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Marianne leaned back against the old beech tree at the edge of her family’s property, pulling her knees closer to her chest so she could balance her sketchbook closer.

Her drawing today was rather depressing. But then, she felt rather depressed. The woman in the sketch also sat against a tree, her face void of any smile. But where Marianne’s hands were occupied with a pencil and a sketchbook, the drawing’s hands were shackled together with a tight chain.

She sighed, allowing the book to fall back onto her knees as she leaned her head against the smooth, grey bark of the tree. The air was still around her, and the nearby pond sat motionless, reflecting the calm, dark green leaves above her.

Greenfinches chirped their warbling songs to one another as they swooped from branch to branch, their soft, emerald feathers muted in the dimming light of the lowering sun. Bluebells and violets grew in vivid patches around the pond and beyond, carpeting the other side of the pond in a blanket of blues, purples, and greens.

This was her safe space. The place she’d seek out whenever she needed peace or a moment to clear her mind. It was also where she found herself whenever her family held a party at Daffley Park, which was the case that evening.

She did not often allow herself to dwell on her hardships. After all, so many others had it far worse than she did. But there were moments when it was easier to allow the negativity to swallow her hope whole. For what hope could she have, knowing Beatrice would never marry—knowing Marianne might end up unmarried, as well?

A light breeze pushed the pond water into rows of never-ending ripples, subdued light shining across the crests. Darkness would fall before too long, and Marianne would have to return indoors. Then again, perhaps she ought to remain outside all evening. No one would notice she was gone. No one would care. No one would—

“Miss Coventry?”

Her shoulders jumped against the tree, and she swung her eyes round to where Mr. Steele stood in the grass a few paces away.

She had not seen him since she’d lied to him about Beatrice four days ago. What sort of desperation had gripped her senses then was beyond her. Would she do something to make her regret this evening, too? “Mr. Steele. You are working late this evening.”

He looked away. “Yes, I must have lost track of the hour again.” Grey half-circles underlined his eyes, as if he wasn’t receiving enough sleep. Had he truly lost track of time, or was he staying later for another reason?

He motioned to her lap, taking a few steps forward. “Do you typically draw at this hour?”

Blast, her sketchbook. She hadn’t hidden it in time. She closed the book and set it to the side of her, anxious to ignore the fact that he’d more than likely seen the drawing interpreting her life.

“No, at this late hour, I am typically in bed reading.”

“But not in the library, as that is reserved for morning reading.”

She nodded, and a heavy silence followed, weighing upon her chest. She could almost hear his thoughts.

Why does she follow such a rigid routine?

What a strange woman.

Clearly, she’s mad.

“I have my reasons, you know, sticking to such a schedule.”

He studied her, still standing a few paces away. “Why do you, then?”

His question was soft, no judgment in his tone.

She contemplated not responding, hiding the truth as she did even from herself. But she could not keep such things in any longer. Her heart wasn’t strong enough to do so.

She reached for a pebble and tossed it into the pond, ripples radiating toward her. “Because keeping to such a rigid routine helps me to forget how empty my life truly is.”

Surely, he would leave now. What man in his right mind would wish to speak to such a ridiculous female?

Instead of leaving, however, Mr. Steele approached, laying his jacket on the ground and sitting beside her. The strong scent of mahogany lingered around them.

“The ground is still wet,” she warned. The moisture from the rain had already seeped through her doubled-up blanket.

“That’s all right.” He shifted against the ground, pulling his legs up and resting his arms on his knees before linking his fingers together.

They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at a greenfinch swooping low across the water.

“That drawing…was it of you?”