EPILOGUE
The herb garden was a space of intention. Once a ragged collection of dying roots and weeds, it now rose in neat tiers, each bed lined with new brick, measured precisely. The morning sun climbed the east wall of the manor and settled warmly over the small square where Lydia knelt in her riding habit.
She focused on a cluster of rosemary blooming early. Pinching a sprig, she rolled it until the oil darkened her skin. The scent was sharp and bitter, accompanied by the deeper earthiness of the soil. Satisfied, she brushed her hand against her skirt and moved to the thyme, which was more stubborn but eventually yielded to her touch.
A glance at the path below confirmed her instructions had been followed. Two men were hauling barrows of broken stone to finish the last walkway; another, elbows deep in yew clippings, squared the hedge to the chalk line she had drawn at dawn. A girl in a linen apron raked the orchard, her eyes darting toward Lydia as if to gauge the new mistress’s approval.
Lydia stood, brushing grit from her knees. She opened a battered notebook, its corners worn from use, and made a quick notation:
Row 3: rosemary, trimmed. Thyme needs replanting in autumn. Ask Hollis re: supplier.
The sound of her quill pleased her. Writing made the work feel permanent. She tucked the notebook away and surveyed the garden from its highest step.
It was hers, though not in the way she had first claimed it. The estate had bent to her hand—not just the terraces, but the rhythm of its days. Gone was the panic over small disasters; now there was order and a quiet pride among the staff. New stone walks traced what had once been meadow; the house’s southern wall gleamed whitewashed, its windows replaced. Even the fountain had been restored, alive now with bees and the shimmer of fish.
Satisfaction swept through her.
Movement caught her eye. Maximilian approached from the stables, a basket hooked under one arm. With muddied boots, a neat cravat, and a jacket black enough to glint blue, he looked both composed and relaxed. Every step was deliberate; he never forgot his effect on a watcher.
He stopped at the terrace’s base, squinting up. “You’ll drive them mad with that schedule. The tenants complain you keep time like a drill sergeant.”
“I could do worse,” Lydia said. “They could still be cowering from Lady Eugenia’s ghost.”
He set down the basket and arranged seedlings with careful attention, as if seating guests at a table.
“You were out before the bell,” he noted.
“I like to see things before the sun corrects their faults.”
His gaze met hers, sunlight catching the gold at his temples. “You’d have made a terrifying captain.”
She tilted her head. “There is still time.”
His smile lingered at the corners of his eyes.
They worked side by side, the trowel clicks and bees in the lavender filling the silence. Lydia pressed soil around marjoram roots while Maximilian watched, arms folded behind his back.
At last he said, “I spent a year’s income restoringthat parterre and never impressed a guest. You—” he gestured to the garden, the house, all of it—“have done in a season what I could not in three.”
She wiped her hand clean. “The garden is not for guests. It is for me.”
“I know.” Affection colored his words. “But I like to see you here.”
Embarrassment pricked; she bent to a root that wouldn’t settle. From behind, his hands settled lightly at her waist—casual, assured, never needing to press. He leaned close, breath warm at her ear.
“The south field is ready,” he murmured. “Hollis will send for seed by noon.”
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scents of herb, soil, and him.
“Good,” she whispered, leaning back into his chest. For a moment, the world was only soil and sun and the sure grip of his hands holding her steady.
Lydia twisted in his grip, her back meeting the stone rim of the nearest bed while his body blocked the sun. Her blue eyes, bright in the morning light, locked onto his with a mix of challenge and amusement.
“Your Grace,” she said, her tone teasing. One finger traced a strand of blond hair from hisforehead, leaving behind a streak of earth he didn’t bother to wipe away.
“You have dirt on your cuffs again,” she added, tapping the smudge with her thumb. “A scandal for the ages.”
Maximilian caught her wrist, his grip steady but gentle. “A small price to pay,” he murmured, glancing at the chaos of beds, bees, and blossoms. “You should see the stable hands. They pray for the days when mud was their greatest enemy.”
