Page 6 of Greystone’s Legacy (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #5)

The garden tour proved surprisingly engaging.

Miss Wynstanley's knowledge was both extensive and charmingly conveyed, her occasional touch of Welsh lilt becoming more pronounced when she grew enthusiastic about a particular topic.

Freddie found himself asking questions simply to hear her speak more, watching the play of expressions across her face as she explained their methods of cultivation.

"You must think me terribly provincial," she said at last, pausing beside a flowering herb bed. "Nattering on about vegetables when you're used to grander conversation."

"Not at all," Freddie assured her honestly. "I find your passion for the practical quite fascinating. Though I confess, I'm having some difficulty reconciling your evident education with..."

He trailed off, suddenly aware he might be about to give offense, but she merely raised an eyebrow, her mouth quirking slightly.

"With my calloused hands and my knowledge of crop rotation?" she suggested. "Life has taught me that true gentility lies in making the best of one's circumstances, sir. We may not be wealthy, but we maintain our dignity through honest work rather than false pretence."

The words struck some chord in Freddie's confused memories, stirring a sense of respect he couldn't quite place.

He found himself studying her profile as she bent to pick a sprig of lavender, noting how the sharp line of her nose was balanced by the gentle curve of her cheek.

Not a conventional beauty perhaps, but there was something increasingly appealing about her direct gaze and quiet confidence.

"I believe you may be teaching me several valuable lessons, Miss Wynstanley," he said softly.

She met his eyes then, and for a moment something passed between them that transcended their different backgrounds and current circumstances.

Then she smiled, and led him back toward the house with completely proper decorum before leaving him at the door with a remark that she needed to go and check on some sheep.

Freddie wanted to ask her more, never having known a lady who wanted to know anything more of sheep than whether there would be lamb cutlets on the dinner table, but she was already gone, striding briskly off up the mountain into the mist and leaving Freddie staring after her.

The night closed in around Plas Wyn like a velvet curtain, bringing with it the peculiar silence of the Welsh mountains.

Freddie lay in his borrowed bed, listening to the unfamiliar creaks and settling sounds of the old house, his mind drifting between consciousness and the darker waters of memory that threatened to pull him under.

Sleep came slowly, reluctantly, as though some part of him knew what awaited in the realm of dreams. The first images were innocuous enough: a grand house, far larger than Wynstanley, with sweeping lawns and formal gardens.

He walked through elegant rooms that felt achingly familiar, trailing his fingers along rich brocade wallpaper, breathing in the scent of beeswax and leather that spoke of generations of wealth and privilege.

But then the quality of the dream changed. The rooms grew darker, shadows lengthening unnaturally in the corners. Footsteps echoed behind him, too close, too purposeful. He turned down corridor after corridor, each one exactly like the last, trying to escape something he couldn't quite identify.

A man's voice called his name, familiar yet wrong somehow. "Frederick? Where are you hiding, nephew?"

The word 'nephew' sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with temperature. He tried to run but his legs felt leaden, his movements slowed as though moving through treacle. The footsteps grew closer.

"You can't hide forever," the voice continued, silky with false concern. "The estate needs proper management. Your father would have wanted..."

Freddie jerked awake, heart pounding, sheets tangled around his legs.

The quiet of the Welsh night pressed in around him, broken only by the soft hooting of an owl somewhere in the darkness.

He lay still, trying to capture the details of the dream before they slipped away, but they dissolved like morning mist, leaving only an unsettling sense of danger.

His head ached, a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. Miss Cecilia had warned him that recovery might bring disturbing dreams as his memories tried to reassert themselves, but this felt different. More immediate. More threatening.

Sleep crept up on him again despite his resistance, drawing him back into the darkness of dream.

This time he was on a horse, riding towards a grand manor of golden stone.

Happy expectation welled in his breast – he knew this place, had joyous memories here, though he couldn't quite grasp them.

He urged his horse onwards, eager to arrive.

Suddenly, the sky above the manor darkened, the wind picking up.

Horses appeared from seemingly nowhere, riders spurring them towards him.

They should have been smiling in welcome, but instead, one of them raised a gun in his direction.

A shot cracked out, and terror welled in Freddie's breast. Wheeling his horse, he fled what should have been a sanctuary.

Hooves drummed as his pursuers kept coming, another shot whistling past his ear.

Freddie woke with a strangled gasp, sweat cold on his skin despite the mild night. The pain in his head was worse now, pulsing in time with his racing heart. He sat up carefully, pressing his palms against his eyes until bright spots danced in the darkness.

These weren't just dreams, he realised with growing certainty. They were fragments of memory, pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite assemble. Someone had wanted to harm him, had perhaps succeeded to some extent. His presence here at Plas Wyn wasn't merely the result of an unfortunate accident.

The first grey light of dawn was beginning to seep through the curtains.

Freddie rose and went to the window, drawing them back to look out over the peaceful Welsh landscape.

In the kitchen garden below, he could see Hester's tall figure moving among the morning mist, already beginning her day's work.

The sight of her steady, purposeful movement helped to settle his troubled thoughts.

Whatever danger lurked in his past, whatever memories were trying to surface, he was safe here for now.

