family’s store in the attic.
Her mother had purchased the paper for the walls of the grand entry eight years ago. She had carefully picked out every piece of furniture that stood in the rooms on each side. And now that Margaret had reached the ground floor, she could smell the deep summer scent of roses in bloom. The aroma took her back to her childhood, to the years when her mother was well enough to trim the bushes herself.
The scent drew her not outdoors but to the conservatory in the south wing. The door squeaked slightly as she opened it; the wood had swollen in the heat.
Even in summer, when the gardeners had no need to force blooms, the glassed-in walls contained a few potted orange trees, a smattering of plants still too delicate to be exposed to the elements and, in the very back, among a jumble of trowels and hand rakes, the prize she had come here to find: buckets of cuttings taken from roses and encouraged to take root. They were nothing but little sticks of wood and thorn, but when she gingerly pulled one from the dark bucket of water where it stood, white threads of new roots glinted in the moonlight that filtered through the windows.
In the darkness, it was hard to locate the tools she needed—a pot, big enough not to cramp the roots that would eventually grow, and a trough filled with a mix of soil and lime. Her mother would have wanted her to don gloves, but she couldn’t find them in the cabinet without lighting a lantern. And if she did, someone might see the light shining through the windows.
The dirt in the bucket clumped in thick clods. She picked up a lump in her hands and then broke it apart into loose, dry soil in the pot before her. She could feel the dirt getting beneath her fingernails as she worked. She hadn’t realized why she had come here; she’d felt as if she were chasing some ephemeral spirit. But it felt right. If nobody else could remember her birthday, she would. She would have to transplant this new life, fragile and delicate though it was, in the dark of night.
It was a mindless task she performed, squeezing dirt into the pot. She worked methodically, two handfuls at a time. Squeeze and let fall; squeeze and let fall. There was a comforting rhythm to it. She felt as if her mother herself might have stood beside her, her hands covered with dust. Her body felt too rigid, her hands too small to contain the moment.
Her chest tightened with some inexplicable emotion, one that she didn’t dare name.
She crumbled dust into dust. And ashes…
The door to the conservatory squeaked open. She froze, but the dirt in her hand pattered into the pot. That rain of soil seemed immensely noisy in the silence of the night. Had someone heard it? Had someone seen her? Here at this little table in the back, nobody would find her, not without entering the room.
Footsteps came forwards, traversing the maze of tables and troughs and orange trees.
That tightness in her chest grew.
Please, let those footfalls belong to Mrs. Benedict—someone comforting, who would look at her, clad in this thin wool wrapper, covered in dust. Someone who would understand without her having to voice a word of explanation. Let it be someone who would know that she needed this moment, that on this day of all days, she needed to feel a connection with her mother. Let it be anyone but— But him. He came round the little break of potted oranges, scarcely three feet from her. The moonlight had smoothed away the fine lines on his face. In the dark, he looked younger and less dangerous. He wore a pair of trousers and a fine lawn shirt, and not much else. He’d not bothered to tuck the tails in, but he’d rolled the sleeves to show his wrists. Manly wrists, thick and strong, with a fine layer of hair scarcely visible. His feet were bare.
His eyes widened as they came to rest on her. He looked into her face for one long second before his eyes dropped down—down her dust-covered shift, the robe cinched simply at her waist. She felt naked before him.
His gaze felt as unwelcome as an invading army.
“Miss Lowell. What in God’s name are you doing?”
He spoke as if it were his home, as if she were the interloper here. Of course he thought it true, under the circumstances. Still, bile gathered in her belly, and the tight knot in her chest squeezed even tighter. Who was he to question her? Who was he to interrupt her? He’d already taken her mother from her once. How dare he do it again? Her hands clutched around the heavy clods of dirt.
And then he took a step towards her.
It happened so fast that Margaret wasn’t even sure where the impulse came from. But before the thought had a chance to form in her head, she acted. “Go away,” she hissed fiercely. “Get out. Get out now.” As she spoke, she pulled her hand back, swiftly, and hurled one of the clods of dirt she was holding directly at him. It flew through the air—suddenly everything seemed so slow—she wished she could grab back that violent, raging impulse, but it was already too late.
The clod smacked into his chest with a sick sound, like an axe splitting a pumpkin. In the light of the moon spilling through the glass, she could see clumps of dirt clinging to the luminous white of his shirt. His mouth opened slightly, in shocked betrayal. She felt just as stunned as he looked.
Oh, no. She hadn’t really thrown it. She couldn’t have done.
But she had. Ever so slowly, he raised one hand to brush particles from his eyes.
She was panting, her fist clenched around the other clod of dirt. The rage had slipped from her grasp, leaving her with only the cold certainty of what she had just done.
It wasn’t his fault that her father had been a bigamist. It wasn’t his fault her mother had been ill. It wasn’t even his fault, really, that she was a bastard and her mother—her kind, gentle, graceful mother—had been made an adulteress. It wasn’t his fault that she was so dreadfully alone, that her future seemed so dreary. It wasn’t his fault.
It just felt as if it was.
He stood stock-still, as if she had turned him to stone when she struck him with that bit of soil.
What had she come to? How must this appear to him? She was wandering about the house—at night—in her shift and stockings, wielding a trowel and trying to find, hidden in this pot of dirt, a woman who had been buried in the churchyard months ago. He must suppose she teetered on the very brink of madness.
Not so far off, that. Deep inside her, for the first time in months, a knot dissolved and a well of emotion breached her rigid walls. It hit her with all the force of floodwaters, and it was only her determination not to cry in front of this man that kept her from being submerged by the power of the riptide. With that undercurrent of hot anger gone from her, she could understand what the feeling was that pressed against her chest.
It was grief, almost crushing. She wanted her mother back. Instead, she’d gotten…him.
He still hadn’t said a word to her. He didn’t criticize; he didn’t bellow in protest. She couldn’t make out his eyes, but she could imagine him watching her in the dark. Those eyes would be cold and calculating.
Perhaps he was trying to figure out how to best use this moment to his advantage. He’d shown her respect before. No doubt in the morning, that would disappear. She had no idea what would take its place.
Finally, he raised one finger to tap his forehead, as if miming a gentlemanly tip of the hat. And he turned and left her alone, just as he’d done on that dusty road more than a week before.
The gesture had to have been meant sarcastically.
