CHAPTER 13
Lydia rose before the sun—she often had, though now there was no one to scold her and no housekeeper to shoo her from the passages with tales of ill-omened spirits. The house belonged to her alone. The predawn hush felt as if it had been built around her. She relished how the quiet sharpened her thoughts.
She wore a deep crimson dressing gown, the silk catching the early light and reflecting it across the pale surfaces of the room. The Montague library had always been austere—stone, leather, and the scent of floor wax and paper thick in the air. Today, the desk in the bay window was heaped with ledgers, tenant lists, maps, and planting calendars, all scattered like a general’s campaign. Boot prints marked theTurkish carpet, each ringed with dust revealed by the rising sun.
She set to work as if sheer order could rewrite history. Opening the largest ledger, she tested the spine with her thumb, skimming pages marked in her hand, the accountant’s, and even Eugenia’s old script. The figures lay before her, grim yet steadying. Numbers told their truths. Receipts, wages, inventories—all spread out awaiting command. The estate plan, foxed and curling, refused to lie flat.
After an hour, she had three problems, two opportunities, and headings scrawled in her large hand on foolscap:Non-negotiable.She pressed her nail into the word until it left a groove, her answer to Edmund’s threats.
Sunlight shifted from yellow to white, filling the room with its cold clarity. Dust motes spun like planets overhead. Lydia returned to her papers, stacking and sorting by order of dread. The portraits on the walls, which had leered the previous night, now hung flat and lifeless, as if judgment had spent itself. The shelves of unread books loomed less threatening. For a fleeting moment, she imagined reading for pleasure, not survival.
At the window, she rubbed a circle clear in the condensation. Outside, dew silvered the lawns, theorchard lay bare, and a lantern moved near the stables—Maximilian, no doubt, keeping to his habits. She thought to wave, then let it pass. He would see her soon enough.
Her sleeve brushed a folio from the pile. It thudded to the floor. She crouched and read the tenant contract she had redrafted, fair, even generous. The old Montagues would have spat at such charity. “They would have called it weakness,” she muttered. The echo startled her, then drew a grin. She slapped the folio back onto the desk.
Within minutes, her desk was ordered, every question paired with its answer. Only the estate map defied her, edges curling, a single bright thread of possibility. She traced planned improvements, a new drive, drainage, a hothouse. Small things, but together they represented a future.
She rehearsed aloud: “I am keeping it. Not out of spite, but necessity. It is mine, and I will make it something to be proud of.” The words steadied her, cracked the tightness in her chest.
Morning blazed through the library. For the first time, the weight of the Montague dead seemed beatable. She stacked the final papers, brushed her palms clean, and walked to the door, her crimson gown trailing behind her.
At the threshold, she glanced back, half expecting the portraits to stop her. None did. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the corridor.
The garden terrace appeared just as Lydia remembered—if only because she had forced it into shape again through sheer will. The stonework was uneven, the low walls hemmed in by centuries of careless topiary and roses that thrived on neglect more than order. Yet in the first updraft of spring, everything trembled with threat and promise: new shoots, rot banished from the herb beds, and rosebuds climbing collapsed trellises. Even the fountain now gleamed, its basin reflecting the sky.
Lydia stood beside it, one hand on the rim, the other at her hip. She watched the clouds chase across the water, the cold wind knotting her hair. She was not waiting for Maximilian, though she was not surprised when he appeared on the gravel walk, footsteps measured.
He wore his morning suit, lapels sharp, lines precise. Out of place in a garden still shaking off winter and neglect, yet moving with the ease of a man who commanded every terrain.
He stopped at the terrace’s edge, his expression impassive with the faintest trace of amusement. “Youhave been up for hours. I heard you before dawn broke.”
“I find it hard to sleep,” Lydia said, still watching the fountain. “I have much on my mind.”
“That is to be expected,” Maximilian replied. “I sent for the countess and fortifications. The supplies arrived shortly after sunrise along with a letter from the countess stating she was quite pleased to remain at the inn.”
"I suspect the countess plots against us." She hid her smile. “She has been accused of matchmaking in the past.”
He recoiled slightly. “How dreadful.”
She spun to face him fully, the wind painting her gown against the stone and greenery. “I am surprised you are still here. Most men would have fled to a club rather than endure a neglected house, an eccentric dowager, and threats.”
“I have never been much for clubs,” he said, stepping closer, hands behind his back. “The company is tedious, and the air too thick with smoke and gossip.”
She snorted. “That is a lie.”
“Perhaps. But a useful one.”
They fell into silence—charged, not awkward. Lydia studied him sidelong, the disciplined line ofhis mouth, the steady gaze that missed no flaw. She fought the urge to fling herself into his arms.
“The estate is already changing,” he said quietly. “You have done more in a day than most heirs do in a year.”
She shrugged. “Necessity is a great motivator.”
“And what when necessity fades? When the house is mended, the tenants appeased, and Edmund only a memory?”
The question unsettled her; still, she answered honestly. “I have not thought that far. Perhaps I am running from what came before. If I stop, it will catch me. Or maybe I am avoiding pondering an uncertain future. Likely a bit of both.”
“You are not running,” Maximilian said, closing the gap to the fountain’s edge. “You are the only one with the courage to stay.”
