He placed a hand gently atop her head and smiled faintly. “I’ve told you countless times not to run like that,” he said. “You seem in fine spirits today.”
She gave a small shrug in response. Valentine studied her face, noting the soft flush on her cheeks, the absent wrinkle between her brows, and for a moment, he allowed himself the hope that this walk might not end in cold silence or sullen glares. Perhaps Cecilia’s presence had done something already, or perhaps it was just a good morning. Either way, he would take it.
“Are we taking a stroll, Papa?” Abigail asked him.
Valentine nodded in response. “I thought today might be a good day for a walk. I’d like for you and the Duchess to see more of the estate together.”
Abigail turned her gaze toward Cecilia, assessing her in the way only children could. She didn’t blink, but she took her time to give Cecilia a good stare down.
Valentine cleared his throat. “Abigail,” he said quietly. “This is the Duchess of Ashbourne. She is your mother now, and I expect you to treat her with kindness.”
He didn’t look at Cecilia as he said it, but the words were meant for both of them.
Cecilia stepped forward with a graceful curtsy. “It’s lovely to finally meet you, Abigail,” she said gently. “My name is Cecilia.”
Abigail didn’t respond. She only studied her again, then turned and walked on ahead without a word. Valentine exhaled through his nose and offered Cecilia the smallest of glances. “Shall we?” he murmured.
They followed the narrow path that curved around the east wing. Cecilia kept a careful pace beside Valentine, while Abigail darted slightly ahead, her green skirts brushing against the rosemary bushes and low marigold borders.
“It’s so big,” Abigail said suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. “I didn’t know a garden could be like this.”
Valentine’s brow lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “I take it you’re pleased?”
Cecilia slowly nodded. “It’s so peaceful. Like, it’s detached from the manor completely. In a world of its own. It smells heavenly in here. I like the fountain,” she said, her eyes fixed on the gentle stream of water tumbling from the stone basin. “It makes a sound like someone humming. Also, the roses…so many colors.”
Valentine felt a small but steady shift in his chest. The compliment, brief as it was, pleased him more than he expected. He had spent the better part of two years trying to bring the grounds back to life after everything. It had become a solace for him, a place he frequented when the walls of Ashbourne grew too oppressive.
“I’m glad,” he said simply.
Cecilia turned to him, and he instinctively turned to her too, catching the suspicion etched on her face.
“You’re glad?” she asked slowly, tilting her head just slightly. “That is unexpected.”
Valentine arched a brow, not missing her tone. “Unexpected?” he echoed. “Is it so very shocking that I take pleasure in a compliment to my garden?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were being genuine, Your Grace,” she said plainly. “I find it difficult to tell with you.”
Valentine scoffed. “I have been nothing but honest with you since the moment we met, Duchess. Do you accuse me of insincerity now?”
“I don’t know you well enough to accuse you of anything,” she replied. “That is rather the point.”
“You expected me to be dismissive.”
“I did not say that,” she said with a shrug. “But it wouldn’t have surprised me.”
He paused just slightly, his gaze drifting toward the hedge that framed the edge of the path. “The garden is a place I value. That is all.”
He turned to look at her then, a proper look, not just a passing glance, and for the first time since they’d left the house, he noticed a peculiar shift in her expression. Her eyes, no longer fixed on him, had gone distant. Thoughtful. Distracted.
Valentine frowned faintly.
Before he could speak, Cecilia took two swift steps away from him, her gaze locked on Abigail, crouched a little ahead. She was kneeling in the soft grass beside a low-growing cluster of wildflowers, her fingers brushing lightly over the pale lavender petals.
“Do you like that one, Abigail?” Cecilia asked, crouching beside her. “It’s called forget-me-not. One of my favorites.”
Abigail did not answer, nor did she look up. She only continued to touch the flower with the silent absorption of someone deep inside her own world.
“They say it first grew along the banks of the Danube, where a French soldier plucked it for his beloved before being swept away by the current. Forget me not, he called to her.” Cecilia smiled faintly. “Rather dramatic, I suppose, but that’s how most memorable things start, isn’t it?”
