“Thomas says we might see the frogs again if the sun comes out,” Oliver announced through a mouthful of porridge. “Do you suppose His Grace would permit it? If we remained where we could be seen from the house?”
Maribel hesitated. Thaddeus had granted permission for supervised play three times weekly, but Oliver’s birthdayapproached rapidly, and the boy’s hopes for Thomas’s attendance at that celebration remained precariously uncertain.
“We shall ask him,” she said carefully. “Though you must prepare yourself for the possibility that?—”
“That he might say no?” Oliver frowned. “Maybe if I asked very politely? If I explained that Thomas has never been to a proper birthday celebration, and would be most…” He scrunched up his little face, trying to remember the proper words. “Be most grateful for the portunity.”
“Opportunity, sweetheart,” Maribel said absently.
The child’s faith in reason and courtesy remained touching despite repeated disappointments. Maribel smoothed his hair back from his forehead, her heart twisting.
“We shall see what might be arranged, darling. But first, finish your breakfast properly. Without speaking through your food, if you please.”
She departed the nursery with Oliver’s laughter following her, a sound that had become blessedly more frequent in recent weeks. The transformation in him remained remarkable—from the terrified, withdrawn child who had arrived at Blackwood to this gradually brightening soul who could discuss military formations and birthday celebrations with equal enthusiasm.
Maribel’s steps carried her through corridors she had come to know intimately, past windows that framed the grey morning, toward the library where she intended to select something more engaging than poetry to occupy her restless thoughts.
But she paused at a window overlooking the east gardens.
Movement caught her attention—a figure moving amongst the overgrown beds with deliberate purpose. It took a moment to recognise the bent form as Old Brennan, Thomas’s father, whom she had enlisted to assist with the garden’s restoration.
The work had progressed considerably since she had begun. What had been wilderness now showed clear evidence of human tending—pathways cleared, beds defined, the worst of the overgrowth carefully removed to allow dormant plants room to breathe. It would not bloom until spring, but the bones of something beautiful had begun to emerge.
She had been careful. Had worked primarily when Thaddeus was occupied with estate business or had travelled to London. Had convinced herself he would not notice, or perhaps would not care, given that he had gifted her the key to those sealed chambers.
Yet standing here now, watching Old Brennan tend roses she knew had been planted by the late Duchess, Maribel felt uncertainty coil within her stomach.
She had presumed too much, perhaps. Had allowed her desire to restore beauty to override proper caution. Had touchedsomething Thaddeus had deliberately abandoned and convinced herself permission had been implied rather than explicitly granted.
The morning stretched before her with uncomfortable awareness. She could not avoid the gardens indefinitely. And if she were discovered there, better to face Thaddeus’s potential displeasure with honesty than be caught attempting concealment.
Resolution steadied her. She returned to her chambers for her cloak and gloves, then made her way down through the servants’ entrance toward the garden.
The November air bit at her cheeks, but the physical activity of gardening would warm her soon enough. Old Brennan greeted her with a respectful nod when she appeared, his weathered face creasing with pleasure.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I was just examining these roses—they’ve responded well to proper pruning, though it’ll be spring before we see blooms.”
“They were sadly neglected,” Maribel agreed, kneeling beside him to inspect the canes he had carefully tied back. “But the root systems appear sound. With proper attention?—”
“They’ll be magnificent.” Old Brennan’s voice held certainty. “Her Grace—the late Duchess, I mean—she had a gift with roses. Used to spend hours out here, she did. Said they responded to conversation as much as to cultivation.”
Maribel smiled despite the ache his words produced. “Did you know her well?”
“Well as any groundskeeper knows the mistress of an estate. She was kind, Your Grace. Generous of spirit. His Grace took her passing hard—we all did, but him especially.” He paused, his gnarled hands stilling upon the rose canes. “Forgive my presumption, but it does my heart good to see these gardens tended again. To see life returning where there was only neglect.”
The comment held layers she could not quite navigate. Before she could formulate response, Old Brennan had risen, brushing soil from his knees.
“I’ll leave you to it, Your Grace. The beds near the fountain want attention, if you’ve time. And mind the thorns—these old roses bite fierce.”
He departed, leaving Maribel alone amongst the emerging bones of beauty. She moved to the fountain he had indicated—a stone structure depicting nymphs pouring water that no longer flowed, their graceful forms half-obscured by moss and neglect.
She set to work clearing the worst of the encroaching weeds, her hands soon dirt-stained despite her gloves, her mind finding peace in the simple, repetitive motions. This felt right in ways drawing room conversations and careful social navigation never did. This felt like purpose beyond mere survival, like creation rather than constant defence against loss.
Time passed unmarked whilst she worked. The grey morning remained stubbornly overcast, threatening rain but never quite delivering. Her hair had indeed come loose from its pins, falling in dark waves around her face. Her gown bore evidence of her labours—dirt at the knees, smudges across the skirt where she had inadvertently brushed against soiled surfaces.
She looked, she knew, entirely inappropriate for a duchess.
She felt, paradoxically, more herself than she had in weeks.
