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It took forever. With each step, Genny feared Fiona would pass out completely. Or chuck up all that wine she’d drunk.
But they made it to Fiona’s room at last. Genny dropped Fiona’s shoes on the threshold and shoved open the door.
Inside, Genny dragged the other woman past the small sitting area and over to the neatly turned-back bed. She backed them both to the mattress and sat Fiona down on it, then eased out from under the limp weight of her arm. Fiona swayed in place for a moment—and then collapsed back across the bed, her shoeless feet dangling over the side.
Genny stared down at her, thoroughly disgusted. She tried to think of one final thing to say to her, the right words that would shut her evil little mouth about Rafe once and for all.
But then Fiona started snoring.
Genny went to the door, scooped up the yellow shoes and tossed them into the room. Then, quietly, she shut the door and returned to the East Bedroom, only pausing to get the fallen box of tissues on the way.
She turned off the lights and crawled into bed and lay awake for hours, missing Rafe, thinking that in the morning, Fiona probably wouldn’t even remember what she’d done and said while she was so thoroughly plowed.
As for the old story about Rafe being some gardener’s son? It was one of those big secrets that a lot of people seemed to be in on. Genny had heard the whispers about Rafe’s “real” father long ago—from an English girl she’d met at school who knew the DeValerys, and also from a village boy one summer when she’d come to Hartmore for a long visit. It seemed to her that she’d always known.
Fiona getting sauced and deciding to throw the old rumor in Genny’s face didn’t really amount to all that much—beyond providing yet more proof that Brooke’s BFF was a raving bitch. Genny had never cared in the least that Rafe might be the product of a forbidden liaison between his mother and one of the staff.
What really mattered was her own unwillingness to raise the subject with him. Even back in the old days, when she and Rafe could talk so easily about so much, they never discussed the ugly rumors concerning his “real” father.
It was another one of those things they didn’t speak of. Like the pretty woman on the jetty the summer she was fourteen; like the night Edward died. Like the shameful truth that she would have married Edward just to get Hartmore.
She believed Rafe did know what people whispered behind his back. And she assumed it must be hurtful to him. She was reasonably certain that most of his difficulties with his father, Edward II, went back to those rumors. The old earl had too much pride to disown him, but had never treated him as a true son.
Genny wished they could talk about it. But she feared if she brought it up, things would go the way they had on their wedding night. She would only upset him and push him away.
* * *
The next day, Fiona failed to appear in the Morning Room for breakfast.
Brooke, nursing what looked like one hell of a hangover, seemed unconcerned. She waved a dismissive hand. “Fiona left. Said she had a lot to attend to at Tillworth.”
Genny felt only relief not to have to deal with her.
That day, she went out with Eloise to the walled garden, which supplied fruits and vegetables for Hartmore. The garden, on the far side of the lake, was large and well tended, with modern glasshouses for protecting more delicate plants and a beautiful old pavilion-type structure that served as a giant storage shed.
The walled garden had always provided much more than the DeValerys could eat themselves. The extra they carted to the village market for sale. That day the garden staff was digging new potatoes, picking runner beans and tomatoes, as well as raspberries and strawberries for pies and desserts.
In the afternoon, before walking back to the house, Genny and Eloise sat together on a stone bench under an elm tree and made more plans for the future. Eloise said she’d always dreamed that someday they might open a restaurant by renovating the stables and the cobbled courtyard outside them. The DeValerys still kept horses, but only a few now. They could build smaller, modern stables farther from the house and use the old, rambling stone stables for the restaurant. They could sell Hartmore produce there, too. And maybe, eventually, they should have a gift shop. It would fit in the stable area, as well.
Genny agreed. The more income they produced, the better.
“It’s so satisfying,” Eloise said, “to feel we’re really going somewhere now, that we’re doing all we can to keep the house in good repair, to plan ahead and build on what we have. It’s no small thing, to keep an old pile like Hartmore standing—let alone in the family.”
Genny thought of the rotten things Fiona had said the night before. “Rafe’s doing a wonderful job, I think.”
