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CHAPTER ELEVEN

“ A ny instructions today, Your Grace?” Belinda asked, setting down an enormous plate of buttery eggs on thickly cut toast, with a small bowl of blackberries, freshly picked from the garden.

It had been almost a week since Teresa’s arrival, and she had not seen hide nor hair of her husband.

She took breakfast at the small table in her bedchamber, ate luncheon in the kitchens, and dined alone in the evening, though the staff did their best to keep her company.

Yet, most were not comfortable conversing freely with their Duchess; it went against the very nature of their work.

“I have had a few thoughts,” Teresa said, becoming more grateful by the day for the housekeeper and her perpetually cheerful demeanor. “My efforts with the music hall were, admittedly, ill-judged. As was my suggestion to cover all the walls in tapestries and drapes to make it a little warmer.”

Belinda chuckled, pouring a fresh cup of weak coffee for her mistress. “Not ill-judged at all, Your Grace, just ambitious.”

“You are too kind, and a terrible fibber.” Teresa smiled. “Nevertheless, I have decided that I will start small.”

“How small?”

Teresa took up her cup of coffee and sipped. “Plants.”

“Plants, Your Grace?”

“Flowers, specifically. Perhaps, a little tree or two.” Teresa gestured vaguely around her with her free hand.

“I would like to brighten up the hallways, and there is an abundance of beautiful flowers in the gardens that would look beautiful indoors. Of course, I shall probably need to procure an equal abundance of vases, but, as I said, I am starting small. A hallway and a room at a time.”

Belinda pulled a face as she fetched a tiny dish of salt from the breakfast tray, and put it beside Teresa’s plate, already accustomed to her new mistress’ habits and likes. Indeed, the housekeeper seemed to have a gift for predicting what Teresa might want or need before she even asked for it.

“Not a good idea?” Teresa asked, noting the frown.

“A lovely idea,” Belinda replied, hesitating. “However, you might have some trouble convincing Mr. Brewster. The head gardener. He is… very particular; I think that’s the polite way of saying it.”

Sprinkling salt on her eggs, Teresa nodded, steeling her determination.

“I shall take care of that.” She glanced up at Belinda.

“In the meantime, do you think you could find me some vases? They do not have to be remarkable, just able to hold water. I should hate to turn the hallways into a treacherous feat of keeping one’s balance in my attempt to brighten them up. ”

The housekeeper chuckled. “I’ll have a few of the maids gather some from the storage rooms. Last time I checked, we’ve got more vases than we know what to do with.

It is a shame the same can’t be said for tapestries, though.

” She paused, smiling. “You’ll get used to the cold and, in the height of summer, I promise you’ll be glad of it. ”

“Thank you, Belinda.” Teresa sighed softly. “Truly, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, Your Grace.” Belinda’s gaze flitted toward the door, as if to make sure they were alone. “And I’m sorry that His Grace hasn’t been in your company more. I wish I could tell you that he hasn’t always been so withdrawn, but… I don’t want to lie to you.”

Teresa struggled to swallow a mouthful of eggs, a lump forming in her throat. “It is just another thing that I shall learn to get used to.” She forced a smile. “The coldness of the castle and the coldness of my husband shall soon become one and the same, and I shall be impervious.”

“You are a remarkable woman, Your Grace,” Belinda said, the compliment taking Teresa by surprise.

“There’s a great deal of strength and courage in you, and I want to let you know that the staff believe—myself included—that you were worth the wait.

You are everything we hoped for. Someone with ideas and kindness and charm, who wants to bring this ruin back to life. ”

Suddenly shy, uncertain of how to accept such praise, for it was not something that had often been given in her life, Teresa shoved another forkful of delicious eggs into her mouth so she would not have to say anything at all.

Belinda seemed to understand, chuckling softly, as she headed for the door.

“I’ll have those vases fetched for you,” she said. “As for Mr. Brewster, you’ll find him in the potting sheds at this time of day. If not there, then the greenhouses. He is a creature of habit, which—as you may discover—is part of the problem.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Teresa promised, swallowing.

