some function – or he wished to attend at her side. It would not be that different from many society marriages.
Marguerite sat at the delicate writing desk staring at the blank sheet before her. She dipped the pen in the ink and prepared to begin. It was time. She was ready now. She touched the nib to the paper. A small black dot formed. That was a start. She swept the line down, formed a letter, then another, List of . . . Gadshanks. She used her favorite childhood curse. She was trying to organize her life and she could not even think of a title for the list. Her sister always made lists, swore by them. It never looked hard.
List of Things to Do
She set the pen down. There that had only taken, she glanced at the clock on the mantle, – one hour and fifteen minutes. She picked the pen up again.
Number One
She did not have a number one or a number two. The pen dropped to the desk, splattering ink across the paper. This was not working. She was clearly not a list-maker.
She picked up her wrap and headed for the gardens. Maybe a good vigorous stroll would clear her head. The day was surprisingly warm for the season. Still, she pulled her shawl close about. Walk to the holly turn and progress back to the boxwood. Three turns around the fountain. Her head was clear, all the fuzz gone.
Now, what did she need to do?
Still no answer came. She had a life to plan. How would she ever achieve what she wanted if she couldn’t even imagine what it was? Humphf. Maybe she had the question wrong. It should not be what to do, but what did she want. Surely, she could figure out what she wanted?
Independence. She wanted to be in control, to make her own decisions. Only, Tristan had left her on her own, bowed to her every desire for two weeks now and she clearly was no happier than she had been previously.
Why was she not happy at having what she wanted? Oh dear, that was a whole new question. She picked up the pace of her walk. At least she felt healthy. She had to admit that being in control of the food that appeared on the table was wonderful. She had always liked things simple and fresh and it was a relief to be away from the heavy sauces and sweet creams her mother had favored.
She liked being in charge of her clothing, too. She glanced down at the cherry red half boots that encased her feet. Snug and warm. And pretty.
Maybe she should have some flowering plants added to the garden. The empty trellis that ran along the back wall would be perfect for some climbing roses. There must be a gardener she could ask. It did not even seem worth speaking to her husband. His steady habit of ignoring the small vases of flowers and other knickknacks she had added to the house made clear how little he cared. It was odd she had not seen a gardener. She actually believed it was a footman she had seen hacking at the bushes the previous week. A house like this must have a gardener.
A familiar whinny from the stables drew her attention. Will must be brushing Buttercup again. He seemed to know everything. Maybe she would even let him persuade her to give another apple to Buttercup. She had fed the beast two times already this week and had to admit it was not so bad.
She rounded the corner of the house, feeling much better than when she had come out for her walk.
“I saved you the best of the apples, my lady.” Will turned towards her, a smile lighting his gray eyes.
“Thank you very much.” Marguerite reached out and took the polished fruit. It looked suspiciously like the apples she had seen Cook peeling for a tart. It was difficult to come by such firm and plump fruit in the spring and it seemed a shame to feed it to a horse. She palmed the apple, tossed and caught it, then held it out towards the mare. It would be rude to refuse Will’s gift, no matter its origin.
“I have a question for you.” She let her hand drop as the horse chomped the last bite of the apple.
“Yes, my lady?”
“I was wondering why I have not seen a gardener. I would like to see roses climbing along the