A Flower for the Queen: A Historical Novel by Caroline Vermalle, Ryan von Ruben Read Free Book Online Page A

hornbeam, yew, ash and even sweet chestnut trees.
    “I was thinking of building a nursery,” he said, breaking the silence at long last. “The green house will go there.,” he pointed to the edge of the field, but Constance’s gaze did not follow, but stayed fixed on his face. “And over there, the saplings: kalmias, rhododendrons and magnolias, shielded from the wind by a copse of box. I still know many of the gardeners from the estates nearby, and I am sure they will come.”
    A further silence followed, but this time it was Constance that broke it. “Our friends the Richardsons planted an oak tree when their son was born.”
    “An oak tree?” Masson repeated. “I’m not sure if there’s much of a market for oak trees.”
    Constance turned away from him to hide the tears that had begun to form. Realising his blunder, Masson tried to make amends. “Of course, an oak tree would be just the thing to give some shade to the front garden of the new cottage.”
    “Well, we’re sure to need more room and there’s more than enough land.”
    “Oh, Francis,” she said, grabbing onto his arm with both hands. “Do you mean it? Do you really mean it?”
    Masson looked back at the house and saw the outlines of the two older women watching from behind the window and even without seeing the looks on their faces, he knew what was expected of him. As he turned his eyes to Constance, he brought his hand up to cover both of hers. “Yes. I do.”
    “Then I will wait for you.” Constance sighed with relief as tears of anguish transformed into tears of joy. She buried her head in his chest and then tore herself away and hurried back to the house to break the news to her mother. Masson could imagine the two older women still standing behind the parlour window, congratulating each other on a job well done.
    As Masson watched Constance bounce back up the path, barely able to contain her joy with each successive step, he realised that everything was settled for his return to England: prosperity, a wife and, hopefully, a family — all he had to do was make it back alive.
    But as Trudy’s innocent questions mingled in his mind with the look in Constance’s eyes when she spoke of the oak tree, Masson’s pulse began to climb and a feeling of dread coursed through his veins.
    Hoping that his face had not betrayed his doubts, he turned away from the house and closed his eyes so that he could feel the calming effect of the cool breeze on his face. From the recesses of his memory, he heard his mother pronounce her favourite mantra with such clarity that she could have been shouting it from the doorstep of the cottage: “You won’t disappoint me, will you, Francis?”
    After taking a long, deep breath, he tried to relax his neck muscles and forced his mouth into a smile. Then, with slow deliberation, he put one foot in front of the other and, bit-by-bit, managed to build up a decent stride back in the direction of the house.
    As he came closer, he could already hear the contented clucking of the women as they gathered around and basked in the good news that they had been hoping, planning and preparing for. As he reached the threshold, Masson stopped and took one last look at the land, and tried to see again the nursery that he had described to Constance. But before his mind could conjure up the vision, he felt Trudy tugging at his hand, and he let himself be pulled into the house and into the heart of their joy.

C HAPTER 7
    J ULY 13, 1772, P LYMOUTH
    As dawn broke over Plymouth harbour, the cries of ravenous gulls competed with the shouts of impatient sailors and the curses of weary stevedores. The seamen of the Resolution were keen to catch the outgoing tide, but the dockhands had been loading cargo all night, and they weren’t to be rushed.
    “Well, Mr Masson,” blurted out Simmons, who had divined Masson’s mood and who himself could not think of a worse fate than spending three months at sea aboard a converted coastal