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Eleven

Fernleigh House garden

Six weeks later—early in the morning

Georgine lifted her face, breathing in the perfumed air and enjoying the slightly cool and refreshing breeze. If today were anything like the past week, it might be too warm to venture outdoors this afternoon.

She didn’t mind.

Not only was early morning her favorite time of day, but July was her favorite month. So many trees, plants, and flowers bowed beneath a bevy of blooms, and occasionally, she spotted a baby animal or bird. Plus, she enjoyed the abundance of fresh local produce.

She skimmed her gaze over the grounds.

Matilda had transformed the manicured space into a vibrant sanctuary, and it had become Georgine’s favorite place at Fernleigh House. It didn’t even bother her that the garden was where she had been shot.

How long ago that seemed.

How much had changed.

Indeed, how much she had changed.

Now that she was free to roam the house and grounds at will—Doctor Tinsdale had lifted several restrictions, so long as she didn’t overexert herself—she sought the privacy and serenity the gardens offered.

She vowed she healed faster just being outdoors, surrounded by nature.

The doctor cautioned her to take care if she took trips to town or church, or attended gatherings, concerned that her healing arm might get jostled. He estimated it would be another two to three months until she fully healed, and only then would they know to what extent, if any, the damage to the bone had reduced the use of her arm.

Before this, she had never considered what recovery from a gunshot entailed.

Georgine didn’t mind the extended convalescence now that she could move about Fernleigh House’s grounds. She had no desire to enter the feeding frenzy that was Polite Society, particularly as hers and Robyn’s names were yet on many flapping tongues.

Aubriella had shared that unfortunate and rather chafing detail during her last visit.

Old tabbies, bitter spinsters, and on-the-shelf wallflowers needed something to chat about, after all.

Georgine’s friends came to call often, and they held the Ladies of Opportunity meetings here, the last on the garden veranda.

That reminded Georgine.

She wanted to speak with Cook and make certain the lemon shortbread, almond macaroons, and marmalade puffs she had requested for tomorrow’s meeting, along with finger sandwiches, would be ready.

Hetty had called three days ago and wagered every cent she had scrimped away during her employment with Mrs. Wynecott—fifty-one pounds. Her wager was quite simple. “Mrs. P shall be removed from all charitable committees of St. Winifred’s before the quarter’s end.”

Hetty deserved her happiness and freedom from the harpy.

Pausing beside the ornate five-tiered fountain with its cheerful cherubs, Georgine trailed her fingers in the cool, burbling water. A bashful frog launched itself from behind the spout’s dark recess, splashing into the largest scalloped basin.

“Hello there.” She bent forward.

What a cute little thing, with those enormous black eyes.

“I shan’t hurt you.”

“Have you taken to talking to chubby stone cherubs, my dear?”

Since marrying, Robyn rarely addressed Georgine by her name, instead using terms of endearment.

Darling. My sweet. My dear.