by Tuft, Karen
It was a lovely gathering of friends and family.
Elizabeth felt a tinge of sadness that Mama wasn’t here to join them and that Uncle John and Aunt Charlotte weren’t here either. But sometimes life didn’t solve problems or repair relationships quickly. Sometimes pain grew over the years and even the decades, and healing the pain might require the same amount of time. Sometimes it didn’t happen at all, which was sad but surely true.
Much like the acorns she had brought with her from Marwood Manor. It seemed ages ago now that she’d stopped in the middle of a rainstorm to pick up a few little acorns that had not taken root where they had fallen. She’d forgotten all about them until now.
Elizabeth decided to hope for healing between her mother and herself.
She also decided that one of the first things she would do as mistress of Cantwell Hall would be to plant her acorns.
And then the breakfast was served, the many toasts to the happy couple were given, and Elizabeth reveled in her happiness with her husband and family and friends surrounding her.
Epilogue
It was pouring rain, which only seemed appropriate for England and for the project Elizabeth was undertaking. It was a larger task than she’d anticipated. Why, she wasn’t sure. Had she spent more time thinking about the project than she had about her new husband, perhaps she might have had a better idea. But she liked thinking about her new husband, so she wasn’t sorry.
The gardener at Cantwell Hall—Jack McRae by name—had located a large pot for her that was now situated near the herb garden at the back of the manor. He had also brought her a shovel and a gardening trowel.
“Yer ladyship,” Mr. McRae said after setting down the tools and wiping the rain from his face with his sleeve. “I’d be more ’n ’appy to do the diggin’ and so forth for ye. ’Tis me job, so ’tis no bother.”
Elizabeth had interpreted his offer—or, more specifically, the tone of his voice—as suggesting he feared the new Countess of Cantwell was daft. Why else would she be choosing to dig in the dirt in the pouring rain?
At least she’d thought ahead regarding that aspect of her project. She was wrapped in a huge apron she’d borrowed from the cook, had donned her sturdiest half boots, her bonnet with the most generous brim, a cloak, and her oldest gloves, and then had set out determinedly for the garden patch.
After a second look, it became obvious that the pot was rather larger than she’d remembered when Mr. McRae had originally shown it to her . . .
She planted her hands on her hips. She would not cower before she’d even begun. “Thank you, Mr. McRae. This is a task I prefer to do myself, as unladylike as it seems. I can assure you, however,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “that I have not lost my mind, nor have I any aspirations of becoming gardener around here. Your job is safe as far as I’m concerned.”
“Weren’t worried about that, yer ladyship,” he said. “Were worried more about the rain, ye see. Rain and dirt makes mud, and mud, well . . .”
“Mud is mud,” Elizabeth said.
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “And a mite slippery it can be.”
“Mr. McRae, for reasons I cannot share, I intend to do this task myself. The rain doesn’t bother me; in fact, I take pleasure in it.”
“All the same, I’ll be checkin’ on ye in a while, jest to be sure.”
“Thank you, Mr. McRae. That would be agreeable.”
The gardener, nearly convinced, but not quite, of her sanity, left her to see to his other chores, but only after he’d convinced her he needed to use the big shovel to break up the ground for her first.
Elizabeth began her project. Using the big shovel Mr. McRae had used was the first and most difficult step. Picking the tool up like she’d watched him do, she scooped dirt into the pot and then repeated the process. Over and over again, she scooped up dirt. Rain was dripping from the brim of her bonnet and down her neck. The apron was stained brown, as were her gloves, and the palms of her hands were getting sore. She pulled off one glove and saw blisters beginning to form. She’d never had a blister before, except once when she’d purchased a pair of dancing slippers that she’d liked but that were too small for her feet.
She pulled the glove back on and got back to work.
“Ho there!” a familiar voice called. It was her husband. Oh, she liked that word, husband! “What are you doing?” Kit asked as he approached her. He was dressed in the practical garb of a gentleman viewing his country estate, less formally than he would have dressed in Town. He held a large black umbrella over his head.
“I am digging,” she said matter-of-factly, trying not to smile. She added another shovelful of soil to the pot.
He rolled his eyes. “I can see that you are digging. Here, let me do that.” He reached for the shovel with his free hand.
“No, no, this is something I have to do,” she said to him, holding the shovel out of reach. The pot was nearly full anyway. One or two more shovelfuls and she would have finished the first part.
“And why, my dear countess, is this something you must do?” he asked.
She emptied the last two shovelfuls of dirt into the pot and rested the shovel against the side of it. “The day you and Aunt Margaret arrived at Marwood Manor, I was outside walking the grounds.”
