Chapter 5
The gardens of Oakford Hall wore the morning like a debutante wore pearls—draped in extravagance, as if beauty required no effort.
Alice moved along the gravel path, her skirts gathered enough to clear the dew-wet grass, breathing in the cool air that smelled of roses and fresh earth.
The house party had barely survived breakfast. Guests drifted to their various amusements, and she escaped before anyone could conscript her into writing letters, or worse, discussing ribbons.
The night had not been restful. She had stood too long at her window, watching the moonlit lawns, her thoughts circling like moths around a flame she could not name.
Clara's warning lodged beneath her ribs like a splinter, He carries too much regret.
Her own words from the game, those unbidden syllables about forgiveness, returned to her in the dark hours with uncomfortable persistence.
Alice shook her head, as if she might dislodge the memory. The morning was too fine for such brooding. A thrush sang somewhere in the hedgerow, and the roses along the south border had begun to open their first blooms of the season. Large, champagne-colored flowers, heavy-headed and fragrant.
She paused to examine a particularly magnificent specimen when laughter pierced the air.
It was not pleasant laughter. Years spent in ballrooms and drawing rooms had taught her the difference between genuine mirth and its crueler cousin, the bright, brittle sound that signaled someone was being made sport of.
She turned her head, tracking the noise to a gap in the clipped boxwood hedge, and moved toward it with the instincts of a cat that had heard a mouse.
Through the ornamental archway, she found them.
Lady Harrowby and Miss Penelope Satterthwaite stood at the center of the rose garden's inner circle, positioned like judges at a tribunal.
Their gowns were impeccable. One was in striped muslin that must have cost her father a quarter's income, the other in pale yellow with lace so delicate it looked as if it might dissolve in the morning damp.
Their expressions matched their finery—polished, superior, and contempt arranged into smiles.
Before them stood their victim.
The young woman, perhaps nineteen, was slight and unassuming in a serviceable brown dress that had been fashionable three seasons ago.
Her hair was pinned with more practicality than style, and she clutched a small leather-bound volume to her chest as if it were a shield.
Her face flushed with humiliation, her eyes downcast, her shoulders curving inward.
"Quite remarkable, really," the one in stripes said, her voice carrying with practiced clarity. "I had thought plain dressing was a choice, but I see now it must be a calling. Like becoming a nun, but without the advantage of the veil."
Her companion laughed, a sharp sound that echoed in the garden. "Some creatures should stay in the country where they belong. The gardens there are more forgiving of weeds."
The young woman in brown flinched as if struck.
Something inside Alice turned cold and still.
She recognized that flinch. Years ago, she had experienced it herself when she was young and foolish enough to believe that cruelty was deserved. Before she had decided that if she must be judged, she would at least give them something interesting to judge.
Her spine straightened, and her chin lifted as she stepped through the archway with deliberate grace.
"Good morning," she said, her voice bright. "What a surprise to find such lively conversation so early. I thought I was the only one awake before ten."
The fashionable pair turned, their expressions shifting from surprise to calculation. Alice was not someone to be dismissed. Her family was too established, her connections too useful, her tongue too dangerous. They arranged their faces into something resembling welcome.
"Lady Alice," the one in yellow managed. "We were just—"
"Discussing botany, I believe." Alice swept past them with a smile that revealed too many teeth.
"How fortunate that Miss Winters is here.
" She turned to the young woman in brown, whose face had gone from flushed to pale.
"My dear Miss Winters, I have been hoping to find you.
Lady Oakford mentioned your expertise in flora, and I am desperate for someone to tell me whether that alarming growth near the fountain is meant to be there or if the gardener has simply given up hope. "
Miss Winters opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
Alice linked her arm through the young woman's with the ease of old friendship. "Do say you'll come look with me. I cannot tell an iris from a lily without assistance, and I refuse to embarrass myself further by asking one of the gentlemen. They know even less than I do and won't admit it."
