Rose walked from the room with measured steps, her head high, but inside, her mind was racing. Three days. What would she do? She would have to run away. But to where? She had no one to turn to. No one to offer her a home or shelter.
As she stepped into the morning sunlight, she breathed in the scent of her mother’s rose garden and closed her eyes for a moment, praying for a miracle. But as she’d learned very young, miracles were only in fairy tales. This was real life. Her life. Doomed to marry a disgusting old man because no one else would have her.
Chapter Three
Sebastian liked thisAmos Thorncroft. He looked a man straight in the eyes. With stark white hair and thick black eyebrows, he might have seemed intimidating, if not for his warm smile. Though not tall, he carried the weight of broad shoulders and hands worn rough by decades of work. The kind of hands Sebastian could respect.
“Right then, Doyle, let me show you the grounds properly,” Thorncroft said, adjusting his cap.
Sebastian nodded, grateful for the deeper tour. The brief interview earlier had secured him the position, but now he needed to understand the layout. If he was going to complete the real reason he was here, every detail mattered.
“I appreciate that, sir. I want to do the work justice.” Justice, yes. Not the kind Thorncroft expected though.
Thorncroft’s gray eyes assessed him again, just as they had earlier. “Good. A man who takes pride in his work is worth keeping.”
Sebastian followed him down the gravel path, eyes alert. Every hedge, path, and outbuilding was a clue. This was enemy territory, and he couldn’t afford to overlook a single detail. He studied sight lines to the house, servant paths, and back entrances.
They stopped at the edge of the rose garden, and Sebastian felt his breath catch. It was stunning—rows of vibrant blooms, trellises heavy with climbing roses, and a marble fountain murmuring at the center.
“Lady Wentworth planned this herself,” Thorncroft said, his voicesofter now. “She and I planted it together when she came here as a bride. Had a particular love for roses.”
Sebastian nodded, though his chest tightened. This garden had been his mother’s rival’s creation, the woman his father was accused of murdering. He pushed the thought aside.
“They’re beautiful,” he said.
“Beautiful, but demanding. These roses are finicky creatures. We’ve got blackspot, and the aphids are driving me mad.” Thorncroft gestured to a struggling bush. “What do you see, and what would you do about it?”
Sebastian crouched beside it, grateful for the hours he’d spent with the Langston’s head gardener as his primary teacher. “Aphids. Left alone, they’ll drain the sap and weaken the plant. That mildew is a byproduct.”
“And the remedy?”
“Soap and water wash. Mild lye soap mixed in, brushed on every leaf, especially underneath. The soap breaks down their outer shells.”
Thorncroft raised a brow. “A brush?”
“Like an artist’s. Dip and paint until each leaf is coated.” Sebastian offered a slight smile. “If there’s no soap, I’ll squeeze them off by hand and pray for ladybugs.”
Thorncroft snorted his approval. “Fine, then.” He turned, continuing down the path. “Come on. Plenty more to see.”
Sebastian smiled to himself. It seemed he had passed the first test.
They continued down the pathway, passing through a wrought-iron gate that led to a more practical area of the estate. An apple orchard, its trees laden with green-tinged fruits, and beyond, a vegetable garden. Rows of neatly tilled earth showcased a variety of crops—carrots, cabbages, and beans. A scattering of sunflowers and marigolds added pops of color.
The scent of freshly turned soil, earthy and rich, mingled with the sweetness of ripening vegetables. The scent of life. Of growth.Renewal. To Sebastian, there could be no better smell in the world.
They walked on, the path winding toward a pond nestled among weeping willows. Sunlight dappled through branches and reflected upon the water where ducks paddled lazily across the surface, avoiding lily pads that floated in clusters.
From there, Thorncroft led him to the apple orchard. The trees stood in rows, their branches heavy with fruit glistening in the sunlight. A soft breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of ripening apples.
“We’ve got Codling apples here in this first row. They’re good for pies and preserves and whatever other delicious things our cook, Mrs. Carter, comes up with. The lady’s a magician.” He gestured toward the next row. “Them’s the Golden Pippin. Real princess of a fruit, that one. Lady Rose loves them.” They walked farther into the orchard, with Amos pointing out the small, sweet, and nutty Russet variety as well as a large cooking apple called a Kentish Fillbasket. “And finally, we’ve got the Redstreak, which makes a tasty cider.”
“Do you press them here?”
“That’s right. Just enough for our use. Any additional, we send down to the village for the children.”
Amos took him to the last row. “And these here are our White Joaneting. They ripen the earliest. We’ll harvest them next week. They won’t keep long, though, so Mrs. Carter will make applesauce and put it away for the winter.”
Thorncroft guided him toward the sweeping lawn near the manor. The grass was a vivid green, bordered by colorful flowerbeds. A pergola covered in wisteria stood to one side, providing shade and a picturesque spot for tea or quiet reflection. “Lady Rose likes to come out here to read, but more often she sits in the swing in the rose garden. You’re not to disturb her, should you come upon her.”
