I forget what it was like? To be young, and in love.”
    He shakes off his reverie and resumes his usual authoritative tone. “Remember: This is my home, and Weed is our guest. In my absence you are his host. You may act toward him as such. As for love—be virtuous and use the judgment God gave you, Jessamine. You are still scarcely more than a—”
    “Father, enough.” I wheel from the sink. Soapy water drips from my hands onto the floor. “I will heed your words. But I am far from a child.”
    I expect he will be furious at my insolence, but I no longer care. Perhaps he senses this.
    “My apologies, Jessamine,” he says, inclining his head. “You are quite right. I may not think of you as full grown, but you are certainly not a child anymore.”
    He reaches toward me and lifts my hair away from my face. “In fact,” he adds softly, “in this light, you look a great deal like your mother. May your virtue be rewarded with a longer, healthier life than hers.”
    In the afternoon I work in the herb bed, thinning out the weak seedlings and pinching back the rest,then laying down a fresh layer of rotted hay as mulch. Afterward Weed and I walk. He fills my head with tales from the ancient forests, tales so old that the trees themselves call them legends. It is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, and the world I have lived in all my sixteen years is revealed to be something else entirely, something so marvelous I could never have imagined it.
    When we return to the cottage Father is gone: boots, coat, medical bag, and all. He must have received the summons to London he was expecting.
    Father is entitled to his secrets, too,
I tell myself, still giddy from the walk.
That is only fair, considering.
    Weed and I are alone. We have been alone together many times, of course, but now that Father has left, perhaps for days, our shared solitude is altered. It feels heightened, expectant, almost celebratory.
It is like playing house,
I think.
Imagine if this cottage were ours, just