The afternoon sun is warm on my face as Isla and I walk through the gardens, her botany notebook tucked under her arm. We've spent the last hour examining leaf structures and discussing the medicinal properties of common plants.
She's actually engaged today, asking questions without the usual resistance.
"So the willow bark can help with pain?" She's looking at a drawing she made earlier.
"Exactly. People have been using it for centuries. The trick is knowing how much to use and how to prepare it properly."
I point toward a cluster of plants near the stone benches.
"Now, your task is to find and sketch three specific medicinal plants we discussed: chamomile, lavender, and mint. They're all growing somewhere in this garden section."
"All three?" She groans dramatically.
"All three. With labels identifying which part of the plant is used medicinally. You have fifteen minutes." I check the small watch pinned to my dress. "Go."
She scampers off, notebook in hand, already scanning the garden beds.
I turn toward the stone benches to wait, and my stomach drops.
Lady Elspeth is already sitting there. Alone. Clearly taking a break from her morning walk—her parasol rests against the bench, and she's fanning herself with a delicate painted fan.
Our eyes meet. For a moment, I consider turning around, finding somewhere else to wait. But that would be obvious, cowardly. And she's already seen me.
I approach slowly, stop a respectful distance away. "Lady Elspeth. Good afternoon."
"Mrs. Farren." Her voice is neutral, carefully controlled.
The silence stretches. It would be more awkward to just stand here than to sit, but sitting feels presumptuous. I'm balanced on the edge of social uncertainty when she solves the problem for me.
"You may sit if you like. I don't bite." The words carry no warmth, but they're not hostile either.
I sit on the opposite end of the bench, leaving as much space between us as the stone allows. My hands fold in my lap. I search for something safe to say.
"The gardens are lovely this time of year. They'll be beautiful for the wedding preparations."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Of course the wedding. What else would I mention?
Elspeth's hand immediately goes to her necklace, fingers worrying the pendant nervously. "Yes. Beautiful."
The response is clipped, tense. I notice her shoulders are rigid, her jaw tight. Something in her demeanor is off, troubled.
"Are the preparations going well?" I try again, attempting to sound genuinely interested rather than awkwardly filling silence.
"As well as can be expected." She's still fiddling with the necklace. "There's much to coordinate. Many details to manage."
"I'm sure it's overwhelming."
"It is." She pauses, then adds quietly, "Though perhaps not in the ways one might expect."
I don't know what to say to that. We lapse into silence again, but there's an undercurrent I can't identify. She's not angry, exactly. Not even cold. Just... troubled. Almost nervous.
"Mrs. Farren." She turns to face me properly. "May I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you find Lord Morvaine predictable?"
The question catches me completely off guard. "I'm sorry?"
"Predictable. In his temperament, his behavior. Do you find him easy to anticipate?" Her eyes search my face. "Or have you noticed depths in him that others might miss?"
My mouth has gone dry. Is she asking what I think she's asking? Is this about the affair? About what she saw when she found us in the office?
"I... I'm not sure I understand the question, my lady."
"I think you do." Her voice is careful, measured. "You've spent time with him, more time than many. You must have observed things about his character."
I choose my words carefully. "Lord Morvaine has always been courteous and professional in our interactions."
"Courteous." She repeats the word like she's testing it. "Yes, he is that. Courteous, patient, controlled. Never raises his voice. Never loses composure. The perfect gentleman."
There's something in her tone that makes my skin prickle. "He's been an excellent employer."
"I'm sure." She looks away, toward the garden beds where Isla is crouched examining plants. "But have you ever wondered what he's truly capable of? When that pleasant facade drops?"
The question lands like a stone in still water. I stare at her profile, trying to understand what she's really asking.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"The calmest men often hide the deepest currents."
She's still not looking at me.
"Men who smile when others would shout, who remain composed when rage would be expected—those are the ones who surprise you most. Those are the ones who make you wonder what darkness they're keeping leashed."
My heart is beating too fast. "Lady Elspeth…"
"Has he ever frightened you?" She turns back to face me, and there's something genuinely fearful in her expression. "Even for a moment? Even just a flicker of something that made you think 'I don't know this man at all'?"
I think about the dinner with Lord Garrett. The servants' whispered conversation about Domnall's dead eyes. The way he threatened Elspeth herself, according to what he told me afterward.
"I don't know what you're asking me," I say carefully.
"I think you do." Her hand is still worrying that necklace. "I'm asking if the man you think you know is the man he actually is. Or if there's something else underneath. Something that only shows itself when he stops performing."
Is she warning me? Threatening me? Trying to make me afraid of Domnall so I'll end whatever she suspects is happening between us?
But her tone isn't accusatory, it's genuinely cautious, almost fearful. Like she's trying to warn me about something she herself is afraid of.
"Why are you telling me this?" The question comes out quieter than intended.
She studies my face for a long moment. Then she stands abruptly, smoothing her skirts. "I'm not telling you anything, just making conversation. Wedding planning exhaustion, you understand. Makes one's mind wander to strange topics."
"Lady Elspeth—"
"I should go. I have an appointment with the dressmaker." She picks up her parasol, opens it despite the shade from the trees. "Enjoy the rest of your lesson, Mrs. Farren."
She walks away quickly. Almost fleeing. Her steps are rapid, purposeful, putting distance between us as fast as propriety allows.
I watch her go, completely confused. What was that conversation about? Why would she seek me out—or allow me to sit with her—just to ask cryptic questions about Domnall's character? To hint that he's dangerous, that there's darkness underneath his pleasant surface?
And why did she seem so frightened when she asked?
Isla returns, notebook in hand, sketches completed. "I found all three! Look."
"Those are excellent." I take the notebook, examining her drawings without really seeing them. My mind is still on Elspeth's words. The calmest men often hide the deepest currents.
"Mrs. Farren? Are you all right?"
"Fine. Just thinking." I close the notebook and hand it back. "Let's head inside. We'll review your sketches properly in the schoolroom."
We walk back toward the house together. Isla chatters about the plants she found, but I'm only half-listening.
As we approach the entrance, I glance up at the second-floor windows. Movement catches my eye—curtains shifting in one of the windows. Like someone just stepped back from view.
I stop walking, staring up at the window. The curtains are still now. No one visible. But I could swear I saw…
"Mrs. Farren?" Isla tugs my sleeve. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing." I force myself to look away. "Come on."
But the feeling doesn't leave me. That distinct, unsettling sensation of being watched from shadows. Of eyes tracking my movements, studying me, evaluating.
Someone was at that window. Someone watching me and Elspeth on that bench. Someone who saw our entire strange, cautious conversation.
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.
I take Isla's hand and walk inside, but I can feel it even as we enter the house. The weight of observation. The certainty that someone is watching, waiting, measuring everything I do.
And I have no idea who it is or what they're planning to do with what they've seen.