Page 27

E mily had vowed to herself that she would not return to the duke’s garden.

Although that quiet spot deep in the garden was her own slice of paradise, visiting it was too risky.

There was always the danger that her mother would spot her entering or leaving the garden and then hellfire would rain down on Emily.

Or perhaps she would meet someone other than Freddie and they would not be as discreet or as kind as him.

Or worse, she would meet Freddie and the strange, tender feeling she was starting to feel in her chest whenever he was around would grow and become stronger.

And when she had to marry someone, anyone, to finally get away from her mother, those soft feelings would poke at her and destroy any chance of finding true contentment.

Because no matter how much she was starting to like Freddie or how much he was warming to her, they were not two people who could form an attachment greater than friendly acquaintances.

They were too different. She may know his reasons for not being academic, she may understand why he poked fun at her enjoyment of reading, but the small differences between them now would become craters over the years and she couldn’t bear it if their fledgling friendship was ruined by such a thing.

She didn’t have enough friends to casually lose one .

There were a thousand reasons not to slip through the gap in the wall, reasons that should have stopped her as she’d raced through her mother’s manicured garden, the boxed hedges cut so squarely it looked as if one could cut one’s fingers on the sharp edges.

She should have stopped as her fingers brushed over the crumbled stone wall or as her skirts caught on a bramble or when her hands trembled as she fought to get the fabric loose, but nothing could cut through the desperate need to get away, to find peace and solitude in her favourite place in the world.

This morning her mother had discovered that Emily had stopped using Jane to help her dress.

With tight lips and a heightened colour her mother had lectured Emily so thoroughly in everything that Emily did wrong, from the way she spoke and stood, to the fact that the duke had yet to even request courting her.

Her mother had taken her place at the front of her sitting room, leaving Emily to sit on a straight-backed chair with little padding to allow for any comfort.

A few times she’d opened her mouth to say she had a good eye for fashion; she was far more comfortable with the new look and surely that had to be a good thing; that even if the Duke of Glanmore did request a courtship, Emily wasn’t even sure it was something she wanted.

Once she had started on that path it would only lead to her marrying the man, and being bound to the austere duke for the rest of her life filled her with dread.

All this was inside her, but she’d never made a sound.

The longer the diatribe had gone on, the smaller and weaker Emily had become until she had felt as insubstantial as a spectre.

She’d half expected to lift her hand and be able to see through the skin.

For her mother, the real Emily did not exist and if she was not a reality for the woman who had birthed her, then who was she?

Once through the wall, she stopped and listened. There was little in the way of wind and the trees were almost eerily still. A blackbird sang his heart out on a nearby low branch, defending his territory for all he was worth. Beneath him, his mate hunted for food amongst the soil.

Careful not to disturb them about their work, Emily stepped around the roots, following a path she knew well.

Her fingers brushed against the bark of the trees she passed, the rough wood grounding her, connecting her to the land around her, reminding her that she was real, that she was someone who lived and breathed and felt, that she wasn’t merely a vessel for her mother’s societal hopes.

In the quiet peace the shade brought her, she slowly came back to herself, her thoughts and words returning.

If only she could discuss things with her mother while they both walked amongst the canopy of leaves, she might be able to have a rational conversation with her, to explain that she understood she wanted the best for her but with every criticism, her mother was destroying Emily’s confidence.

Perhaps if she could get these thoughts across, her mother would stop or at least calm the worst of her cutting remarks.

Perhaps Emily could have the same relationship her sisters had with their mother.

But this was impossible; her mother would never consent to take a walk with her, much less in the secluded area of the duke’s garden.

The only reason they would stroll together would be to be seen and then the conversation would be full of fake platitudes and forced smiles.

Maybe her relationship with her mother was doomed to always be as it was.

Emily reached the small clearing that housed the most tranquil spot in the garden and came to an abrupt stop.

There was a bench directly placed under her favourite tree.

Emily blinked, as if trying to dispel the illusion, but it was still there when she opened her eyes.

Not only was there a bench but there were also cushions—delicate, pretty ones that looked made for a woman. There were no women living at the duke’s house, aside from Charlotte, and the cushions did not look hardy enough for a young child .

She stepped over to it, her footsteps hesitant, her gaze darting around, searching for the real owner of this miraculous seat.

No one came rushing through the undergrowth to stop her progress and it was still there when she reached it.

She ran her fingers over the soft fabric on the cushions, a wild, fizzing sensation rushing through her veins.

They were the same golden colour she’d been looking at in the shop when she had seen Freddie, the day their relationship had started to change.

She picked one up and held it to her cheek, the material cool against her heated skin.

Her breathing became heavy as she blinked back tears, the kindness of this gesture her undoing after the harsh reality of her morning.

She sank onto the bench, her knees refusing to hold her up a moment longer.

She placed the cushion on her lap and gazed at the foliage opposite, seeing only Freddie.

This bench, the meaning behind this gesture was…

what? She couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t even begin to think what Freddie might have meant by placing a wooden seat in her favourite spot in the garden.

That was one thing, but then to have placed these cushions on it in a colour he must have realised she liked was something else entirely.

The bench was comfortable, almost moulded to her body.

She could sit here for hours and read and not need to stretch out kinks in her spine.

That the bench was here could be a coincidence.

Perhaps Freddie had realised this was a pleasant spot to sit and rest after he had caught her here.

Or maybe one of his brothers had discovered it independently and this bench was for them to enjoy the quiet solitude of this spot.

But she doubted it. It was the cushions that made her think this truly was for her.

Soft and delicate and in a colour she liked, they had to be.

Emily had never had a suitor before, but she understood the rules like everyone else.

You met a gentleman at some social gathering, you flirted, danced together, he visited your family to ask to court you and then, if you suited, he asked you to marry him.

There was no mention in this well-trodden path of courtship of a bench made for you by a man you’d only just stopped thinking about as your mortal enemy.

Further into the garden, the sound of someone hammering started up, but the sound was soft enough to not be a threat. After a while, the repetitive sound became soothing. The cushion stayed resting in her lap, her book, unopened, on top of it.

She had no idea what to do about Freddie, no map or framework to navigate this.

Eloisa would be of no help, although that would not stop Emily from asking her opinion anyway.

She was the only person Emily could turn to.

It was not as if her own thoughts were helping.

She had no idea what she wanted from Freddie, no way to frame the questions her mind was asking her.

If this was something, something different, then what was it and was it something that she even wanted in her life?

Freddie was definitely not the irresponsible fool she had once thought him to be, but that did not mean he was potential husband material or that he was even interested in forming that relationship with her.

The bench could be a sweet gesture of thanks.

She was growing close to Lotte and the brothers were undoubtedly grateful for that; Lotte was definitely happier and more settled since Emily had come into her life.

All the Dashworth brothers had told her that to some degree.

Emily had also kept the knowledge that Freddie couldn’t read to herself and he would be grateful for that.

His gratitude for the things she had done was the most likely explanation for the appearance of this bench, even if that logical reason stopped her blood singing and flattened her spirits almost as much as her mother’s long diatribe.