8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

T he servants led Alice through the grand corridors of Fairfax Hall, their footsteps echoing against marble floors. Each guest they passed—couples and ladies adorned with their own blooms headed to breakfast—slowed to stare, like deers caught in a glade. The dark thoughts that usually plagued her mind grew louder with each step, whispering that she was a fool to follow, that she should have remained in her chambers to await the carriage home.

Yet as they drew closer to their destination, something shifted within her—even as they passed people who whispered behind raised hands, causing her inner demons to clamor for attention. Alice ignored them the best she could. It felt as though she was being drawn forward by something greater than herself. Providence, perhaps. Fate.

The butler halted before a grand door painted with blooms—irises and tulips, lilies and roses rendered in exquisite detail. Alice’s breath caught in her throat as she studied the artistry. She glanced down the empty hall, wondering if there was still time to flee, but the realization struck her that things could hardly get worse by walking through those doors. She looked at the butler and gave a slight nod.

He opened the doors and stepped inside. There was a small entry alcove with a polished table against one wall, its surface adorned with a shining crystal vase overflowing with fresh blooms. The flowers were artfully arranged—roses and lilies mixed with others she did not recognize, their combined perfume filling the enclosed space.

“Wait here,” the man said, momentarily stepping into the room to talk in hushed tones.

A small portrait caught her eye, positioned carefully beside the vase. She reached out and picked it up, bringing it closer to appreciate the work. The brushstrokes rendered the subject with remarkable detail. The woman wore a modern dress and wire-rimmed spectacles. She held a slim olive green volume in one hand, and there was something knowing in her expression, as though she shared a private joke with the viewer. The slight curl at the corner of her mouth suggested barely contained mischief.

Footsteps approached from the room beyond, and Alice quickly returned the portrait to its place, not wishing to be caught touching the dowager’s things. The butler appeared, his expression revealing nothing of what awaited her within. She followed him as he motioned her toward the room proper.

“My lady, Miss Alice Montrose for you.”

The delicate sound of china clinked from within.

“Enter, my dear. Let me see you.”

Alice drew a steadying breath, closing her eyes for a moment before stepping out of the alcove and into the room beyond. The space took her breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the gardens in full bloom, and the walls were adorned with hand-painted flowering vines. Fresh bouquets filled every surface, their perfume heavy in the air. A marble fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle carved with trailing roses. The furniture was upholstered in rich fabrics embroidered with delicate blossoms, each seat positioned to take advantage of the spectacular garden view.

The dowager sat at a table set for tea, a steaming pot and two teacups arranged on their saucers before her. A tiered silver tray held an array of delicacies—fresh fruits, cucumber sandwiches, and buttery biscuits filled with jam. It was the finest spread Alice had ever seen, and the moment she took it in, her mouth watered. Her stomach growled so audibly that the dowager’s eyebrows rose in amusement.

The older woman was resplendent, as if watching Alice’s social destruction had infused her with youthful energy. Her morning dress was of the finest silk, adorned with subtle floral embroidery that caught the light. She motioned Alice forward with an imperious wave.

“Do not just stand there gaping like a fish, girl. Come, sit and eat. I am sure you are famished after last night.”

Indeed, she was famished. Alice approached the table with hesitation, years of her mother’s training warring with her desperate hunger. Every fiber of her being screamed that a lady must show restraint, must never appear eager for sustenance. Even now, with her reputation in tatters, the urge to maintain perfect manners felt carved into her very bones.

The dowager’s eyes caught her hesitation.

“Your mother’s teachings run deep, I see.” She gestured to the spread before them. “But if you are to be in my Garden, you must eat. I give you permission to have a meal like a human being rather than a porcelain doll.”

Something broke loose inside Alice at those words. She moved forward quickly—almost desperately—and began piling whatever looked most appetizing onto her plate. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, horrified at such unseemly behavior, but Alice pushed it aside. Her reputation lay in ruins, after all. She had thrown her careful instruction to the wind the moment an obstacle presented itself. What more damage could possibly be done?

The dowager sipped her tea, watching with knowing eyes as Alice devoured the first few bites with decidedly unladylike haste. For the first time in her life, Alice felt permission to simply be hungry.

“I have been told your mother has requested a carriage back to Weybridge.”

The statement came just as Alice had taken an enormous bite of sandwich. Part of her feared her stomach might reject the food, but to her relief, it seemed to welcome the sustenance. She covered her mouth apologetically, chewing quickly while the dowager waited with an impatient expression—one Alice recognized all too well from her mother’s countless corrections. She wondered distantly if this was where Mrs. Montrose had learned her techniques.

“We are, sadly, called back home due to unforeseen circumstances,” Alice managed once she had swallowed.

“Oh, I do believe the circumstances were very much seen.”

Heat flooded Alice’s cheeks, and she looked down at her empty teacup, reaching for the pot to pour herself a drink. The action gave her hands something to do, and surely she needed the fortification for whatever this conversation might bring. The tea bubbled as the golden-brown liquid filled her cup, the dowager watching her every movement. Alice stirred in cream and sugar before bringing the cup to her lips for a deep gulp.

“I have denied your mother’s request,” the dowager continued. “Sadly, our driver cannot fulfill it.”

