Chapter 11
We arrived back at the manor as afternoon light began its slow decline toward evening, illuminating everything in that strange way which made it appear golden and dying at once.
The carriage wheels crunched over gravel, each rotation marking time I found myself oddly reluctant to surrender.
Agnes met us at the door before we had fully descended from the carriage, her hands already twisting in her apron with that telltale gesture of nervousness I had come to recognize. Her smile was bright, but it wavered like a candle in a breeze as her eyes darted between Dr. Ambrose and myself.
"Welcome back," she said, her voice an octave too high. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"We did, thank you Agnes." He handed her his coat, his movements unhurried. "The specimen is perfect for our purposes."
"Wonderful, wonderful." Agnes nodded with unwarranted repetitive enthusiasm, her gaze sliding to his face wearily. "Dr. Ambrose, you have a guest waiting in your study. He arrived about an hour ago."
A weighted look passed between them, one I could not exactly interpret, though it pressed against my awareness. Dr. Ambrose's jaw clenched, then smoothed at once.
"I see," he said quietly, the words containing volumes I was not permitted to read. "Thank you for accommodating him, Agnes."
"Of course." Agnes turned to me with renewed vigor. "Miss Reed, why don't you let me take that lovely plant to the greenhouse for you? You must be famished after your journey. I've set out tea and cake in the dining room."
I glanced down at the Bacopa I still held, its leaves soft against my chest, its presence in my hands a tangible reminder that I was possibly one step closer to regaining my memories. The offer was kind, but her eagerness to separate me from both Dr. Ambrose and the specimen felt deliberate.
"I do not mind taking it myself," I said, watching her face closely. "It would only take a moment—"
"Nonsense!" Agnes reached for the pot with such insistence that I had to surrender it or risk an undignified struggle. "You've been traveling all day. Go, rest and drink something warm. Dr. Ambrose has business to attend to anyway."
I looked at Dr. Ambrose, my brows furrowing.
He met my gaze with an expression that managed to be both apologetic and firm.
"Agnes is right. I have no intention of attempting the grafting today.
The specimen needs time to acclimate to its new environment before we begin extraction.
You may take the rest of the day to yourself. You have earned it."
The words were gentle but unmistakably manufactured, wrapped in praise that did nothing to soften the reality that I was being dismissed.
Whatever business awaited him in his study, I was not to be part of it, and was obviously being prevented from proximity to it through the combined efforts of the pair of them working in unspoken coordination once again.
"Very well," I said, though curiosity already burned in my chest.
Agnes practically bustled me toward the dining room, the Bacopa clutched in her hands as though she thought I might reach for it at any moment.
Dr. Ambrose disappeared down the corridor toward his study without a backward glance, his shoulders carrying a tension that had not been there moments before.
I found myself alone in the dining room, staring into the steam of my tea as I stirred it mindlessly.
Who would be visiting Dr. Ambrose? And why had Agnes been so determined to keep me away from whatever conversation was taking place behind that closed door?
The questions circled my mind with the persistence of birds, returning again and again to pick at the same territory, finding no satisfaction yet unable to abandon the search.
Perhaps it was someone who would disapprove of our arrangement—an unmarried woman living and working alone with a widower, no chaperone beyond an aging housekeeper and a peculiar servant who barely qualified as human company.
Perhaps it was a family member who would object to my presence on moral grounds, who would demand Dr. Ambrose maintain propriety even in his own home.
Or perhaps it was simply personal business. A solicitor reviewing estate matters. A benefactor for his research who preferred discretion. A colleague from his university days come to discuss some private matter unrelated to botanical science.
Any of these explanations would be reasonable, logical even, sufficient to explain both the secrecy and Agnes's nervous energy.
And yet.
Secrets, secrets, secrets, the voice sing-songed. So many secrets.
I set down the spoon and rose from the table.
The rational part of my mind knew I should respect the obvious boundaries being drawn. I should finish my tea, retire to my room, and allow Dr. Ambrose his privacy for whatever business required it.
I was not going to do that, though.
I moved into the corridor, my footsteps light and quiet on the wooden floors. The house was silent—Agnes presumably occupied in the greenhouse, Hawthorne nowhere to be seen, no sounds of movement from the upper floors.
I paused, listening. Nothing but the groan of old wood and the gentle rattle of wind against windows.
The corridor stretched before me, empty and inviting in its desertion. I crept down the hall, a moth drawn to a flame, pulled forward by a compulsion I could not justify, yet could not resist.
My heart beat too fast in my chest, adrenaline sharpening my senses even as the voice in my mind hummed approval at the transgression.
Yes, it whispered. Find out what he hides.
I reached the study and pressed my ear against the wood, hardly daring to breathe.
Voices filtered through, muffled and indistinct, the thick oak doing its work too well.
I listened to the cadence of conversation, the rise and fall of two male voices in discussion, but the actual words remained frustratingly out of reach.
I strained to hear more, pressing closer, my hands braced against the doorframe for balance, willing the words to clarify.
"—she has a right to know—" A voice I did not recognize, though something about its timbre was distantly familiar. "—dangerous for both of you—"
I breathed slowly through my nose, trying to quiet my racing heart enough to hear properly. Dangerous? What was dangerous? Was this man referring to me?
My thoughts turned back to the conversation I had heard between Dr. Ambrose and Dr. Winthrop. Were the two conversations related? Was this about Dr. Ambrose’s memory research?
"I am aware of the risks." Dr. Ambrose's voice came clearer now, tight with controlled emotion. "But I have no other choice. If there is any chance—"
The rest dissolved into unintelligible murmurs, swallowed by wood and distance.
I leaned closer still, frustration mounting. What risks? What chance?
The door opened.
I had no time to step back, no opportunity to fabricate an excuse or manufacture a reason for my presence.
