Chapter 3

He’s waiting for you in the garden, Mr. Paul,” said Mrs. Higgins after he opened the door of his bedroom to her gentle knock.

He intended to stride past, but Mrs. Higgins stepped in his way. “Now just a minute, little mister,” she said, his old pet name slipping from her lips as it sometimes did. That he’d towered over her since he turned fifteen had little to do with it. She reached up to straighten the silk tie hanging haphazardly from his neck—an accessory he seldom wore but had dutifully donned, since she’d laid it out on the bed for him.

“And the hairbrush?” she asked.

He waited long enough for her to take a few quick brushstrokes to the back of his head, something she hadn’t done for him since he better fit the term of endearment she obviously still held of him.

“All right, then,” she said, stepping back to eye him with a look of satisfaction. “Go on. The minister wants a word with you before your bride arrives, and she’s due here any time now.”

My bride … What a strange sensation came with such words. But now was not the time to get sentimental, so he found his way to the garden, going through the glass-paned doors of the dining room rather than his usual route through the kitchen. He might as well play the part his father had left to him, if only for the minister’s benefit, and use a proper door.

However, what caught his eye first stood at the edge of his garden: the tall glass box he’d been working with for several days now. He’d been luring bees to it with a bit of sugar here, the nectar of a flower there—smeared into the corners of the box he’d fashioned so he could see inside. So far he’d succeeded in capturing far too few specimens to be worth so much trouble—but there now! A fair swarm of them, their sweet buzzing like a symphony to his ear.

Without a word to the figure in black waiting amid the rest of the flowers in the abundant garden, Paul hurried to the kitchen door where he kept his gloves and veiled hat. Although he barely felt a sting anymore even if a bee did protest his accidental contact, today was not the day to suffer an uncomfortable stab. He emerged from the back of the house a moment later with his head and hands safely covered then walked right past the staring minister to take advantage of what nature had sent to him. All he needed to do was slip the glass top on the box, and he would have what he needed. It would only take a moment.

The bees were busy as usual, too busy to take much notice of him. Moving slowly, carefully so not to alarm them, he leaned down for the lid he’d made of glass and glue and netting-covered air holes.

In a moment he would place the lid on top, temporarily imprisoning the bees that enjoyed what he’d provided for them. He would get this ceremony over with and then, once the bees had had their fill, he would free them to follow back to their hive. He had enough of them now to easily track their path.

But he couldn’t help pausing to admire the creatures as they collected the sweet provision.

Virginia followed John after he helped first her and then Sarah from the carriage. Distracted as she was by what was about to take place, she still couldn’t miss the loving care John offered to his wife. Her recently discovered pregnancy might not be the topic of polite conversation, but Virginia was fairly certain it was all both of them thought about these days. John treated her as if she were porcelain. Or perhaps a queen.

But she refused to dwell on the ripple of unexpected envy that swept through her. Sarah was so very dear to her, and Virginia celebrated that her friend had a husband who rejoiced in how precious she—and their coming child—was to him.

However, once they were both safely on solid ground, John fairly sprinted to the front door. It was barely opened by a middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired woman who pointed around the house before John waved them to follow through a narrow though perfectly manicured pathway amid thriving flowers surrounding the entire house.

“The minister is here,” John called over his shoulder. “They’re both in the back garden, my brother as well. You don’t mind if I run ahead, do you? I want to make sure all is in order.”

Sarah’s laugh followed him, though Virginia doubted her husband could hear the words that followed. “What does he think could go wrong? Isn’t this a perfectly normal occasion? A wedding?”

Virginia grabbed Sarah’s hand, hoping she could absorb some of her friend’s obvious peace and approval of the day. But it didn’t work.

“Now don’t you worry, too!” Sarah said. “I know this is meant to be. My instincts are never wrong, and I have a very definite feeling we’re doing exactly the right thing. Come along. No dawdling now that we’re here.”

It was true, Virginia had dawdled. Now she stopped altogether. “Shouldn’t I … Well, take a moment to freshen up after the journey?”

Sarah looked her over. “You look lovely! We don’t want to keep the minister waiting.”

“All right, but wait.”

With trembling hands, Virginia reached up to unravel the delicate lacing she’d sewn into her yellow bonnet. It was black, perhaps not quite the color a bride should wear but taken from a butterfly design. The yellow and black color combination was ordained by God Himself. She knew the veil would obscure her face, but perhaps that was fitting, considering the details of the union about to take place.

Virginia couldn’t help but notice the profusion of flowers that lined the wide flagstone path leading them around the two-story brick house. The city had its parks, windows had their boxes, and florists had their bouquets ready to be delivered anywhere in Milwaukee. But this place was a mix of cultivation and a wild array of color and scent. She couldn’t name half of the buds that drew her eye, as the sight of such beauty permeated the tension she’d carried with her from the city.

Rounding the corner of the house, she saw a man beside John. Both seemed to be staring in the other direction. A third man in strange garb was off at the corner of the garden, decked in a wide-brimmed tan hat with a veil even thicker than the one she wore. And his gloves were surely too cumbersome to work the ground. He was staring into some sort of glass box, and barely moving.

What sort of gardener wore such attire? Where was John’s brother? And—goodness, a hint of panic assailed her—what was his name? Obviously Turnbridge, since that was John’s name. But what in the world had John called him?

“There’s Paul,” Sarah whispered.

Ah! Paul! Her husband-to-be was named Paul. Not that she would have occasion to address him, but it was nice to know such a detail.

She followed Sarah’s gaze and to her bewilderment it led her straight back to the odd fellow staring so intently at that unusual box. She watched as he moved with smooth, measured progress to place some kind of lid on the stand before him and then, some moments later, turned to see those who awaited him in the garden.