Page 17 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

Georgie, darling, please find enclosed the instructions you requested on removing manure stains from wool. I wonder at your use of the word “uneventful.”

— from Edith Cleeve to her daughter

The second disaster, as it turned out, was also caused by the dog.

Georgiana had more or less rebounded from the bat incident—her pride, at least, had made some recovery, though her favorite green dress was going to require several sets of hands and possibly some powerful solvents—when Bacon dragged her bodily into a part of Renwick House that she had not yet explored.

Her writing had been going well since their arrival at the estate.

She had roughed out a general outline before she and Bacon had departed London, and her exploration of Renwick—particularly the parts that seemed most in danger of crumbling to the ground—had proven excellent fodder for the rest. She had thought to spend her afternoons closeted in her bedchamber and engrossed in her manuscript, only—

Well. She did not believe in ghosts. But Bacon kept barking at the empty spot on the wall, and every time she bent over her papers, she felt an odd warmth between her shoulder blades, and—

The bedchamber had not proven an auspicious place for writing, that was all.

Cat was utterly unpredictable in her schedule—she’d acquiesced to the suggestion of shifts in the library quite readily and then promptly ignored their agreed-upon times—and so Georgiana had been forced to find various out-of-the-way places to write in order to hide from her.

And she was. Hiding. It was hopeless to pretend otherwise.

Over dinner, Cat talked as cheerfully as though they had never been rivals—as though Georgiana had not accused her of all manner of crimes.

She described her research, her ghostly candidates from Renwick history, her visits to the village.

She seemed to think they were friends now—her good humor, it seemed, could not be so easily stamped out.

They were not friends. Georgiana had several close female friends, and she did not spend her nights imagining them with their clothes off.

Her avoidance of Cat was made impossible, however, by Bacon’s discovery of the rose garden.

In the progress of her research, Georgiana had wandered down as far as she could in the east wing, which devolved into timber and rubble instead of papered walls at that end of the house.

It was morning, and Bacon ought not have needed to go out again so soon—but the moment he espied a patch of sunlight where part of the roof had collapsed, he made happy canine sounds and frolicked in the direction of the outdoors.

She followed hastily behind him. The rubble looked old and undisturbed; the rest of the roof did not seem in imminent danger. But she could not bring herself to feel entirely sanguine about the situation.

“Bacon,” she hissed, “come back. We can go out the south wing, where it’s safe.”

He didn’t listen, of course. He flicked a happy tongue-out glance in her direction, displayed a distinct lack of gratitude for her repeated efforts on his behalf, and plunged through a crevice in the exterior east wall.

Whereupon he vanished into the outdoors.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered. “Bacon!”

The gap between the timbers in the wall was small, but not too small for her to squeeze through to go after him. She popped through the narrow space in a puff of crumbled glue and plaster dust and emerged, blinking, into… into…

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she peered around the sun-dazzled space.

The wall did not open into the forest around Renwick, as she’d expected.

Instead, her plunge through the gap had landed her in an enclosed courtyard, open to the sky and terraced in a dizzying pattern of black and white.

Its vine-covered walls topped her head, and everywhere she looked she saw roses.

Tiny ones, pale as apple blossoms; huge extravagant pink blooms, all dissipated and lavish; roses she could hold in the palm of her hand, darker than blood.

It was December. There should not be roses in December.

But there they were, thousands of them, from tight buds to blooms blown wide. She could smell them, a honeyed scent that went to her head like wine.

Bacon had capsized beneath a gap in the vines, and she hurried forward, trying to shake free of the peculiarity of the place. No doubt he was rolling in something horrid; there was nothing he enjoyed so much as the scent of excretion coating his tiny body.

But at the base of the wall, she stopped. Right there, right above where Bacon had led her, a plaque was set into the sandstone bricks. The vines had not covered it—she could still make out the words:

Sarah Sophia Penhollow

1724–1751

Gooseflesh prickled all along her arms beneath the wool of her pelisse. Everything seemed to grow suddenly darker—as though a cloud had passed over the sun.

