Page 38 of The Perfect Rose

“Thank you.” He continued walking. The information about the pink ribbon put his mind slightly at ease. Surely, she wouldn’t have a parcel tied with a pink ribbon for either Owen or Lord Hanby. He could wait near the stables and think through a plan.

Chapter Twenty-five

Rose allowed the stable hand to help her down from her mare. She walked around the side of the Smith’s house and looked at the rose bush. The sparse plant looked almost like a scrawny young man when his limbs grew faster than the rest of his body. There was so much space between the branches, she could easily pick out each one. In that moment, she felt much the same as the bush. If the past season had taught her anything, it was that her prunings had left her wanting. She was not a whole person, just the bones of one.

The rose bush before her was quite ugly. It needed smaller branches to fill in the gaps with leaves and blooms. A rose bush was at its most beautiful at the height of summer and all thought of pruning was long past. Rose needed to find what it was that would fill in all her own gaps. She needed to decide what it was she wanted from her life. Although she didn’t have complete control over who she would marry, she would have more control of her own actions after her wedding day.

What would she do with her time? Or would she be so unlucky as to marry a man that was just as exacting as her mother? The only man she could foresee being that terrible was Mr. Dillard. He would likely be controlling until he would become foxed; and then he’d likely be angry and unreasonable. Rose would not allow herself to be led into that marriage, even if she had to run away. In the absolute worst case scenario, she felt she would make a wonderful governess, and qualified to boot.

As it was, her situation was not so bad as that. Lord Hanby was a bore, but he didn’t seem like an unkind man. She felt nothing toward him, but if she accepted his hand in marriage, her parents would be thrilled. But her time with him had left her empty, and she had come to desire more of a connection in marriage.

Mr. Owen Redford needed things Rose could give him: love and companionship and money. It was a different type of love or marriage than she’d ever imagined, but one that she could make the most of.

And then, if Miriam and the duke were to be believed, she should also consider Mr. Hastings. Rose pulled her arms around herself. Could he really be an option for her? Rose thought back on her time at the house party. Mr. Hastings knew her better than anyone, including her mother. She’d let down her defenses for him; she’d been vulnerable and open when they’d spoken. And he’d been reliable for her. She had come to depend upon him to help her solve her own problems. He’d even given her correction after the musicale. She smiled; surprisingly, that was one of the things she liked most about Mr. Hastings was that he saw through her once-necessary facade and challenged it at every turn.

Rose walked to the front of the house and knocked on the door. She could hear the baby’s whining before the door opened.

Mrs. Smith somehow curtseyed, despite the baby on her hip. “Good morning, Lady Rose. What can I do for you?”

“Is Miss Clara at home to a visitor?”

The mother smiled. “Certainly, won’t you come in?”

“I was hoping that perhaps she could take a walk about the garden with me.”

“Very well. She’ll be out shortly.”

Rose took a few paces back and picked up the parcel she’d set down on a stone wall.

Clara bounded up to her and rushed full into her skirt to give Rose a hug. Rose laughed, and Clara stole another sliver of her heart. “Good morning, Clara. My, you look pretty today.”

“Thank you. You look pretty today too.” She smiled back at Rose.

Rose held out her parcel. “I brought you something.”

Clara took the package and ran the pink ribbon between her fingers in a slow, reverent way. She untied the bow and draped the ribbon over her shoulder. Then she peeled back the paper and lifted the small apron out, allowing the fabric to open up. She dropped the paper onto the ground and looked up at Rose, a brilliant light shining in the little girl’s eyes. “Did you make it?” She ran her fingers over the embroidered flowers.

Rose nodded. “Do you like it?”

Clara crushed herself into Rose’s legs again. “I love it, I’ve never had anything so beautiful in all my life.” She took a step back and pointed at the rose on the corner of the apron. “You made our roses.”

“I did.”

“This way, I can see ’em even when they’re pruned. I felt bad for the bush after you left. It’s so sad and small. But I remember that it will grow back more beautiful than ever because now it has room. And mama told me that if I love it and care for it and keep the weeds away, it will have so many roses I’ll be able to pick some to take into my bedchamber to keep by my bed. And I want to keep roses by my bed. I’m sure it will help me to sleep happy always. And if I have roses by my bed and roses on my apron, I’ll never forget to care for the rose bush.”

Rose’s smile was beginning to strain her cheeks. If only she had more moments like this. Perhaps she could one day be as optimistic as Clara. “I’m glad the roses make you so happy.”

“Oh, they didn’t used to. I used to not like them, remember? But now I do. I can let the thorns protect the flowers and I can still take care of the plant like you taught me.”

Oh, how would it be for someone to see Rose the way Clara saw her own rose bush? Perhaps it started with her. Maybe Rose needed to learn to love herself, thorns and all, like Clara loved and saw the potential in the plant they looked at. Rose had been trying so hard to be what society and her parents wanted her to be, she hadn’t given the idea of what she wanted much thought.

“How did you become so wise?” Rose squeezed Clara’s hand.

“Mum.”

Rose nodded. Her own mother was smart. She knew more about the world than was good for a person. But Rose had come to see that her knowledge of people was either skewed or deliberately misused. And her mother’s way of teaching Rose was complicated. She loved Rose, in her own way. She had at least seen potential in her, before Ash had been born. Rose had felt it, the pride her mother had put in her each time she learned something new or performed something difficult. But even then, it had never been enough. And she wasn’t prepared to continue trying to earn someone’s love for the rest of her life.

She knew, in that moment, that she wouldn’t choose to marry Lord Hanby. He was almost certainly the type she would have to prove her worth to each day. It almost came with the territory of living among the upper crust of the ton, in fact. And the man was already bored with his life. Rose would be a novelty for a while, until she became a show animal: there to entertain and move forward political or social agendas at the whim of her husband. He didn’t love her; he’d never shown any affection for her, only regard.