A Reputation Reclaimed

Chapter Eleven

There were few wildflowers to be found on the heath, and as the long blades of grass snapped against Lowen's boots, he cast a cautious glance toward Helena. It hadn't rained recently, but he still worried her foot might sink into an unexpected bog, so he walked slightly ahead of her and Thomasin, surveying the trail.

The sun hung glaringly bright above them, but a crisp breeze offset the creeping warmth. Lowen was grateful that Helena had no desire to stroll through Hyde Park or St. James Park. Though there was still much left unsaid between them, they both seemed to need the silence for now.

"Can I go up there?" Thomasin asked excitedly, pointing to a rising hill in the distance.

"Careful," Lowen cautioned.

Giddy, Thomasin shoved her sketchbook into her governess's hands. "Will you hold this, Miss Wodehouse?"

"No," Lowen interjected, taking the sketchbook back and handing it to his sister. "You wanted to bring it, so you hold it. And mind Miss Wodehouse."

Thomasin did not object and ran ahead, "Come, Miss Wodehouse."

Helena stepped in line with Lowen and watched Thomasin with a faint smile on her lips. She had removed her bonnet and held it in her hands, her eyes struggled against the light of the sun.

"You'll redden," Lowen halfheartedly warned. Truthfully, he never cared much whether a woman's skin was the color of milk or not.

"It doesn't matter," Helena replied, closing her eyes and raising her face to the sun. "I just want to feel some warmth on my skin."

"I'll hold this." Lowen attempted to take her bonnet from her, but she pulled away.

"You just chastised Thomasin for not holding her things," she teased.

"A sketchbook isn't as necessary as a bonnet."

"To you, maybe."

They walked quietly together, Lowen keeping a cautious eye on Thomasin, who had made herself comfortable sitting atop the hill with her governess, while Helena crouched down, observing a patch of wildflowers.

With one last glance at Thomasin, Lowen knelt beside his wife. She delicately pet the tops of a bundle of small, pale pink flowers before leaning over to catch their scent.

"Yarrow," he said, running the tip of his gloved hand over a tiny petal. "It can be used for medicine, or beer."

Helena wrinkled her nose at the mention of beer. "Once, as a child, Isaac tricked me into drinking it."

"How did he manage that?"

"He poured it in a teacup and told me it was jasmine tea."

Lowen's lip twitched, but he stifled a laugh. "How unfortunate."

"What about that one?" she asked, nodding toward a collection of purple flowers further down the trail, blooming upright as if reaching for the sky.

"Heather," he answered. "It could be used for fodder, thatch, bedding, and it can be brewed into tea—supposedly, it soothes the nerves."

"How do you know so much about flowers?"

He knew because his mother had desired a great motley of flowers to be planted just outside her window at their home in Penhollow. Confined to her sickbed since before Thomasin's conception, she often complained of the lack of beauty to gaze upon while she lay there. During his visits to Cornwall from Eton, Lowen had taken it upon himself to follow the gardener around the property, guiding him on where to plant the seeds for the best view from his mother's window. In return, the gardener taught him everything he knew about flora and fauna—not just how to cultivate it, but also its uses and proper care.