Georgiana looked up, blinking, but there was nothing there—the sky was wide and blue and clear. There was no meteorological explanation for her sudden chill.

She ran her hands up her arms and tried to shake off the sensation. The weather was cool, that was all. Perfectly natural for December.

Unlike the roses.

She bit her lip and stepped closer to the plaque, which had gone a little green with age.

She brushed her fingers over the words engraved there: Sarah Sophia Penhollow .

Georgiana did not recognize the name, and the years listed predated the construction of Renwick House.

Could the garden have been here first, somehow? The house built around it?

It was baffling—there had been no Sarah Sophia Penhollow in all of Cat’s chatter about the history of the female occupants of Renwick House. The name was utterly unfamiliar to Georgiana, and—

Blast it all. Cat was going to want to know about this garden. Georgiana could not keep it from her.

She retrieved Bacon, who smelled of nothing but crushed roses, and made her way back toward the house. As she did, she felt it again—the warm spot between her shoulder blades. As though someone were watching.

She whirled.

The garden was still—completely still. Even the faint suggestion of wind had died away. As she watched, a single dark red petal broke free from the vine just above the plaque and floated, strange and slow, all the way to the ground.

Of course, Cat wanted to see the rose garden immediately.

Georgiana had struggled to find her at first, and then Cat had emerged from the kitchens looking pink-cheeked and flour-dusted. She’d smelled, when she’d approached, faintly of butter.

“I can’t always be writing,” she’d said by way of explanation, and waved a hand at the kitchens. Her mouth was a grin again. “Moreover, I’ve always felt that the brain requires sustenance just as much as the body.”

Georgiana did not precisely know what Cat meant, but she nodded as though she did and told her about the garden.

Cat’s eyes went wide, and she put her fingers to Georgiana’s forearm for the barest of moments before pulling away. They both glanced down at Georgiana’s sleeve, which was now lightly dusted with floury fingerprints.

Georgiana swallowed. She could feel that feather-light brush as clearly as if it had been a brand.

This was excruciating. This was hell. Why had she thought it was a good idea to invite further intercourse between them?

But then Cat put her fingers back on Georgiana’s arm, slowly and deliberately. Her lips tipped up—just on one side, a hint of that impudent challenge. As though she meant to say, Stop me, then, if you like.

But all she said was, “Will you show me the garden? I want to see it.”

And helplessly, Georgiana did. She led Cat back down the east wing and through the small gap in the timbers where the sun still shone, the place where Bacon had wriggled through.

He followed them with his usual tongue-dangling glee, as though he had not just encountered this exact same path—Bacon, at least, was not troubled by unseasonal flora.

Cat squeezed through the opening after Georgiana and emerged on a laugh and a small explosion of plaster dust. “God,” she said, “I thought for a moment you meant to entrap me in—”

Her voice dropped and fell away as she took in her surroundings, and Georgiana followed her gaze.

Though she’d just seen the garden, the strangeness of it struck her anew: the thousands of blooming roses, the black-and-white tiles, the crumbling wall—the space in the vines where she knew, if she stepped closer, she would see the worn brass plaque.

“Sweet sainted Margaret,” Cat breathed, and then leapt forward with an enthusiasm that Georgiana found vaguely alarming.

“This is extraordinary. Wonderful.” She shoved her nose into one of the flowers and drew a deep breath.

“I’ve never encountered a rose that smelled so potent.

I wonder if they were cultivated specifically for their scent somehow? And why…”

Her fingers—now streaked with pastry flour and plaster dust together—were busily fondling everything within reach.

She stroked the heavy curves of one of the larger blossoms—the bloodred ones—and then ran her fingers along the gap between the bricks where the mortar had crumbled away.

“It’s remarkable that the walls are still standing, with how thoroughly the vines have encroached.

” She turned a delighted gaze to Georgiana.

“Do you think someone is tending them? Surely not Graves. Perhaps the mysterious Mort?” Her expression went mildly electrified.

“Perhaps there is a secret gardener in residence?”

