Teresa struggled to swallow a mouthful of eggs, a lump forming in her throat. “It is just another thing that I shall learn to get used to.” She forced a smile. “The coldness of the castle and the coldness of my husband shall soon become one and the same, and I shall be impervious.”
“You are a remarkable woman, Your Grace,” Belinda said, the compliment taking Teresa by surprise. “There’s a great deal of strength and courage in you, and I want to let you know that the staff believe—myself included—that you were worth the wait. You are everything we hoped for. Someone with ideas and kindness and charm, who wants to bring this ruin back to life.”
Suddenly shy, uncertain of how to accept such praise, for it was not something that had often been given in her life, Teresa shoved another forkful of delicious eggs into her mouth so she would not have to say anything at all. Belinda seemed to understand, chuckling softly, as she headed for the door.
“I’ll have those vases fetched for you,” she said. “As for Mr. Brewster, you’ll find him in the potting sheds at this time of day. If not there, then the greenhouses. He is a creature of habit, which—as you may discover—is part of the problem.”
“I shall bear that in mind,” Teresa promised, swallowing.
Belinda turned back for a moment, her face tense, like she did not know if she should say what she was about to. But, in the end, she seemed to make her decision. “And, just so you know, he is not the only one.”
“Pardon?”
“A creature of habit,” Belinda replied, her tone hushed. “He is not the only one.”
Before Teresa could press her for more information, the housekeeper hurried out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind her.
Teresa whistled a jaunty tune as she made her way out into the immaculate gardens of Darnley Castle. It was a pity that one had to pass through the decaying archway of the ruined part of the castle to get to it, but once on the other side of the curved tunnel, the ruin added a somewhat mystical quality to the beautiful, sprawling grounds. As if the gardens were enchanted, the castle cursed.
Am I here because I am caught in the enchantment, or to break the curse?She smiled at her private silliness, her mood markedly improved thanks to the morning arrival of the post.
She could not be certain until she opened the letters, but one was addressed in Prudence’s hand, thicker than the others, and she had confident hopes that her latest chapters of Captain Frostheart and Miss Savage had arrived. The gardens were theperfectplace to read such a dazzling story, alongside the more serious task of acquiring a steady supply of flowers for the castle.
“A creature of habit,” she mumbled as she wandered along avenues of white gravel, trailing her fingertips against hedges of boxwood, the sound of fountains reminding her of home.
She paused and glanced back at the castle, shielding her eyes against the sun as she looked toward the windows of the two ruined towers. Squinting, her heart jolted.
For a moment, it looked like something moved in one of the vacant windows, high up, near to the top of the tower.
She blinked, shaking her head.I am imagining things, or it is an old drape moving in the wind.
It was the fault of the story—or what she hoped was the next part of the story—in her hand, and these exquisite gardens, and that eerie ruin, being allowed to crumble to dust. Not to mention the scarred, handsome, mysterious man who was hidden somewhere inside the castle, perhaps watching her, perhaps entirely disinterested by where she was or what she was doing.
Pressing on through colorful flowerbeds and hedges that had been trimmed into elaborate patterns and neat topiaries, she came to the gleaming exterior of the greenhouses. They were quite beautiful, with domed portions to the roof, and little decorative embellishments sticking upward, vines and flowers painstakingly created with metal.
It was almost a disappointment that she would not get to go inside, for there was a man outside, washing the glass, and judging by his silver hair and weathered skin, hehadto be Mr. Brewster. By age alone, there could be no one more senior in the garden.
“Mr. Brewster?” she asked, just to be sure.
The man stopped what he was doing, crinkled eyes peering at her. “Your Grace.” He dropped his rag into a bucket and bobbed his head in respect. “What brings you out here to the greenhouse? There’s prettier parts of the garden.”
“Everything in the gardens is beautiful,” she countered, smiling nervously. “In truth, I find these greenhouses rather charming. I did not know they could look so exquisite. At Grayling House, they are tucked away behind a wall and some apple trees, as some previous Earl of the house thought they were ugly.”
The gardener frowned as if he had spotted a rose growing where it should not be, the look knocking Teresa’s confidence a little, hitting her insecurities. The last thing she wanted was for any of the servants here to think her peculiar, otherwise she might as well have been back in society.
But then Mr. Brewster said, “Why would anyone think greenhouses are ugly?” and she realized that his frown had not been for her at all, but for whichever Earl of Grayling had made that decision.
“My thoughts exactly,” Teresa said, a note too brightly. “They are where beautiful things grow.”
The gardener made a grunt of agreement, wiping his hands self-consciously on a clean cloth. “Were you wanting a tour of the grounds, Your Grace?”
“I would relish that, Mr. Brewster,” she replied, hesitating. “But first, I wondered if I might ask a great favor of you. I know it will be an inconvenience, but you would have my eternal gratitude.”
His bushy eyebrow shot up, gray hair springing off in every direction. “What favor, Your Grace?”
She told him hastily of her plans to brighten up the castle with pretty flowers, explaining that some of the maids were on a mission to gather as many vases as they could. “Obviously, it will just be for the spring and the summer, and from flowerbeds where their absence will not be noticed. I should hate for you to have any bald patches.”
With a surprising laugh, the gardener rubbed the crown of his head. “Bit late for that, Your Grace.”
