CHAPTER TWELVE
The east gardens were beautiful.
They were designed in the English style, with winding paths and carefully curated wildness, roses climbing over arbors and spilling from beds in profusions of colour. A small fountain murmured at the centre, and benches were positioned at intervals to allow for rest and contemplation.
"Papa designed this for their tenth wedding anniversary," Harriet said, leading Sebastian along the main path. "Mama says he spent months planning it in secret. He hired gardeners from three counties to install everything in a single week while she was visiting her sister."
"That's remarkably romantic."
"He was a romantic man. Mama pretends to be practical, but I think that's one of the reasons she loved him." Harriet paused beside a climbing rose, its blooms a deep, velvety red. "This was her favourite. He had it imported from France. It's called Belle de Crécy."
"It's beautiful."
"She used to cut blooms from it every week to put in his study." Harriet's voice was soft with memory. "After he died, she couldn't bear to look at them for months. But eventually, she started cutting them again. She said it was a way of keeping him close."
Sebastian watched her face as she spoke, the play of emotions, the mixture of grief and love and nostalgia. She had never spoken to him like this before. Never let him see so deeply into her family's history.
"Thank you for showing me this," he said.
"It's just a garden."
"It's not, though. It's part of who you are. Part of where you come from." He reached out and touched the rose, its petals soft as silk. "I want to know everything about you, Harriet. The small things and the large things. The happy memories and the sad ones. All of it."
She was quiet for a moment. "Why?"
"Because loving someone isn't just about the present. It's about understanding how they became who they are." Sebastian turned to face her. "You've spent weeks at Thornwood, learning my home, my history. I wanted to know yours as well."
"There's not much to know. I grew up here. Richard left us, and I became the person you met in London, sharp and defensive and determined never to let anyone close." Harriet shrugged, but her eyes betrayed her. "The girl who played in these gardens is long gone."
"I don't think she is." Sebastian stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think she's still in there, underneath all the armour. I've seen glimpses of her. When you laugh. When you throw bread at me across the dinner table."
"That was only twice."
"It was magnificent both times." He cupped her face in his hands. "I love the woman you've become, Harriet. But I love knowing who you were, too. It helps me understand."
"Understand what?"
"How remarkable you are. How much courage it took to become yourself." He kissed her gently. "I'm honoured that you're allowing me to see it."
Harriet blinked rapidly, her eyes bright. "You're going to make me cry in my mother's garden. That seems undignified."
"I'll look away if you like."
"Don't you dare." She pulled him into a fierce embrace, her face pressed against his shoulder. "I love you. Have I mentioned that recently?"
"Not in the last hour."
"Well, I do. Desperately. Against all my better judgment." She pulled back, her expression half-exasperated, half-adoring. "You've ruined me for cynicism, Sebastian Vane."
"I do apologise."
"No, you don't."
"No," he agreed. "I don't."
They continued through the garden, Harriet pointing out plants and sharing memories, Sebastian listening and storing each detail away like treasure. By the time they reached the far end, where a stone bench overlooked a small pond, he felt he understood her better than he ever had.
"There's more," Harriet said, settling onto the bench. "If you want to see it."
"There's always more with you."
"Is that a complaint?"
"It's an observation. One I happen to find delightful."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "The attic, then. If you're up for an adventure."
"With you? Always."
***
The attic was dusty, cramped, and absolutely wonderful.
It occupied the entire top floor of the east wing, a sprawling space filled with the accumulated detritus of generations.
There were trunks of old clothes, furniture covered in sheets, paintings stacked against walls, boxes labelled in handwriting that ranged from spidery Victorian script to Richard's familiar scrawl.
"This is where we held court," Harriet said, leading him through the maze of forgotten objects to a cleared space near one of the dormer windows. "Richard built a throne out of old cushions. I made him tear it down after he tried to stage a mutiny."
"I thought you said he never mutinied."
"He attempted it once. I put down the rebellion with extreme prejudice." Harriet's smile was sharp. "He never tried again."
Sebastian looked around the space, trying to imagine the children who had played here.
A young Harriet, fierce and commanding even then, her dark hair escaping from whatever style her mother had imposed.
