“Indeed,” Fleur said, her smile small, wobbly, and humorless. She touched a tightly furled rosebud, her fingers sliding across the pale pink petals. She turned abruptly, regarding Iris with an expression that was disconcertingly devoid of emotion. “Did you know that there are over one hundred species of roses?”

Iris shook her head.

“My mother bred them. She taught me a great deal. These”—Fleur trailed her hand along the leaves of the climbing vines behind her—“are all centifolia roses. People like them because they have lots of petals.” She leaned forward and gave a sniff. “And they are quite fragrant.”

“Cabbage roses,” Iris murmured.

Fleur’s brows rose in a small salute. “You do know about roses.”

“That is about the extent of it,” Iris admitted. She didn’t know where Fleur was going with this line of conversation, but at least she had stopped crying.

Fleur was quiet for a moment, glancing at the blooms. Most were still buds, their petals packed into darker pinks than the ones that had begun to open. “Consider these,” she said. “These are all Bishop roses. Every last one. They all bloom to precisely the same shade of pink.” She glanced over at Iris. “My mother liked uniformity.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Iris said.

“It is, isn’t it?” Fleur took a few aimless steps, stopping to give a sniff. “But it’s not the only way to grow a beautiful garden. I could choose five different sorts of centifolias. Or ten. I could have purples. Different shades of pink. There is no reason it has to be the same.”

Iris just nodded. It was fairly clear that Fleur was no longer talking about roses.

“I could plant a moss rose. Or a gallica. It would be unexpected here in a cultivated garden, but they would grow.”

“They might even thrive,” Iris said softly.

Fleur turned sharply to look at her. “They might,” she repeated. And then, with a tired sigh, she sank onto the small stone bench. “The roses aren’t the problem. It’s the people who look at them.”

“It usually is,” Iris said.

Fleur looked up, all traces of wistfulness banished from her eyes. “Right now my younger sister is Miss Kenworthy of Maycliffe, sister to Sir Richard Kenworthy, baronet. She might not attract much attention were she to go to London, but here in our corner of Yorkshire, she will be one of the most sought-after young ladies when she comes of age.”

Iris nodded.

Abruptly, Fleur stood. She turned away from Iris, hugging her arms to her body. “We have parties here, too, you know. And balls and assemblies. Marie-Claire will have the opportunity to meet dozens of eligible young gentlemen. And I hope she will fall in love with one.” She glanced just far enough over her shoulder for Iris to see her face in profile. “But if I marry John . . .”

“You have to marry John,” Iris said gently.