Chapter Nine
The morning held a muted stillness, the kind suited to solitary pursuits.
Genevieve stepped along the narrow path behind the west wing, her slippers brushing against tufts of grass that had crept over the flagstones after years of neglect.
The glass houses rose before her, weathered and overgrown with vines, yet not beyond redemption.
Beneath the burden of ivy and grime, the elegant arches of the original iron framework remained intact.
Large panes of dulled glass caught the light in fractured reflections, streaked by age but unbroken.
She paused before the largest structure, once likely intended for tropical cultivation.
A greenhouse of such scale spoke to earlier generations’ ambitions, perhaps an Earl fond of exotic orchids or hothouse fruit.
Now, the building stood as a monument to forgotten purpose.
Yet even in disrepair, she found it compelling.
This was no idle garden folly. There was function beneath the decay.
Drawing a slim notebook from the pocket of her walking dress, Genevieve began her inspection.
She moved methodically, recording each cracked pane and warped timber, assessing what might be salvaged.
Her notes were both concise and practical.
Brickwork in one section required repointing. Glazing would need custom cutting.
Hinges rusted through would require full replacement.
She indulged in no sketches of imagined blossoms or decorative flourishes.
There were only quantities, materials, and estimates.
If she had entered into matrimony for security rather than affection, then this restoration would follow suit. Not a dream, but a solution.
And yet, as her hand moved across the page, a quiet sense of purpose took hold, unexpected but steadying. She pressed forward, cataloging damage not with dismay, but with determination. This was a place that might breathe again, if given the right attention.
A scuff of boots on gravel announced Mr. Winters’s approach before she glimpsed his neat figure through the broken trellis archway.
The estate manager tipped his hat with practiced courtesy, though his expression bore the wary reserve of a man uncertain of what to make of a mistress inspecting cracked joists rather than directing tea arrangements.
“Good morning, Lady Mountwood,” he said with bland politeness.
She nodded in acknowledgment, trying to assess the man before her. She had seen him staring at her and Gabriel before, though she had thought little of it then. Now, however, there was something that seemed to demand her attention about him.
“And to you, Mr. Winters,” she said, shutting her notebook with care. “I have been surveying the glass houses. I believe restoration is possible, though the effort required is not insignificant.”
He stepped beside her, glancing up at the vine-choked rafters.
“These have not seen proper maintenance in at least fifteen years,” he said. “Might be less expensive to pull them down altogether.”
She did not flinch at the blunt suggestion.
“Perhaps,” she said. “But they are structurally sound. With thoughtful use of existing resources and a clear plan of priorities, the cost could be kept reasonable. I should prefer to restore rather than demolish.”
His brow rose slightly, but he nodded.
“There is still a working forge in the village,” he said. “Iron reinforcements could be fashioned locally. Glass will be the trickiest part.”
She nodded. It seemed he doubted that the houses were salvageable and perhaps thought her mad for trying. She was undeterred, however.
“I presumed as much,” she said. “Would you happen to know if any of the older suppliers used by your father’s generation remain in operation? The catalogs I have examined suggest a supplier in Bristol who still produces in the older dimensions.”
This time, his surprise was not subtle. He turned fully toward her, his lips parting faintly before recovering his composure.
“Your ladyship has been thorough,” he said with a small smirk.
Genevieve nodded, smiling.
“I dislike half-measures,” she said.
A quiet moment passed between them, but she could see the man’s expression softening. Then Mr. Winters cleared his throat.
“I shall have the laborers clear the interior walkways and remove any rotten wood,” he said, a little less dubiously than when he had originally spoken. “If you will provide your list, I can begin assessing the order of materials.”
Genevieve grinned and nodded.
“Of course,” she said, handing over her notebook without hesitation.
As he flipped through her notations, his mouth tightened in concentration. At last, he handed it back with a small nod.
“This is well organized,” he said, finally giving a respectful, approving smile. “You have a talent for detail, milady.”
