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an estate manager, Mr. Jeremy Stockton.
    Longford, as heir, had two minor estates in his care, for one day Avalon Hall would be his. Along with these facts, the duchess imparted a myriad details concerning the running of such a large establishment as the London house. Although, she confessed with her light, musical laugh, this household was small compared to the other holdings.
    Truly overwhelming for a parson’s daughter, but Serena found the training Buckle had provided stood her in good stead. Her mind was so cluttered with facts and names and lists, the jolting pain of Blackwood’s abrupt departure began to fade ever so slightly. She guessed the duchess was wise enough to keep her busy so she wouldn’t grieve.
    Blackwood had been gone less than a fortnight when they were interrupted in the conservatory by Wilkens, who, with a pained expression in his small eyes, looked down his long, imposing nose at the shorter man beside him.
    “This gentleman has come with a message from Lord Blackwood for Lady Serena. He insisted my lord said he must give it in person.”
    “That he did!” The thin man, dressed in rough country clothes, nodded enthusiastically. “Gave my word, Harry Thurston did, and keepin’ it I am.”
    Rising to her feet, Serena stepped toward where he stood clutching a large clay pot of greenery.
    “Is this for me, sir?” Even as he nodded, she took the pot in her hands. “This is a chrysanthemum plant, is it not?”
    “Aye, my lady. Lord Blackwood, he was passing by, for our cottage is near the sea, and spied my wife tending the garden. A generous man, my lord. Says I’m to bring this planting and this here note.”
    Carefully setting the pot on the wide rim of the central fountain whose shepherdess eternally poured water from a pail onto the stones around her feet, she reached for the small piece of paper he thrust toward her.
    “Sweetheart, I’m reliably informed these red chrysanthemums are symbolic of true love. Think of me as you tend this symbol of my deep, abiding affection. Blackwood.”
    Embarrassment burned her skin, scorching her throat as she realized she’d spoken the intimate words aloud. Stricken, she stared from Mr. Thurston, who continued to nod enthusiastically, to Wilkens, whose stern demeanor suddenly blurred a bit around the edges.
    “Very thoughtful. Thank you, Mr. Thurston.” The duchess’s musical voice bridged the awkward moment. “Wilkens, see that Mr. Thurston has ample food and drink for his journey home.”
    The men retired from the scene while the duchess tactfully admired the plant, giving Serena a moment to recover.
    “Will it bear blossoms? I fear horticulture is not a particular interest of mine.”
    “Yes, Your Grace, in autumn there will be lovely red blooms which will return year after year if attended properly,” she finally managed.
    “Perhaps we should turn it over to the gardener for care.”
    “Oh, no, Your Grace! I shall attend it myself,” Serena put in hurriedly. “Gardening is an interest of mine.”
    As if Serena had said something that pleased her greatly, the duchess gave her a deep, warm smile. “I’m delighted to hear it. I have something else which I hope will interest you.” She lifted a slim volume from a small marble table nearby. “This is Matthew’s favorite book of poetry. Perhaps reading what has given him pleasure will bring you closer to him. But now, I fear, I must attend His Grace—this is our reading hour.”
    Left with Blackwood’s book of poetry and his gift, Serena carefully chose the best spot in the conservatory for the plant. She felt the soil, added more water, and removed two yellow leaves. It was strangely reassuring to have some tangible evidence of Blackwood’s regard, for their time together did seem dreamlike, almost a figment of the romantic nature that had blossomed within her so recently.
    In reality she had new responsibilities and challenges which excited her as nothing had before. Perhaps dear