She began walking, drawing Miss Winters along with her, not looking back at the two fashionable ladies whose faces had gone rigid with thwarted malice.
“I…I would be honored," Miss Winters managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lady Alice, I don’t… you needn't—"
"Needn't what? Enjoy intelligent company?" Alice patted her arm. "My dear, I have spent the better part of three days surrounded by people who think literature means the scandal sheets and education means knowing which fork to use for fish. You are a welcome change."
They reached a stone bench near the lily pond, and Alice guided her companion to sit. The young woman's hands trembled around her book. A botanical text, its spine creased from use. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Alice settled beside her and produced a handkerchief from her sleeve. It was fine linen embroidered with violets, exactly what one needed for such emergencies.
"Here," she said, her voice gentler now. "Take a moment. Those two peaked at their first Season and have been declining ever since. Their opinions are worth precisely what they paid for them. Nothing.”
Miss Winters accepted the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. "You are very kind, Lady Alice. I am not accustomed to…well, I don't usually—"
"Find yourself ambushed by overdressed vultures?" Alice leaned back against the bench, letting the morning sun warm her face. "It happens to the best of us. The trick is learning to fight back."
"I am…afraid I do not know how." The admission was small, broken.
"You will." Alice looked at her properly then, at the intelligence in those watery brown eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw despite the trembling lip. "What are you reading?"
Miss Winters glanced down at her book as if she had forgotten she was holding it. "Linnaeus," she said. "His taxonomy of British wildflowers. It's dry, but the illustrations are beautiful."
"Linnaeus." Alice smiled, and there was nothing sharp in it now. "Tell me about the roses. I want to know their proper names, the Latin ones. It will drive my mother mad when I use them at dinner."
The young woman blinked, then slowly smiled back.
They sat together in the morning garden while Miss Winters explained the classification of Rosa centifolia and Rosa gallica, her voice growing steadier with each Latin syllable.
The thrush continued its song. The dew slowly dried from the grass.
And Alice listened, all the while feeling something uncoil in her chest that she had not known was so tight.
When Miss Winters finally rose to leave, there was color in her cheeks, and her shoulders had straightened.
"Thank you, Lady Alice. I shall not forget this kindness."
"It was not kindness," Alice said, rising with her. "It was the pleasure of good company. Do come find me if you wish to discuss Digitalis purpurea. I have a fascination with poisonous plants."
The young woman laughed, surprised and bright, then departed with something that almost looked like confidence.
Alice remained by the lily pond, watching her go.
Samuel had not intended to eavesdrop.
He had come to the gardens for the same reason he visited gardens at any house party—to escape.
The morning room had been filled with chatter about the previous evening's events, voices overlapping in a constant stream of opinions on the weather, the wine, and the surprising revelation that Mr. Davenant had once owned a parrot.
Samuel had lasted precisely fifteen minutes before his temples began to throb, prompting him to slip out the terrace doors.
The boxwood hedge offered cover while he walked the perimeter path, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. He had been contemplating the roses, their arrangement pleasing him, the careful symmetry of the beds, the evidence of a gardener who valued structure, when the voices reached him.
Cruel laughter pierced the air, followed by words that sliced through the silence.
He edged closer, positioning himself behind the clipped hedge, his eyes fixed on the scene before him.
Two young women stood with haughty postures, their elegant gowns signaling wealth, while their expressions revealed a hollow cruelty born of boredom.
Before them, a slight figure in serviceable brown clutched a book like a shield, her shoulders hunched against their onslaught.
His jaw tightened. He had witnessed this scene countless times. The leading actresses changed, but the script remained the same. Disgust washed over him, followed by the familiar calculation that intervening would spark a scene, draw unwanted attention, and demand an explanation.
Then Lady Alice swept through the archway, and his calculations shattered.
He watched her approach, each step deliberate and unhurried, as if the world had molded itself to her presence. Her spine straightened, chin lifted, and something in her posture shifted from casual to predatory, causing his breath to catch.
She is magnificent.