The garden at the east side of Eric's residence had become another of Delia's private sanctuary. She found a simple, quiet peace in the feel of the cool earth and the scent of blooming flowers. Dressed in a simple work dress with her sleeves rolled up, she was on her knees, carefully planting a row of new lavender seedlings.
"Your Grace," a familiar, respectful voice greeted her.
Delia looked up from her work. It was Mr. Rye. "There is a letter for you," he said, holding out a single, folded envelope on a small silver tray.
Seeing the letter, Delia immediately dropped the small trowel she was holding. A sense of urgency washed over her, chasing away the peaceful calm of the garden. She wiped the dirt from her hands onto her apron and took the letter. "Thank you, Mr. Rye," she said, her voice a little breathless.
Mr. Rye bowed and left her to her privacy. Delia's fingers, still trembling slightly, broke the simple wax seal. The note was short, the handwriting neat and precise.