Belinda turned back for a moment, her face tense, like she did not know if she should say what she was about to. But, in the end, she seemed to make her decision. “And, just so you know, he is not the only one.”

“Pardon?”

“A creature of habit,” Belinda replied, her tone hushed. “He is not the only one.”

Before Teresa could press her for more information, the housekeeper hurried out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind her.

Teresa whistled a jaunty tune as she made her way out into the immaculate gardens of Darnley Castle.

It was a pity that one had to pass through the decaying archway of the ruined part of the castle to get to it, but once on the other side of the curved tunnel, the ruin added a somewhat mystical quality to the beautiful, sprawling grounds.

As if the gardens were enchanted, the castle cursed.

Am I here because I am caught in the enchantment, or to break the curse? She smiled at her private silliness, her mood markedly improved thanks to the morning arrival of the post.

She could not be certain until she opened the letters, but one was addressed in Prudence’s hand, thicker than the others, and she had confident hopes that her latest chapters of Captain Frostheart and Miss Savage had arrived.

The gardens were the perfect place to read such a dazzling story, alongside the more serious task of acquiring a steady supply of flowers for the castle.

“A creature of habit,” she mumbled as she wandered along avenues of white gravel, trailing her fingertips against hedges of boxwood, the sound of fountains reminding her of home.

She paused and glanced back at the castle, shielding her eyes against the sun as she looked toward the windows of the two ruined towers. Squinting, her heart jolted.

For a moment, it looked like something moved in one of the vacant windows, high up, near to the top of the tower.

She blinked, shaking her head. I am imagining things, or it is an old drape moving in the wind.

It was the fault of the story—or what she hoped was the next part of the story—in her hand, and these exquisite gardens, and that eerie ruin, being allowed to crumble to dust. Not to mention the scarred, handsome, mysterious man who was hidden somewhere inside the castle, perhaps watching her, perhaps entirely disinterested by where she was or what she was doing.

Pressing on through colorful flowerbeds and hedges that had been trimmed into elaborate patterns and neat topiaries, she came to the gleaming exterior of the greenhouses.

They were quite beautiful, with domed portions to the roof, and little decorative embellishments sticking upward, vines and flowers painstakingly created with metal.

It was almost a disappointment that she would not get to go inside, for there was a man outside, washing the glass, and judging by his silver hair and weathered skin, he had to be Mr. Brewster. By age alone, there could be no one more senior in the garden.

“Mr. Brewster?” she asked, just to be sure.

The man stopped what he was doing, crinkled eyes peering at her. “Your Grace.” He dropped his rag into a bucket and bobbed his head in respect. “What brings you out here to the greenhouse? There’s prettier parts of the garden.”

“Everything in the gardens is beautiful,” she countered, smiling nervously.

“In truth, I find these greenhouses rather charming. I did not know they could look so exquisite. At Grayling House, they are tucked away behind a wall and some apple trees, as some previous Earl of the house thought they were ugly.”

The gardener frowned as if he had spotted a rose growing where it should not be, the look knocking Teresa’s confidence a little, hitting her insecurities. The last thing she wanted was for any of the servants here to think her peculiar, otherwise she might as well have been back in society.

But then Mr. Brewster said, “Why would anyone think greenhouses are ugly?” and she realized that his frown had not been for her at all, but for whichever Earl of Grayling had made that decision.

“My thoughts exactly,” Teresa said, a note too brightly. “They are where beautiful things grow.”

The gardener made a grunt of agreement, wiping his hands self-consciously on a clean cloth. “Were you wanting a tour of the grounds, Your Grace?”

“I would relish that, Mr. Brewster,” she replied, hesitating. “But first, I wondered if I might ask a great favor of you. I know it will be an inconvenience, but you would have my eternal gratitude.”

His bushy eyebrow shot up, gray hair springing off in every direction. “What favor, Your Grace?”

She told him hastily of her plans to brighten up the castle with pretty flowers, explaining that some of the maids were on a mission to gather as many vases as they could.

“Obviously, it will just be for the spring and the summer, and from flowerbeds where their absence will not be noticed. I should hate for you to have any bald patches.”

