It was a breath of fresh air. And yet, it did little to ease the hollow in Genevieve’s chest.
As they approached a table, Genevieve’s attention was drawn to the lawn, where a group of children played.
A little girl in a blue dress dashed across the grass, her curls bouncing as she shrieked with delight.
Two boys chased after her, one of them tumbling to the ground in a heap of giggles.
A woman—presumably his mother—hurried over, scooping him up and twirling him around, her laughter mingling with his.
An image flashed before Genevieve’s eyes; a boy and a girl running towards her with bright, emerald green eyes and brown hair.
Herchildren. The children that she and Wilhelm would sire one day.
And it wasn’t the first time that image had emerged in her head. No, it was a budding flower, and it had bloomed in her mind for some time now.
She had yearned for a family. A family with Wilhelm.
But now…
That was all gone.
Her throat went dry and she turned away, blinking rapidly.
Marianne noticed immediately.
“Genevieve?” she asked softly, her brow furrowing. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” Genevieve said quickly, though her voice wavered. “I just need a moment.”
Marianne hesitated, then nodded. “Take your time. We will be right over there,” she said, gesturing toward an empty table near the edge of the garden.
Genevieve offered a faint smile of gratitude before stepping away.
She wandered toward a shaded corner of the garden, seeking solace beneath the canopy of a flowering magnolia tree.
The laughter of the children echoed in her ears, a cruel reminder of the future she had once dreamed of. That dream now felt impossibly distant, shattered, swept away like dust in the wind.
“Escaping the chaos, are we?”
Genevieve turned, startled, to find Lady Whitaker standing nearby, holding a teacup in one hand and a plate piled high with pastries in the other. Her hat was slightly askew, and there was a streak of icing on her sleeve, but her expression was kind.
“Forgive me, Lady Whitaker,” Genevieve said, forcing a smile. “I did not mean to be a rude guest.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Whitaker said briskly, plopping down onto a nearby bench and balancing her plate on her lap. “The chaos can be overwhelming, even for the best of us. That is why I always keep a stash of lemon tarts. Nothing soothes the soul like a good tart.” She held out the plate. “Care for one?”
Genevieve hesitated, then took one, if only to avoid seeming rude. She bit into it, the tangy sweetness a brief distraction from her swirling thoughts.
Lady Whitaker studied her for a moment, then said, “You know, my late husband used to say that gardens like this one were made for healing. I thought he was being poetic, but now I think he might have been onto something. There is something about being surrounded by life and beauty that makes the troubles of the world seem a little less daunting.”
Genevieve looked down at the half-eaten tart in her hand. “That is beautiful, My Lady.”
Lady Whitaker nodded solemnly.
“You agree, and yet that melancholy has not left your eyes, Your Grace,” she said, her voice tinged with understanding. “Heartache is a cruel mistress, that one. But I have found that it is like a storm—it passes, even if it leaves a bit of wreckage in its wake.”
A bit of wreckage?Her mind echoed.
She wanted to tell Lady Whitaker that storms did not simply pass; they were deadly. They took away entire families in a matter of moments, and left one utterly alone in the world, left with nothing but the burden of acurse.
