“Please be quiet.”
“Everything is such a theatrical production. Oh, and his muscles. His. Muscles. He took off his shirt, and I could not speak for ten minutes. He’s absolutely—”
“Please don’t confide,” Angelika said with her hands over her ears. “Tell the pig, not me.”
“But you’re my best friend.” Lizzie was frustrated, and scowled in Will’s direction. “Can he even have children? Or were his nice big bits dead for too long?”
That was a question that kept Angelika up at night as she found herself stroking her pillowcase. Silk was soft . . . but not as soft as a baby’s cheek. Even if Will did give her such a gift, the child would not have its father’s beautiful amber eyes. Absolute sadness hollowed her out, and she knew she deserved it.
“We have no idea if it’s possible. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
Lizzie leaned back on her elbows, closing her eyes to the sun. “If Commander Keatings fully applies himself to courting you, I want you to let him try. Remain open to that option. You’d have a herd of neat blond boys in no time. Imagine their nursery. The little blighters would keep it spick-and-span.”
Angelika imagined it. Then she pictured a quieter child, with messy hair, and an affinity for plants.
“I think you forget who you are, Jelly. You’re the most eligible young woman in this county. Men should be fighting over you.” A shadow fell across them both. Lizzie said in a different voice, “Oh, how very sweet.”
Angelika rolled onto her back to see Will, hot and sweating, standing over her with loose flowers in his hand. Some still trailed roots and dirt. She was touched that he understood her so well, and was gratified to have Lizzie as a witness.
“Did you almost faint before?” When he said nothing, she prompted, “I will always prefer wildflowers over hothouse roses. Oh! I have a gift for you in return.” She held up the book to him, and he took it and read the spine with a dawning recognition in his eyes.
“I think . . . I know this book,” Will said, looking disturbed, holding the now-forgotten flowers tighter. With some difficulty, he opened the cover and flipped straight to the illustrations. He read out loud as he turned pages, “Momordica . . . Pomme de Merveille . . . Xylon . . . Coton . . . I know these drawings.”
“Jelly, you clever little thing,” Lizzie praised her. “I have to say, you are the world’s best gift giver. I need more of that apple soap; it drives Vic wild.”
“Hmm,” Angelika hummed noncommittally, glum that Will hadn’t noticed her heartfelt inscription.
Will looked up from the page. “Yes, this is a book I have owned, I am certain of it. I can read this.”
“French and Latin. Excellent.” Lizzie beamed. “We are narrowing down your background, and you are undoubtedly educated. Perhaps you were a botanist. Is it exciting to star in this mystery role?” She picked up her notebook and began to jot. “A play about someone with no memory. Intriguing. Do I have your permission to be inspired?”
“If you think of an appropriate end for my character, please advise me.” Will closed his book like he was reluctant to stop reading, and to Angelika he said, “Thank you so much.”
“You’re so very welcome. Anything and everything you could ever want, I will give you.” Angelika really wanted her flowers now. “Are they for me?”
He appeared to be greatly embarrassed, glancing to Lizzie. He had overheard her earlier words. “They are not a fitting return gift.”
Angelika frowned. “They are from you, so of course they are.”
“They’re not mine to gift. They belong to you, like everything here.” Ignoring her outstretched hand, he laid them on the blanket beside her, in the same way one might put flowers on a grave. He was gone before another word was said.
“Poor man,” Lizzie said with empathy. “He tried his best.”
Angelika gathered up her flowers. “He picked each one thinking of me. Can’t you see that is something that cannot be bought? All I ever wanted was someone who thinks only of me and will let me spoil him. I was right about the book. I think he can rest easier now.”
As she sorted the blooms into a bouquet, she noticed there were dozens of rich purple larkspurs. She wondered if his subconscious knew it, or if it was a sign from the cosmos.
It was time to do something scary.
“Lizzie, I want to talk to you about something important to me. Something that probably belongs to you now.” Lizzie was already clutching her ring in fear. Angelika rushed to clarify, “Larkspur Lodge.”