“Perhaps,” Georgiana said, “though there is quite a bit of vegetable matter on the ground for that to be the case.” For emphasis, she pushed the tip of her boot through a pile of decaying leaves that Bacon had cheerfully flattened.

Cat pursed her lips, looking vaguely disappointed at the improbability of a gardener hidden in the walls. “I suppose that’s so.”

Ludicrous, to regret that look of disappointment on her face. And still Georgiana found herself saying, “Come. Let me show you the plaque.”

She led Cat closer to the low wall, to the space where the vines parted.

Cat reached out to touch the raised letters, her fingers coasting over the name, the dates. It was how she learned the world, Georgiana thought. With her fingers. The slow brush of her hand.

Georgiana felt her skin prickle again. Not from cold.

“Sarah Sophia Penhollow.” Cat’s voice was low and throaty. “Who are you? Was this your garden?”

Georgiana swallowed, trying to cool the hot tension in her body. “You haven’t encountered the name, then? In your research?”

“No,” Cat murmured. Her fingers slid along the letters once more, her thumb running along the edge of the plaque as if to seek out something hidden. “But I know to look for it now. I’ll find her.”

Her hand dropped away from the plaque—there was nothing above or beneath it—and she turned to face Georgiana.

They were closer than Georgiana had known. Now that Cat’s attention was focused upon her, it was clear that they were close enough to touch.

“Thank you,” Cat said soberly. “You did not need to tell me about this place. You could have kept it for yourself. I would never have known.”

Georgiana felt stiff and awkward and still too warm. “I would not have done that.”

“No. I suppose not.”

And then Cat reached out and touched Georgiana’s face, and Georgiana stopped breathing.

Cat’s thumb coasted across the top of Georgiana’s cheekbone. “You have plaster dust,” she murmured, “just here.”

Georgiana sucked in a quick unsteady breath and stared down at Cat.

They were even nearer now; Georgiana did not know how they had come to be so.

Cat’s wine-red mouth was caught in an expression of concentration, her eyes focused on her task, and she was streaked with dust as well—on her cheek, in her hair.

Georgiana wanted to thrust her hands into that dark, silky weight. She wanted to hold on.

Cat breathed out a laugh. “Hell,” she said, “never mind. I’m making it worse, I think.” The tips of her first two fingers trailed down the side of Georgiana’s jaw, the barest contact between them. She started to step back, to pull away.

Georgiana reached up and caught Cat’s wrist between her fingers. Lightly. Enough to hold her still.

Cat’s dark lashes flew up. Her gaze, which had been fixed on Georgiana’s cheek, tangled with Georgiana’s own. She drew in a single, audible breath.

Georgiana held her there, gripped her wrist and felt Cat’s pulse throb beneath her thumb.

She was not holding on hard. She was not caging Cat there—it would be easy for her to pull away.

But she didn’t. Cat’s eyes flicked across Georgiana’s face, fell to her mouth, then came up again. There was a question in her expression, in the way her lips had parted on a breath and had not pressed together again.

Georgiana’s pulse beat hard in her ears.

She wanted to answer that query with her mouth, with her hands.

She wanted to push Cat back against the wall—no, she wanted Cat to push her against the wall, and she wanted to fill her hands with every curve of Cat’s body. She wanted to grip, to taste, to know.

She almost did it. The moment spooled out long and slow, and the scent of roses was all in her nose and in her mind, and her chest clutched with the force of her wanting.

And then a bird cried out, low and harsh, and Bacon barked back, and Georgiana dropped Cat’s wrist as though she had been burned by the touch of Cat’s skin.

“I should go,” she said. Her voice sounded far away in her own ears. She had the dizzy feeling that came with precipices, with great heights—as though she had looked down and seen the ground fall away beneath her feet. “You may have the garden.”

Cat was still staring at her, her eyes dark and unfathomable. Slowly—so slowly—the corner of her mouth curled up. “May I, then? How generous.”

Was she… joking?

It had been so long that Georgiana scarcely recalled what it felt like to be teased. She did not know what to say.

“Yes,” she managed, and then she bent down, plucked Bacon off the stone bench he had discovered beneath a mound of green-black leaves, and fled the garden.