Richard, gangly and good-natured, laughing as he pretended to be a pirate.
The easy affection between siblings who had not yet learned that such things could be lost.
"What sort of pirates were you?" he asked.
"The best sort. We sailed the Caribbean and liberated treasure from evil merchants. Richard kept a log of all our voyages." Harriet moved to a trunk near the window and opened it, revealing a jumble of childhood artifacts. "It's probably still in here somewhere."
She rummaged through the trunk, producing items at random, a wooden sword, a tricorn hat that had seen better days, a collection of glass beads that had apparently served as pirate treasure. Finally, she found what she was looking for: a battered notebook filled with Richard's handwriting.
"Here." She handed it to Sebastian. "A complete record of our adventures."
Sebastian opened the notebook carefully. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded, but Richard's writing was clear enough to read:
Day One of the Great Caribbean Expedition. Captain Harry has ordered us to set sail at dawn. First Mate Richard suggested we wait until after breakfast, but was overruled. The Captain is a harsh mistress.
Sebastian laughed. "He had a flair for the dramatic."
"He really did." Harriet sat down on an old trunk, her expression soft with memory. "He would have been a good writer, I think. If he'd lived long enough to try."
"What would he have written?"
"Adventure stories, probably. Tales of daring deeds and noble heroes." She smiled. "He always believed in heroes. Even when I told him they didn't exist."
"Maybe they do. Just not the kind in stories."
"What kind, then?"
Sebastian considered the question. "The kind who show up… Who stay… Who do small, necessary things without expecting recognition." He looked at her.
"The kind who help their little sister play pirates in an attic, even when they're too old for such games."
Harriet's breath caught. "That's…"
"True? I think so."
She was quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands. When she spoke, her voice was rough.
"He would have liked you. I mean, he did like you…you were friends. But I mean he would have liked this. Us together."
"I hope so."
"He would have taken credit for it, you know. Insisted that he'd planned it all along." Her laugh was watery. "He was terrible about that. Always claiming responsibility for things that had nothing to do with him."
"Sounds like someone else I know."
"I don't claim credit for things I didn't do."
"No, you claim responsibility for things that aren't your fault. Different direction, same impulse."
Harriet looked at him sharply. "That's…"
"Also true?"
She didn't answer, but her expression confirmed it.
They spent another hour in the attic, exploring its treasures and sharing its memories.
Sebastian found a box of Richard's childhood drawings, stick figures engaged in elaborate adventures, with labels identifying each character.
Harriet found a collection of her mother's letters from before her matrimony, tied with faded ribbon and hidden in a hatbox.
"We should ask her about these," Harriet said, handling the letters with careful reverence. "I had no idea she'd kept them."
"Perhaps she'd prefer to keep them private."
"Perhaps. But I'd like to know the story." Harriet traced the ribbon with her fingertip. "I always thought my parents' matrimony was purely practical. An arrangement between families. But these letters suggest otherwise."
"Love can grow in unexpected places."
"Apparently so." She looked up at him with an expression that made his heart stutter. "Speaking from experience."
"Extensive experience, yes."
They left the attic as the afternoon light began to fade, carrying a few carefully selected treasures, Richard’s drawings, the poetry book, a small portrait of the family from before everything had gone wrong.
Harriet handled each item with tenderness, and Sebastian understood that she was reclaiming something.
A connection to her past. A foundation for their future.
He loved her more in that moment than he had ever loved anything in his life.
***
Dinner that evening was a warm affair.
Lady Fordshire seemed invigorated by the day's news, her conversation lively, and her wit sharp. She told stories about Harriet's childhood that made Sebastian laugh and Harriet groan. She asked questions about Thornwood Park, about Sebastian's plans for the estate, about their life together.
"And children?" Lady Fordshire asked, with the particular lack of subtlety that mothers seemed to cultivate. "I trust you've discussed the matter?"
"Mama." Harriet's voice carried a warning.
"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question. I should like to know if I'm to expect grandchildren in the foreseeable future."
"We've been wedded for less than a month."
"Time enough to have discussed it, surely."