Alice nearly spat out her tea, choking slightly on the mouthful.

“Are there not other able-bodied men in your service who could take his place?”

“I am certain they are all needed, this being such a busy week.” The dowager’s eyes glittered. “Why such a rush to leave in the first place?”

Alice blinked, wondering if the woman’s advanced age had addled her wits, but as she studied the dowager’s shrewd expression, she knew this woman’s mind was likely sharper than her own.

“Is it not obvious?”

“It is unfortunate that you caused such a commotion at my introductory assembly,” the dowager mused. “But you are not the only one here who has caused a scandal—some of my ladies have stirred up far more in their day.”

Alice leaned back in her chair, trying to imagine what could possibly be worse than vomiting all over a duke at one’s first real high society gathering. She shook her head, not wanting to contemplate it further.

“I am certain none of them are worse off than I.”

The dowager let out a low chuckle that sent a shiver down Alice’s spine.

“What do you know about my Garden, girl?”

The Dowager’s Garden. Again and again, people had mentioned it, this mysterious social club, but the more whispers she heard, the more frustrated she became with all the secrecy.

“Not enough, to be frank, my lady,” Alice said. “I had not heard of it until we received your invitation, and while many people have spoken of it in passing, I feel as though they deliberately omit exactly what the nature of this club might be.”

“Yes, well, few might wish to admit they were part of such a society.”

A prickle of anxiety ran through Alice at those words, wondering if she had stumbled into something uncouth. The dowager seemed to read her thoughts, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

“It is a matchmaking club. Your mother was actually one of my firsts,” she said. “Such potential ... back then, after my husband first died—Lord pray for his burning soul below—I found girls in society whom I felt had the beauty and pedigree, but not the social graces nor family ties to make adequate matches. At first, I took one lady under my wing, and when she was married, two more, and then when they were married, another two, until I had rather a large grouping at hand that needed a name.”

“The Dowager’s Garden,” Alice murmured.

“The very same. And so you see, my dear, I was in the business of preparing ladies for marriage, in hopes the matches would be spectacular. And indeed, many women rose above their station.” Her sharp gaze pierced Alice. “At least, most of them did.”

It was a direct jab at her parents. Alice knew that with certainty. If this dowager’s club was a sort of matchmaking scheme, it seemed she had done a poor job with Mrs. Montrose, who had made it clear to everyone in her vicinity that she had married quite below her station.

The dowager cleared her throat.

“We cannot win every game of hearts, I suppose. But the ladies I initially chose started to bore me senseless. I cannot tell you how many times I had to sit through a perfect pianoforte piece. They thought they were so original, but they all chose the same composers, the same sheet music. They drew portraits of their sisters and landscapes from their dull country estates. Oh, another sunset. Lovely. Oh, another Handel piece. How pleasant. Yes, I know you can speak Italian. Non mi interessa affatto! I grew weary of them. A line of girls who gave so much but amounted to so little. And so, I branched out.”

She leaned forward, her eyes alight with passion.

“I found the girls on the edges of the ballroom. The girls in the shadows. The girls with spectacles and blemishes and injuries. The spinsters thrown away and approaching the fate of becoming thornbacks. And even those who were ruined beyond repair, as long as I saw a path to redemption. These girls became my flowers, and what I found was work more meaningful than I could have imagined.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Alice asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

“Your mother was one of the perfect ones, and so, I am sure she made you in her image, hoping for a chance at my Garden should our paths cross one day.”

Alice nodded. Though she had only recently pieced it together, it explained why her mother had been so regimented throughout her life—why she had brought her to Fairfax Hall.

“And while your wardrobe is not fashionable, you certainly have that same air of perfection that sends me into fits of boredom.” The dowager paused, studying Alice with fresh interest. “I suppose first impressions are not everything.”

Alice was momentarily shocked that she gave out any hint of perfection when there were so many flaws the dowager could have pointed out, even before she had become sick on the duke. But of course, the woman saw through her facade.

“And so now I am ruined enough to join your club?”

“ Exactly. The social scandal was so perfectly awful that all you have now is one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Why, pure potential, my dear.”

“And so you have decided to plant me in your Garden? Is there some ritual? A chant I must perform?”

The dowager laughed, the sound rich and genuine. She snapped her fingers for a servant.

“What flower am I to be, then?” Alice continued. “A nightshade? Perhaps a weed?”

“It is my birthday, and never in my life has someone completely ruined one of my celebrations so wonderfully. And so, I think you should be rewarded for it, Lady Rose.”

Alice sputtered, unable to form words as the dowager motioned to a servant—the same woman from the entryway with her embroidered apron. The maid passed a piece of pink fabric to the dowager, who presented it to Alice with surprising gentleness.

It was a rose, crafted with such detail that it took her breath away. Glass beads caught the morning light like drops of dew upon the petals. The dowager pinned it to Alice’s dress with aggression.

“There. You have no clue how long I’ve been waiting to find my rose.”

“I suppose I should see this as an honor?”

“Yes. An honor you do not deserve. Not yet.” The dowager’s countenance took on a fox-like cunning. “Now, let us sit and have your first lesson.”

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