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London, 1886

I sabella wasn’t superstitious, but getting stung six times in a row by the firethorn’s spikes was bad luck.

She was wrestling with the overgrown bush in the conservatory, wincing every time a thick, spear-like thorn stung her fingers through her useless gloves.

And they said firethorn didn’t grow well in England. The darn plant should be used as a weapon; it had tough armour, speed in growing, and an attitude to match its fierce appearance.

“You win, you bloodthirsty beast.” She tossed the pruning shears on the workbench. “I’ve had enough.”

The sunlight glinted off the glossy green leaves, making them look as if the plant were celebrating its victory. She removed her leather gloves. Ruby drops of blood trickled down her fingers.

“My lady!” The alarmed voice of Lawson, the lady’s maid, coming from behind her, made her jolt.

“What is it? Have the seedlings of my orchids arrived?”

“No, my lady. Your mother is waiting for you in the sitting room. The Dowager Duchess of Gloucester is here. Your presence is urgently requested upstairs.”

“But Mother said she didn’t need me today. She said I had the afternoon for myself.”

“The Dowager wants to see you as well. Honestly!” Lawson shook her head. “You should be ready anyway.”

After removing her pinafore, she wiped her hand on a cloth and patted her curls as Lawson waved her out of the conservatory.

“Quickly.” Lawson brushed off a few leaves from Isabella’s skirt as they walked along the hallway. “Heavens, you ruined all the work I did for you. The skirt is wrinkly and has drops of mud on the hem, just like when you were five years old.”

“I’m sorry. I got carried away with the firethorn. It keeps growing in the wrong shape, no matter what I do. And it’s overtaking the whole corner. I read about some gardening techniques in the notes of Lancelot Brown that?—”

“Yes, yes, fascinating. Now…” Lawson stopped in front of the closed set of double doors opening to the sitting room. “Leave gardening behind and turn into the younger daughter of an earl for the next half an hour.”

“I will, but the Dowager isn’t here to see me. She wants to talk to Helen.”

“It doesn’t matter, my lady.” Lawson straightened Isabella’s collar and brushed more dirt off her skirt. “The Dowager is curious to meet you. Remember to smile.” She plastered a smile on her face before opening the doors. “Your Grace, Lady Isabella.”

“Finally,” Mother said in a disapproving tone.

“Oh, the young one.” Her Grace Eve, the Dowager Duchess of Gloucester, narrowed her emerald gaze on Isabella as if assessing her qualities, which shouldn’t be many, judging by how quickly the matron looked away.

Isabella curtsied. “Your Grace.”

Mother shot her an incendiary glare that promised a long, private conversation, and her sister, Helen, seemed to have swallowed a lemon. But seriously, Isabella had no idea she would meet anyone today.

“What were you doing?” Helen asked, perched on the armchair with her back perfectly straight and her gown neatly pressed.

“The firethorn won another battle. Look.” She showed her pricked fingers. “That plant is a menace. My fingers are swollen and hurt. I don’t think I can type any articles tonight.”

Helen gave her the slightest shake of her head, her black eyes widening with fear.

Mother touched the bridge of her nose.

“Articles?” The Dowager put down her cup of tea somehow without making the cup clink against the saucer.

“I support?—”

“Isabella has a passion for gardening,” Mother said, silencing her. “She spends hours in the conservatory. But more on that later. Sit down and have a cup of tea, Isabella.” The words were sweet; the tone was a commanding one.

Isabella did as told. She guessed no one was interested in hearing how she supported the movement of women determined to obtain the right to vote. Not that she did much aside from volunteering to typewrite articles, letters, and leaflets, or attending marches. Other women risked being imprisoned or beaten by the police every day for their ideas.

She managed to pour herself a cup of tea without spilling a single drop despite her aching fingers. If that wasn’t an accomplishment, she didn’t know what it was.

“So when can Helen meet His Grace?” Mother asked. “We would love to have tea together.”

The Dowager’s frown smoothed when she angled towards Helen. “Since my grandson graduated from Sandhurst, one of the best students in his year, of course, he has travelled through the kingdom, but he’s now in London. I’m eager to see him settled and married. I’m not young, and after the untimely death of his parents, I’m worried about him.” Her voice remained surprisingly flat.

“I’m sure Helen and His Grace will discover they have a lot in common.” Mother patted Helen’s hand.

Helen gracefully nodded her head in a gesture that could mean anything.

Isabella wondered why the Dowager had summoned her here. The conversation didn’t regard her. The Dowager had only shown interest in Helen as the future bride of her grandson—thank goodness—and Helen was the eldest, receiving more pressure about finding a good match.

“Helen is such a lovely lady.” The Dowager’s green eyes twinkled. “You speak three languages, play the piano and the violin, sing, paint, and are an expert in mediaeval history. How fascinating.”

Helen blushed but not too much, because too much blushing was vulgar, as Mother always said. The way Helen could control the amount of blushing was an art Isabella hadn’t mastered yet.

Helen bowed her head gracefully. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The Dowager’s smile vanished. “And what about this young lady?”

“Isabella received the same education,” Helen hurried to say. “She’s very accomplished.”

Accomplished? The sip Isabella was swallowing went sideways, and she coughed into the napkin. Accomplished wasn’t the word Helen used in private conversations.

“Apologies.” She wiped her mouth.

“Do you speak three languages as well?” the Dowager asked.

She glanced around. Mother stared at her with an expression that said, ‘ Don’t embarrass me .’ Helen’s right eyebrow twitched as it happened whenever she had to lie.

Isabella swallowed again. “ Oui .”

And that pretty much summed up all the French she knew. Well, aside from croissants, crêpes, and soufflé. Because French delicacies were too delicious not to be remembered. Voilà!

But then again, Helen had always dreamt of being the perfect wife of a lord—and a duke was interested in marrying her—and had studied hard to achieve her dream.

Isabella, on the other hand, preferred botany, dancing, and philosophy to languages. Besides, while she would be happy to find a husband she liked and start a family, her mother never pressured her to marry as highly as possible. That burden had always been on Helen’s shoulders.

As a result, Isabella had received more freedom. Freedom she’d used and abused to do as she pleased—mostly gardening.

“Excellent,” Mother said in an over-enthusiastic tone before the Dowager could investigate further Isabella’s linguistic skills. “We must organise an afternoon tea or a dinner party then.”

The Dowager nodded. Her hair was styled in an old-fashioned coiffure—ah! Another French word—that hadn’t been seen around in a few decades with a hairnet made of crochet yarn and tight backward rolls.

“Absolutely,” the Dowager said. “We’re organising a celebration for my grandson’s return in Dockerly Castle next week. Something to cheer up the family after our recent losses. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Next week?” Isabella whispered.

Helen let out a ladylike gasp.

Mother beamed and put a hand on her chest. “We’ll be delighted.”

Not Isabella. If she weren’t waiting for the precious orchid seedlings to arrive, she’d be happy to spend a few days in a castle. But unless she took care of the seedlings and planted them herself, left unattended, they might rot, and orchids were terribly tricky to grow. Not to mention they cost a pretty penny. Pennies that came from her purse. It’d taken her months of savings to buy the seedlings.

Surely, Mother didn’t want her to come, anyway. Her motto when it came to Isabella’s behaviour was ‘ don’t embarrass me.’ Mother wouldn’t risk taking her to a darned castle with a duke.

Yes, Isabella would surely be left home.

Problem solved.