The Dare and the Doctor by Kate Noble

Author:Kate Noble
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books

14

Dear Miss Babcock—

Please accept our apologies on behalf of Sir Kingsley. However, he has discovered a conflict and cannot attend your scheduled meeting on Saturday the 21st. We humbly ask your indulgence to postpone the engagement until the afternoon of Sunday the 22nd. Please forgive this imposition, and if you are amenable, we shall see you on Sunday.

Sincerely,

The Hortacultural Society of London

Margaret moved the pot with the rosemary cutting for the fifth time that day, trying to find the correct amount of light to let it thrive. So far, it was the only one of her herbs that was proving finicky, which was odd, since rosemary was usually heartier and able to grow in a variety of settings.

Her mother would say that the cutting just needed time. Well, Margaret didn’t have time.

Although she had more time than she had thought she would since she received the letter from the Horticultural Society.

The change of plans did not affect her much—at least beyond a vague sense of disappointment. She had gotten the conservatory and herself as ready as possible. After her talk with Rhys in the garden a few evenings ago, she had taken his advice and told Phoebe that she wanted a few days without social obligations so she could work. Phoebe was understanding, if a little harried, writing notes to all the hostesses they would be disappointing. Sylvia’s reaction was a bit more surprising.

“Of course you want to do your work! I’m terribly sorry if I have been monopolizing you!” she said. Then she eyed the piles of soil Margaret was busy turning. “Er . . . is there anything I can do to help?”

After assuring Sylvia that she was under no obligation to assist, the girl went off, saying something about spending the next few days entertaining her little sister. And Margaret was free to breathe in the joy of a hard day’s labor.

Couches were moved and stands arranged in the conservatory. Frederick himself washed the windows, with Margaret over his shoulder observing and making helpful suggestions the entire time. At least, she thought they were helpful. Frederick’s grumblings perhaps suggested otherwise.

She took a cutting of the vine that had grown wild along the garden wall, potted it, and hung it in the sun until it began to flower in perfect little bells of white. She turned the earth in the garden beds along the wall, giving air to the packed hard soil. Then she spread her fertilizer over everything, not just her roses.

And oh, the roses. After two days of coaxing and hoping and wishing, there were new buds beginning on their branches! She had a heart-stopping moment when the temperature dropped the night before, and feared the roses, still not fully used to London and their roots not twined as deep as they needed to be, would huddle back into themselves, forgoing another bloom until next spring.

But no—her hybrid China roses remained hearty. Not just hearty—they thrived.

And somehow, Margaret had always known they would. It was as if all the worry and all the preparation had been worth the risk.

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