It swung too quickly, suggesting someone had pulled it open knowing exactly what they might find on the other side.
I stumbled forward into the study, my balance lost, my dignity abandoned somewhere behind me in the corridor.
Dr. Ambrose stared down at me, his expression cycling through surprise, then something that might have been grim amusement.
And beside him, wearing an equal measure of shock, poorly masked, stood Mr. Finch.
My father's solicitor.
My thoughts tangled themselves into knots, then stuttered to a halt as the pieces refused to fit together properly. I tried to make sense of why he would be here. Why would he have come here to speak to Dr. Ambrose instead of me?
"Mr. Finch," I said, my voice emerging more confused than accusatory. "What are you doing here? Is there something wrong at my father’s estate?”
Mr. Finch's mouth opened, then closed. He glanced at Dr. Ambrose, pleading, or perhaps simply desperately uncertain about how to proceed.
Dr. Ambrose let out a long breath, the sound carrying more exhaustion than exasperation. "Mr. Finch is my solicitor, Miss Reed."
I stared at him, my mind working through the implications of that simple statement and finding them thoroughly inadequate to explain the situation. His explanation did little to account for the tension in the room or the way Mr. Finch appeared ready and willing to disappear into the wallpaper.
"I do not understand," I said, turning to Mr. Finch, and studying his face. "You did not tell me you knew Dr. Ambrose personally."
Mr. Finch's expression flickered with guilt perhaps, or discomfort, before he chuckled uncomfortably. "Did I not? I thought I had mentioned that he was also a client."
His tone was too casual, the words delivered with forced lightness that suggested careful construction rather than honest recollection. At my puzzled look, he spread his hands, refusing to meet my eyes.
"Well, I really must be going," he said, already slipping past me with unseemly haste for a man of his age. "Much to attend to, you understand. Nicholas, we will continue our discussion at a later date. Miss Reed, a pleasure as always."
He was gone before I could formulate a response, the front door closing with a brutal thud that punctuated his desperate flight. I stared after him, my confusion deepening into suspicion.
Everyone is lying to you, my companion whispered.
I turned my attention back to Dr. Ambrose, following as he moved to his desk. I angled around him, forcing him to look at me.
"Did you know Mr. Finch was my solicitor?" I asked, watching his face carefully for any sign of deception. "Did he tell you about me before my interview? Is that why you hired me?"
Dr. Ambrose simply stared at me, his composure that of someone who had expected the confrontation and had already prepared his response in advance.
"Not at all. I had no idea."
I narrowed my eyes, studying him. His expression revealed nothing—no tension in his jaw, no avoidance of my gaze, no tells that might suggest dishonesty.
And yet.
Something felt wrong. The timing was too convenient, the connections too neatly arranged like a spider’s web that looked beautiful until you realized what they were designed to catch.
Mr. Finch just happened to be solicitor to both my father and Dr. Ambrose? Just happened to bring me an advertisement for a position with a client he knew personally? Just happened to encourage me to apply with such enthusiasm?
But there was no evidence in Dr. Ambrose's face to support my suspicions. Either he was telling the truth, or he was far better at lying than I was at detecting it.
They’ll never tell you the truth, the voice replied to my troubled thoughts. But I will.
I nodded slowly, taking a step back. "Very well. I am going for a walk before the sun sets."
I needed air, space to think through what I had just witnessed without Dr. Ambrose's presence clouding my judgment—without the magnetic pull of him disrupting my ability to reason clearly about what was actually happening in this house.
"A splendid idea,” he replied casually.
He turned away, rummaging through a stack of papers on his desk, unbothered by the tension still palpitating in the room. I stared at his back and imagined opening him as one might open a book, spine cracked gently, with all his secrets spilling out from the pages, exposed and ugly.
Some secrets were merely private. Others were deadly—truths that killed through their revelation or through their concealment, that destroyed lives whether they were spoken or hidden.
I wondered which kind Dr. Ambrose was keeping.
I turned and left the room, escaping the study and its deceptive atmosphere for the relative clarity of the outdoors.
The garden was cool in the late afternoon light, the air crisp with approaching nightfall. I walked without conscious direction, my mind churning through the encounter with Mr. Finch, trying to make sense of connections that felt significant but remained frustratingly opaque.
Why had Mr. Finch seemed so uncomfortable when I appeared? And why did I have the persistent feeling that I was missing some crucial piece of information that would make all of this make sense?
I turned down a narrow path between overgrown hedges, still lost in thought, then stopped.
Hawthorne stood directly in my path, those obsidian eyes fixed on my face with a focus that made my skin prickle. I stumbled back, an apology already forming on my tongue.
“Hello, Hawthor—”
He shoved something at me, thrusting it against my chest with enough force to nearly knock the breath from my lungs. Then he turned and simply strode away, moving past me and disappearing through the garden.
I stood frozen on the path, heaving for breath as I clutched the object he had forced upon me, my heart thudding from the shock of the encounter.
I glanced down, still trying to process what had just happened.
A single red rose, politely de-thorned, rested atop a leather-bound journal in my hands.
I stared at the flower for a long moment, frowning, before sliding it to the side.
Gold foil text gleamed across the front, the sunlight dancing over it like an enticement.
A date was carved into the leather from nearly two years before.
It had to be one of Dr. Ambrose's journals. One of the research volumes I had seen lining the shelves in his study, each spine marked with dates creating a chronological archive of his work.
I turned, searching for Hawthorne again, but the garden was empty.
Why did he have it?
More importantly, why had he given it to me?
I glanced down at the date again, frowning. It seemed significant, though I could not recall exactly why.
Read it, my companion said. Secrets, secrets, secrets.
I clutched the journal tighter, my fingers pressing into the leather, and turned back toward the house, my walk forgotten.
The voice snickered.