With a surprising laugh, the gardener rubbed the crown of his head. “Bit late for that, Your Grace.”

The shock of the joke brought a spluttering laugh out of Teresa, which seemed to please Mr. Brewster. Perhaps she had caught him on a good day, or perhaps he was not quite so particular as Belinda had made him out to be.

Maybe, the same is true of other such creatures of habit…

“Will once a fortnight serve?” the gardener asked. “If I keep the bulbs on ‘em, they’ll last longer in the vases, and I can replant ‘em when they want refreshing.”

Teresa blinked. “That would be… marvelous, Mr. Brewster.”

“As for the autumn and the winter,” he continued, gesturing back at the greenhouse with his cloth, “I’ll see what I can spare.”

“Are you sure?”

He frowned again. “You’re the Duchess, aren’t you?

If you want fresh flowers in the castle, it’s not my place to refuse.

” He paused, shrugging a little awkwardly.

“Besides, I think it’s a fine idea. Not so many people come into the gardens anymore, so at least people will see the flowers in there.

Don’t mistake me, I don’t grow ‘em so people will look, but… the flowers like it.”

It was Teresa’s turn to look at him as if he were a little odd. “The flowers like to be seen?”

“They grow better,” he replied shyly. “They flourish.”

Teresa chuckled despite herself, blurting out, “I do not suppose you have a corner of the garden for a duke, do you? A sunny spot where one might grow better and wish to be seen?”

Regret rushed in a moment after, the gardener’s face clouding over, all trace of his smile and surprisingly easy rapport vanishing. He twisted the clean cloth between his hard-working hands, nudging a clump of dirt with the toe of his boot.

Teresa had thought she was free to jest with this man, but it seemed she had put a foot wrong. And it was all going so well…

“Apologies,” she mumbled. “I do not know why I said that. If you will excuse me, I think I shall take myself to the rose gardens; I have taken up quite enough of your time. And thank you for being so generous with your flowers. I look forward to seeing them brightening the halls of the castle.”

She turned to leave, burning with the heat of her foolishness, breathless with the sudden weight of the homesickness that crashed down upon her.

At Grayling House, she did not have to try to be something she was not, and though it had only been a week, she was beginning to think she was not designed to be a duchess at all.

Isolde has always made it look so easy, but she always made everything look easy. Most of all, she made love look easy.

“Your Grace!” Mr. Brewster called out, bringing her to a halt.

She turned, praying her cheeks were not as red as she feared they were. “Yes, Mr. Brewster?”

“I know why you said that, and you’ve no need to apologize for it,” he replied, his eyes soft. Pitying almost. “I don’t have a sunny spot for him, since he doesn’t much like these gardens, but… I can tell you why he has no wish to be seen.”

Teresa stared at the gardener in disbelief, quickly walking back to him in case he changed his mind.

For the past week, she had done her best to prize tidbits of information from Belinda, her lady’s maid, and the other servants she crossed paths with, but when it came to their master, they were all infuriatingly tight-lipped.

Indeed, Belinda’s parting words at breakfast were the closest Teresa had come to getting an idea of who Cyrus was, beyond the little she already knew.

So, hearing Mr. Brewster willingly offer to speak about Cyrus was an unexpected gift indeed, almost as thrilling as the letters in her hand.

“There’s a table and chairs in the greenhouse,” the gardener said, gesturing to the elegant glass doors of the entrance. “I’ll just wash my hands and be with you, Your Grace.”

Teresa mustered her cheeriest smile. “You have my thanks, Mr. Brewster.”

The gardener bowed his head, mumbling sadly, “You mightn’t want to offer them once you have heard what I have to say.” He raised his head again. “I won’t be a moment.”

As he walked off down the side of the greenhouse, Teresa took herself inside, finding the table and chairs he had mentioned. It was intensely balmy within the glass building, as if she had entered another world entirely, where exotic plants bloomed, and delicious fruits grew in plump abundance.

Swallowing down her desire to explore the avenues of unknown plants and flowers, she settled into a wrought iron chair, set her unopened letters on the table, and waited for the only story she truly wished to hear: The Mystery of Cyrus Deverell.