Hester and her aunts had taken him in without question, offering refuge though it was apparent they could ill afford another mouth to feed.

He owed it to them to be careful, to understand the full situation before taking any action that might bring trouble to their door.

Still, as he dressed for breakfast, the echo of that silky, threatening voice lingered in his mind. 'Nephew,' it had called him, with an undertone that spoke more of predator than family. The word carried weight, significance he couldn't yet grasp but that sent warning shivers down his spine.

The library at Plas Wyn, though modest in size, possessed the comfortable air of a room well-loved and well-used. Freddie found Hester there late that afternoon, sorting through account books with the same quiet competence she brought to all her tasks.

She looked up at his entrance, and something in her expression made him pause. The usual calm efficiency had slipped slightly, revealing a weariness she typically kept well hidden.

"I beg your pardon," he said, beginning to withdraw. "I didn't mean to disturb your work."

"Not at all, sir." She closed the ledger with a slight sigh. "In truth, I welcome the interruption. Numbers have a way of becoming rather oppressive after too long in their company."

Freddie moved further into the room, noting how the late afternoon sun caught golden highlights in her dark hair. "I cannot help but observe that you shoulder a great many responsibilities for one so young."

A small smile touched her lips. "Would you say the same if I were a man of four and twenty?"

"Touché." He settled into the chair opposite her desk. "Though I suspect even a man would find the management of an estate challenging without proper support."

"We manage well enough." The automatic response held a note of defensiveness that made him hasten to explain.

"I meant no criticism. Indeed, I find your capability rather remarkable." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "But capability doesn't preclude feeling the weight of one's duties."

Hester was silent for a long moment, studying him with those clear hazel-green eyes. Then she set aside the ledger entirely and leaned back in her chair.

"It was easier when Father was alive," she said quietly. "He understood both the practical necessities and the social expectations. Finding the balance between them... well, that proves rather more difficult on one's own."

"Your aunts seem supportive," Freddie offered.

"Oh, they are, bless them. But they're not really equipped for the harsher realities of estate management.

They remember when Plas Wyn had a full complement of servants, when we could afford to maintain appearances properly.

" She smiled slightly. "Sometimes I think it pains them more to see me in the kitchen garden than it does me to work there. "

"And does it pain you?" The question slipped out before he could consider its propriety.

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Not in the way you might imagine.

I find honest work rather satisfying, truth be told.

It's the constant awareness of falling short of expectations that weighs heavily.

The knowledge that no matter how hard I work, society will see only the ways in which we fail to maintain proper gentry standards. "

The quiet dignity in her voice stirred something in Freddie's chest. "You speak of society's judgment as though you've faced it directly."

"We did try a short come-out in Shrewsbury, the year after Father died, staying with a distant cousin who was kind enough to host us there.

" Her fingers traced abstract patterns on the desk's worn leather surface.

"It was... not entirely successful. Even country gentry has little patience for genteel poverty, however ancient the family name might be. "

"Their loss," Freddie said firmly, surprising himself with the heat in his voice. "Any society that values mere wealth over true worth is hardly worth courting."

She looked up quickly, colour touching her cheeks. "That's... rather revolutionary thinking for a nobleman."

"Perhaps my accident knocked some sense into me along with my memories." He offered a self-deprecating smile that faded as he continued. "Though I must admit, the fragments that are returning suggest I may have been rather too concerned with social position myself, once upon a time."

"And now?"

"Now I find myself reassessing many things." He met her eyes directly. "These past days at Plas Wyn have taught me much about the difference between seeming and being."

Hester's colour deepened slightly, but she held his gaze. "Your circumstances are hardly usual, sir When your memory returns fully..."

"I find myself less and less certain I wish to reclaim whatever life I led before," he admitted quietly.

"My dreams are... troubling. They suggest danger, betrayal.

Here, despite the reduced circumstances you speak of, I have found something that feels more genuine than all my hazy recollections of grander places. "

"You cannot mean that," she protested, though her voice was soft. "You have responsibilities, a position to reclaim..."

"Do I?" He leaned forward slightly. "The more I remember, the more convinced I become that someone wished to prevent me from claiming whatever position was mine by right. Perhaps fate had a hand in bringing me here, where I might learn what truly matters."

She drew a slightly uneven breath. "You should not say such things. Not when you cannot be certain of your own circumstances."

"I am certain of some things," he said quietly. "I am certain that you are one of the finest people I have ever known, with or without my memories. I am certain that the strength and grace with which you bear your responsibilities is worth more than any number of fashionable accomplishments."

"Sir..." She stood abruptly, moving to the window. "You must not... we cannot..."

He remained seated, respecting her need for distance while pressing his point gently. "Cannot what? Acknowledge truth? Share confidences as friends?"

"Friends." She gave a small laugh. "Is that what we are?"

"At the very least," he said softly. "Though I begin to hope..."

"Hope is dangerous," she interrupted, still facing the window. "Particularly when built on uncertain foundations."

Freddie rose then, moving to stand behind her, close but not touching. "Some things require no foundation beyond themselves, Miss Wynstanley. Some truths are evident regardless of circumstance."

She turned to face him, and for a moment he thought she might say more. But then one of her aunts called from the hallway, and the moment shattered like fine glass.