Page 8 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Eliza kept her gaze on the garden a moment longer. “I’ll join you shortly. There’s something I must see to.”

Clara blinked, then composed herself. “Of course. We’ll be just ahead.”

Their voices faded around the turn. Eliza stayed where she was.

Hartleigh did not correct her. It simply watched the way old houses did, patient, knowing, waiting.

Below, the shears resumed, steady and unbothered.

Eliza turned from the garden. Not toward the east wing. Not toward Clara.

She walked back the way she’d come.

Hartleigh accepted her choice with quiet ease. She did not need to justify this.

Years ago, she might have followed Clara simply because it was easier to move where others expected her to go. Hartleigh had taught her many things. One of them was the cost of surrendering quiet decisions too quickly.

And something in her, tightened by her conversation with Eleanor, loosened enough to let the morning pass.

Chapter Four

Eliza chose the garden because it was the only part of Hartleigh that did not pretend. Stone could lie. Rooms could be persuaded. People could be arranged. Growth could not.

A garden, at least, admitted what it was. It grew. It withered. It required cuts that looked cruel to anyone who did not understand what came after.

She reached the door that opened to the south walk and paused when she found it latched.

Not locked. Not barred. Simply latched, as if the house itself had decided that this direction was not convenient today.

The floor gave a faint complaint beneath her step, a low sound that traveled up the wall rather than out into the corridor. Somewhere deeper in the house, a window shifted and let through a cool breath of air that brushed her sleeve and nudged her back a step.

Hartleigh had always spoken this way. Through small refusals. Through guidance that felt reasonable if one did not question it too closely.

Eliza rested her hand against the wood, feeling the grain beneath her palm.

“Not this door,” she murmured.

The house settled. Not in agreement. In acknowledgment. Eliza withdrew her hand. Understanding was not the same as consent.

She took the longer route instead, down the east stairs and through the passage near the kitchens. That door stood open. A steady draft moved through it, carrying the scent of damp earth and smoke.

Hartleigh preferred its redirections to feel accidental. That was how consent was manufactured.

Outside, the morning had softened. The sky held the same gray light as yesterday, neither threatening nor kind. It simply existed. Gravel lay dark with moisture. The air carried that clean sharpness that followed rain, when every sound seemed to travel farther than it should.

Eliza moved toward the rose beds beneath the morning room windows. She knew them well. The old canes that required firm handling. The newer growth that would bloom with the right patience.

She expected to see Thomas. She expected the steady snip of shears, the quiet scrape of stems gathered and set aside. The assurance of him, present without ceremony.

The beds were empty. Not wrong. Not neglected. Just… absent.

Not abandoned. The cuttings had been cleared. The ground looked recently turned. Tools had been put away with care. Whoever had finished here had done so properly.

Thomas was not there.

Eliza slowed, telling herself there was nothing remarkable in that. A gardener’s work did not exist for her convenience. Thomas had responsibilities across the estate. He could not remain in one place simply because she had grown accustomed to the sound of his presence.

Still, she lingered. The quiet felt altered. Not vacant. Simply changed.