She accepted the compliment with a nod.
“I should like to be kept informed of all progress,” she said with another warm smile. “You may speak with me directly, if you wish.”
Mr. Winters bowed respectfully.
“Yes, milady,” he said.
With another bow, Mr. Winters headed off toward the tool shed. Genevieve remained a few minutes longer, examining the floor drains and central planting beds of the smallest greenhouse. Her fingers brushed the rim of a broken terra-cotta pot half-buried in soil gone to dust.
A rustle from the far end of the garden drew her attention.
Straightening, she saw Thomas Wilkins bent low amid one of the overgrown flower beds near the perimeter wall.
He appeared absorbed in his task, his hands moving with a force that struck her as more destructive than productive.
Rather than removing weeds at the root, he hacked at them with swift, sharp jerks, the motion almost punitive.
He did not glance up, though she knew he must be aware of her presence. The proximity was too close for coincidence. Only when she deliberately turned in his direction did he lift his head. Their eyes met for the briefest instant.
There was nothing overtly wrong in his manner, no breach of propriety or clear insubordination.
And yet the sensation that gripped her stomach was unmistakable.
Something in his expression had not aligned with the dutiful mien of a servant absorbed in honest labor.
It lacked warmth and deference. He returned to his work at once, his posture rigid.
She watched a moment longer before turning away.
As she stepped from the crumbling threshold of the glass house, her mind returned not to the vines or cracked panels, but to the set of Wilkins’s jaw.
Her instincts, trained more in observing people than plants, stirred uneasily.
Though she could name no grievance nor point to any transgression, unease lingered, unidentifiable, but present.
She resolved to mention nothing to Gabriel yet.
Suspicion without evidence could too easily be mistaken for nerves.
Nonetheless, she resolved to keep watch.
Genevieve glanced back at the largest glasshouse.
The afternoon sunlight filtered weakly through the grime-spattered panes, but the shape of the thing, the fine curve of the dome, the graceful iron ribs, remained.
It had been built with intention and care.
Beneath years of neglect, the original design endured, waiting for purpose to return.
So much had been built here before her. So much had been lost. But there was still something to be made.
She would see it restored to the glory it was meant to be.
She had not intended to linger. The sun had already begun its slow arc westward, brushing the tangled hedgerow with a faint haze.
But still wearing the same walking dress from her inspection of the glass houses, she stood at the far corner of the gardens, where the last greenhouse nestled against the outer wall.
This smaller structure, more conservatory than utility space, had escaped the worst decline.
Its paneled sides, though clouded, remained largely intact, and the roofline had sagged far less than the others.
Curious, she pressed inward through the warped door, which creaked and caught before yielding with a sigh.
The interior smelled of damp earth and old leaves.
A bench of gray stone ran along one side, its surface coated in moss, but beneath the bench, half-concealed behind a dusty oilcloth, stood a low cabinet with iron latches, its edges weathered but unbroken.
Genevieve knelt carefully and unfastened the latch.
Inside, sheltered from rot and rodents, were several leather-bound volumes arranged with deliberate order.
Their spines bore dates spanning more than a decade, the earliest marked 1795 in delicate gilt script.
The leather, worn smooth from handling, gave off a faint scent of lavender and ink.
She drew out one volume, turned to the first page, and found herself arrested.
Each page bore the same disciplined hand, and opposite many entries were drawings of astonishing quality.
Botanical plates, but not mere sketches.
These were renderings born of both scientific accuracy and artistic skill, the kind of images she had only ever seen in formal publications.
A spread of Lilium auratus, its petals captured with remarkable delicacy, shimmered across one page, annotated with notes in fine ink.
“Bloomed two days earlier than last season. Petals extended farther along lower arc, near identical to plate 7 in Hooker’s Flora. Scents are strongest just after midday. Reproduces poorly by seed in our climate.”
