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“Well, well,” she said, her voice teasing. “I see you two are getting along swimmingly.”

Frederick stepped back, the spell between them broken. He shot his grandmother an irritated look. “You are meddling again.”

The Dowager shrugged, clearly unbothered by his tone. “I would not call it meddling, dear. I would call it… encouragement.” She glanced at Gemma, her smile warm but her eyes sharp with understanding. “You have spirit, my dear. I like that. But perhaps we could all do with a bit of fresh air, hmm? Clear our heads.”

Gemma’s cheeks burned with frustration, but the Dowager’s lightheartedness eased the sting of the Duke’s words. She still felt trapped, but there was no denying the older woman’s charm.

Frederick, however, was less amused. He glared at his grandmother, then at Gemma.

“This is far from over,” he muttered, his voice like a dark promise.

As he turned to leave the room, Gemma’s heart raced, her defiance still simmering just beneath the surface. She wasn’t going to give him the reins, neither him nor anyone else; not after all those years under Sister Agnes’s foot.

Vivian’s knowing smile lingered in the air as she followed her grandson, leaving Gemma alone.

She felt the weight of the Duke’s words press down on her, but she wouldn’t let them crush her.

“Come along, dear,” the Dowager said with a smile, glancing over her shoulder. “The gardens are quite lovely this time of year. I think some fresh air will do us both good.”

They stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The sun was bright, but there was a coolness to the air that hinted at the change of seasons. The chilly breeze brushed past her the hem of dress—one of the modest gowns left for her by the staff. It was indeed quite plain, but far more presentable than the clothes she’d arrived in.

Vivian looped her arm through Gemma’s as they began a leisurely stroll along the gravel path that wound through the gardens.

Gemma was quiet at first, taking in the sprawling grounds of Blackridge Estate. The gardens were vast, filled with late-blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. The scent of roses and lavender mingled in the air, a stark contrast to the austere and plain courtyard of St. Catherine’s. It felt strangely freeing, yet the memory of her heated exchange with the Duke still lingered.

The lady seemed content to let the silence stretch for a while, her gaze sweeping over the landscape. When she finally spoke, her tone was light, as if they were merely discussing the weather.

“Did you know, my dear, that these gardens were designed by my late husband?” she said, her voice tinged with fondness. “He spent years planning every inch, planting the roses himself. It was his pride and joy.”

Gemma glanced at her, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation. “He must have loved this place very much.”

“Oh, he did,” the lady agreed with a wistful smile. “As do I. There is a certain peace here, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gemma nodded slowly, feeling a bit of the tension ease from her shoulders. “Yes, it is beautiful. I have never seen a garden quite like it.”

“Blackridge is full of surprises,” the Dowager said, giving Gemma a sidelong glance. “Just when you think you have seen everything, it shows you something new.” Her words were pointed but delivered with a smile. “And it’s a place where one might find unexpected shelter from the storm.”

Gemma's steps faltered for a moment as she caught the implied meaning behind the Dowager’s words. She had thought of this estate as another form of entrapment, another gilded cage. But now, there was a suggestion that perhaps it could be something else entirely—if she allowed it.

Then, just as quickly, the Dowager Duchess’ expression brightened. “Oh! Look at that cheeky little fellow.”

Gemma followed her gaze and spotted a squirrel darting across the path, its bushy tail flicking behind it as it scurried up a nearby oak. The tiny creature paused on a low branch, chattering indignantly at them as if they had trespassed on its territory.

“That one has been causing all sorts of trouble,” the Dowager Duchess said with a playful smirk. “Last week, I caught him sneaking into the kitchen to steal nuts left out for a pie. Scared the cook half to death when he popped his head out from behind the flour tin.”

Gemma laughed, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I can hardly blame him. I’d imagine the pies here are worth the risk.”

“They certainly are,” the Dowager agreed with a conspiratorial wink. “But now the cook swears the entire squirrel family is plotting an uprising. She’s taken to calling him Lord Nutterly.”

Gemma’s laughter came freely then, the absurdity of it lifting the heavy cloud that had settled over her earlier conversation with the Duke.

The two women continued down the path, their steps lighter.

As the squirrel darted off, disappearing into the dense foliage, the Dowager gave Gemma a gentle squeeze on the arm. “You see, dear? Even the smallest creatures here at Blackridge make their own rules. And I have a feeling you will, too.”

Her words, though spoken in a jesting tone, carried a weight of understanding beneath them. It was a subtle reassurance, one that Gemma found herself clinging to, even if she wasn’t quite ready to admit it.

Vivian gave her a final pat before letting go of her arm. “Come now,” she said brightly, “let us head back inside before Frederick comes searching for us. He does so hate when I take liberties with his guests.”