“I remember,” he said. He held the umbrella above her, shielding her from the rain. “Your mother was appalled at your appearance when you finally returned.”
“Yes,” she said. She reached into the pocket of the apron and retrieved her three acorns. “I picked up these acorns while I was outside that day. I was reflecting on how large the oak trees were around them and how these three hadn’t been able to take root. It made me sad, but it also became a sweet memento from Marwood Manor. It had always been my home, but I knew that with my father’s death, it would be home no longer.
“I am planting them now, Kit. I am planting them in new soil, here at Cantwell Hall, my new home. I do not know if they will take root, but I want them to have the chance. I want them to grow.”
“Oh, my love,” Kit said, brushing off a bit of the mud that must have made its way onto her cheek. “One fateful evening, when Aunt Margaret and I convinced you to attend a country dance with me in disguise, I said, ‘Starting now, you are Lizzie Osbourne, my new bride and the apple of my eye. And I am your beloved Kit.’ I had no idea those words would be prophetic.”
“According to Aunt Margaret, she knew,” she said wryly.
He grinned. “True. But, my sweet Lizzie, this is our home. And if your acorns are going to take root and grow, then we must plant them together. That is what will give them the best chance for success.”
She smiled at him. “You’re right.”
He kissed her quickly and set the umbrella aside, allowing the rain to fall on them both as it had fallen on them just a handful of weeks and an eternity ago. He picked up the small garden trowel and made three holes in the sodden dirt, and then she placed an acorn in each hole and covered them over using her hands.
She was filthy. She needed a hot bath. She’d never felt more alive. She liked feeling this way.
No, she loved it.
“McRae will come for the tools,” Kit said. “He was worried that he’d be sacked for neglecting the new Countess of Cantwell.”
“I told him I wasn’t after his job.”
Kit burst out laughing. “Oh, Lizzie,” he said. “I have the feeling those acorns are going to grow, and quickly too. They will not wish to let you down.” And then he got serious. “They will find the life inside of them that was dormant, just as you have done. They have the best example, you see? And then we will find the most perfect place to transplant the saplings, where all who visit Cantwell Hall can watch them grow and become the wondrous trees they were meant to be.”
And then he took her in his arms and swung her around in the rain . . .
and slipped and fell into the mud, and she toppled with him, and he rolled her to her back and kissed her soundly. Right there in the mud, with dark-gray clouds above them and the rain coursing down on them, and Elizabeth didn’t care that she was soaking wet and covered in mud and that the servants would see them or see her looking like this. Because she was free, really free, in the arms of her love, her husband. Her beloved Kit.
And the future had never looked brighter.
Author’s Note
While this is a work of fiction, some characters mentioned briefly, three in particular, are people who actually lived during the time period and, specifically, 1813, when this story takes place.
Robert Stewart, second Marquess of Londonderry, usually known as Lord Castlereagh, was the leader of the House of Commons and the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs from 1812 to 1822 and was instrumental in negotiating the treaties that ultimately led to the defeat of Napoleon. In the story, the Duke of Aylesham seems to be in constant contact with him, but their association is not explained (at this time). He was also the author of the letter informing the Duchess of Marwood that her husband had died.
The Reverend Robert Hodgson, who greets Elizabeth and Lady Walmsley at St. George’s Hanover Square Church in London, was the actual vicar of the church and served as vicar for over forty years, from 1803 until his death in 1844.
And, lastly, Richard Cudmore, who was the musician performing at Lady Bledsoe’s musicale, was a musical prodigy from Chichester, England, who moved as a young man of twenty-six to London in 1808 to study piano and gave many performances on piano and violin. Based on this, I speculated that he would have had a fairly well-established reputation in London, and Lady Bledsoe would have been delighted to feature him at her musicale, which was a rousing success.
About the Author
Karen Tuft was born with a healthy dose of curiosity about pretty much everything, so as a child, she taught herself to read and play the piano. She studied music composition at BYU, graduating from the University of Utah in music theory as a member of Phi Kappa Phi and Pi Kappa Lambda honor societies. In addition to being an author, Karen is a wife, mother, grandmother, pianist, composer, and arranger. She has spent countless hours backstage and in orchestra pits for theater productions along the Wasatch Front. Among her varied interests, she likes to figure out what makes people tick, wander through museums, and travel—whether it’s by car, plane, or paperback.
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Other Books by Karen Tuft
Reality Check
Unexpected
Trouble in Paradise
The Earl’s Betrothal
The Gentleman’s Deception
Wager for a Wife