Genevieve traced the edge of the page with reverent care as she turned to another.
“Alstroemeria psittacina, specimen from Mr. Hartley’s shipment. Rooted with difficulty. Transplanted March 3rd. Exhibits vivid striping, strongest in shaded corner of the west house. Worth pursuing again if additional cuttings can be acquired.”
The drawings were done in colored ink, every leaf veined, every petal shaded with an understanding of both light and growth.
She had seen the work of professionals who rendered exotic flora for the Royal Society, and this was no less.
It struck her at once that these were not idle observations, not the pastimes of a lady dabbling in flowers.
These pages belonged to a mind both exacting and expressive.
Gabriel’s mother, she thought with a gasp.
Genevieve turned to the inside cover, confirming what she already knew.
“Eleanor Montgomery, commenced this twelfth of April, 1795,” she read aloud.
She had entered this house under peculiar terms, a wife not by courtship but arrangement, occupying rooms once arranged by a woman she had never known.
Until now, that presence had been vague, preserved in portraits and remembered through murmured anecdotes, but these pages rendered her vivid.
Each sentence bore a clarity that matched Genevieve’s sensibilities.
The entries showed no trace of fashionable romantic excess.
They were orderly, exact, and yet never cold.
There was affection for the plants, certainly, but also for the craft of study itself.
She pulled the second volume from the cabinet, dated 1798. Near the middle, she found a series devoted to a type of orchid she had only read of in translated works.
“Cattleya labiata. Gift from Lord Howden via West Indies voyage. Requires near-constant warmth. Initial planting failed. Second attempt successful with increased gravel drainage and warm mist. First bloom exceptional, deep violet with flecked center. Sketch appended.”
Indeed, opposite the note, the bloom curved across the page, a riot of color captured with a steadiness of hand that belied the complexity of its form.
Genevieve sank back onto the bench and allowed the volume to rest in her lap.
She had spent hours copying diagrams, working by candlelight with her own specimens in a quiet corner of her father’s house.
But she had always been regarded with gentle amusement, her diligence tolerated rather than understood.
Here, at last, was proof that another aristocratic woman had treated such work with seriousness.
Eleanor Montgomery had made a record, a true one. This was a legacy.
“March 7th,” she read softly as she turned another page.
“Weather dry. North wind. Attempted germination of Wisteria seed, taken from Mrs. Radcliffe’s southern wall.
Scarified and soaked. No sign of sprouting by fourth day, may require longer immersion.
Uncertain if seed viable or improperly stored. ”
It was a perfect entry. Date, condition, process, conclusion. Even the failures were preserved, valued as part of a greater inquiry. She found herself smiling faintly.
“We would have gotten along,” she said, speaking softly in the empty room.
The space answered only with the soft creak of wood and the faint rattle of a vine scraping against the outer frame.
Drawing the book closer, she bent again over the pages, reading for another quarter of an hour.
At times, she paused to copy down select entries into her own notebook, intending to cross-reference the species mentioned with what remained in the grounds.
This was no longer idle curiosity. She meant to preserve what Eleanor had begun.
She imagined what it must have been like to tend the glass houses when they still held warmth and watch rare blossoms open beneath panes that shimmered in the morning light.
Eleanor had worked in these very rooms, had lifted these same latches, had perhaps sat on this very bench, examining leaves and petals in quiet concentration.
Genevieve felt, for the first time since her arrival, not as a visitor nor a caretaker, but a successor.
Not of title, but of endeavor. She replaced the volumes carefully, fastening the cabinet once more and brushing away a smear of dust from her skirt.
Outside, the hush of afternoon deepened.
The wind had shifted, and the trees now moved with a more distinct rustle.
As she stepped into the light once more, Genevieve did not look back at the greenhouses as she had the day before.
She had seen their past now, not merely their present state, and that changed everything.
The work ahead would not merely be practical.
It would be a continuation. A restoration not only of structure, but of record, of memory.