The morning sun was warm, a gentle comfort on Ines's shoulders as she knelt in the soft, dark earth. This was her second escape from reality. The scent of damp soil and blooming jasmine was a perfume she preferred over any French import. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a faded blue gardening apron over her day dress, her hands protected by worn leather gloves.
"Edith, can you help me with that trowel?" Ines asked, her voice content. She was carefully patting the dirt around a tiny, hopeful seed she had just planted.
Edith, standing nearby with a basket of gardening tools, smiled and handed her the small silver trowel. She always loved seeing her mistress like this. In the garden, Lady Ines was not the "Icy Lady" of the ton. She was just Ines, a woman who found joy in making things grow.
"I heard... I heard the argument you had with His Grace last night," Edith said softly, her voice hesitant. She had been with the Hamilton family since Ines was a child and sometimes blurred the line between servant and confidante.
Ines stopped patting the soil. The small, peaceful joy of the moment vanished, replaced by the heavy memory of Rowan's hurt face. She sat back on her heels, the trowel hanging limply from her hand. After planting the last seed, she stood up, brushing the dirt from her apron. She took a clean handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the sweat from her face, her hat shielding her from the sun's growing heat.
"Yes, Edith. We did," she said, her voice small and sad.
"Marriage, was it?" Edith asked, though she already knew.
Ines nodded. She moved away from the new seeds and toward the full-blooming rose bushes, her favorites. She bent to pick the fresh, fragrant flowers, their petals a vibrant, defiant pink. She needed to replace the wilting ones in the house.
"You know he only cares for you, my lady," Edith said gently, following her with the empty flower basket. "He just wants what is best."
"I know he does," Ines said, clipping a perfect, half-open rose. "He loves me, and I love him, too. But he isn't seeing my reasons, Edith. Or perhaps he is choosing to ignore them."
"He just wants you to be settled," Edith reasoned, holding the basket steady. "He wants you to be happy, like every other noble woman with a good husband and a fine house."
"But that is the reason," Ines said, turning to face her, the pink rose in her hand. Her sadness was sharp and clear. "The reason I must have a love marriage is because of my illnesses."
Edith replied. "My lady, you are already recovering."
"Not in the way the doctor mentioned it," Ines said, her voice dropping. "This… this part of me that is different. And… and I don't know how long I have to live."
Edith gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "My lady, what are you saying?"
"It's a feeling I have," Ines whispered, looking at the vibrant rose in her hand. "I don't know if I have five years, or thirty, or fifty. Who knows? But because of that, I want to spend every single second of whatever time I have with the one I love. With someone who makes me truly happy. And if I don't find that love, I prefer to be a spinster. I will make my own money and I will be content."
She placed the rose in the basket. The confession hung in the air between them, heavy and secret. She stood up, having picked the amount of flowers she wanted. She removed her gardening gloves, her hands slightly stained with earth, and picked up the now-full basket.
"Let's go inside," she said, her tone lighter, the moment of confession over.
They walked back toward the house, the grand facade seeming to frown at her slightly soiled apron.
"Speaking of Rowan," Ines said, trying to sound casual, "I haven't seen him at all this morning. He wasn't at breakfast."
"No, my lady," Edith replied, falling into step beside her. "He received a letter late last night, after your... well, after your dinner. He left home very early this morning. He said he had to pick up a guest."
Ines stopped on the gravel path. "A guest?" She looked puzzled. "Who? Are any of our relatives visiting again? Please don't say it's Aunt Eleonora."
Aunt Eleonora, her mother's younger sister. She is even more persuasive about marriage than Rowan, telling her how a woman needs security and wealth from a man, how a woman should always guard her reputation and many other topics that grated on Ines' skin.
Edith gave a small smile. "He did not say, my lady. Only that it was important. They should be back by now, I imagine."
Ines shrugged it off. It was likely no one interesting. She was more concerned about the manuscript she had stayed up all night to finish, and the fact that she needed to get it to Gladys tomorrow and start a new one.
They entered the cool, marble foyer. Edith took her straw hat and the dirty apron, leaving Ines in her day dress, holding the beautiful basket of fresh pink roses.
"I will take these to the drawing room," Ines said. "The ones in there must be drooping by now."
Edith nodded. " I'll have the kitchen prepare a light meal that will be accompanied by your medication."
Ines replied " Please do. Thank you very much."
As she walked down the short hall, her mind already composing a list: give the manuscript to Gladys, apologize to Rowan for her harsh words, and perhaps, finally, take a nap or go to the bookstore with Edith to procure some new books.
She pushed open the heavy drawing room door.
The first thing she saw was her brother, Rowan, standing by the fireplace. He was not wearing his usual morning frown. He was beaming, his face alight with a happiness she had not seen in a while.
"Ines!" he called out, his voice full of genuine, unrestrained joy. "You are just in time. Guess who came to see us?"
Ines smiled, her heart lifting at the sight of his good mood. Perhaps their fight was forgotten. "Who, Rowan? Aunt Eleonora?"
Please, please, please let it not be Aunt Eleonora. I might go crazy in the few days she stays here.
She looked past her brother's shoulder, toward the tall windows where a second figure stood.
Her smile froze. Her hands went numb. The basket of roses suddenly felt as if it were carved from lead, threatening to slip from her fingers.
A man was standing there, his back to the light, making him a tall, imposing silhouette. He turned, slowly, as if he had been waiting for her.
It was Carcel.
He was not some ghost. He was not a figment of her over-heated imagination. He was here. In her drawing room. He was dressed in impeccable traveling clothes, his dark hair slightly mussed, his face set in that familiar, unreadable expression. His dark eyes found hers and held her captive.
No. It cannot be. Her mind screamed. He went back to Carleton. He left. He isn't real.
But he was. He was real, and he was staring at her. She stood rooted to the spot, a woman in a slightly dirt-stained dress, holding a basket of flowers, staring at the man who had haunted her every thought for two days.
"Carcel?" she whispered. The name was a breath, a question, a prayer. She did not know if it was an imaginary figure or a human being.