Page 69

Without a word Mrs. Neville wrapped a clean cloth around one of the buns, and a thick slice of shortbread. “Here you go.”

“Oh, how kind. But that’s not necessary, Mrs. Neville.”

“Nonsense. Your cheeks are pale, and I can hear your empty belly protesting from here.” Mrs. Neville held out the warm bundle. “I daresay you haven’t been allowed any time for breakfast this morning.”

Stella gazed at the treats, saliva pooling in her mouth. She had missed breakfast, as Cornelia had demanded she sew another row of silk rosettes onto the gown she intended to wear to Lady Townley’s dinner party this evening.

She was a trifle hungry.

“Out to the garden with you while you have the chance.” Mrs. Neville waved her away. “Shoo, before Her Ladyship gets after you to beat the dust from the carpets, or something equally unpleasant. You must seize your freedoms when they present themselves.”

That was true enough. When she wasn’t sewing until her fingertips were bloody, Phillippa invariably assigned her another task. She only ever got a moment to herself when her stepmother and stepsisters were away from the house or engaged with company.

If she didn’t eat now, she may not have another opportunity until supper. Her stomach let out another demanding groan as she took the bundle. “You’re too good to me, Mrs. Neville.”

“Oh, aye. I’m a perfect saint, I am.” Mrs. Neville brushed off the thanks, but her eyes were twinkling. “Go on, then.”

Stella opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the courtyard, gasping as a blast of frigid winter air stole her breath. It had been a terribly cold December, but the sky above her was a pure, unbroken blue, the winter sun setting the frost on the stones at her feet sparkling like bright, tiny diamonds.

She made her way down the pathway that wound around the outside of the house toward the walled garden. As she passed the drawing room window, she could make out the faint plink of pianoforte keys. The first note of the “Christmas Gambols” rang in the drawing room, and she closed her eyes on a wince.

For better or worse, Phillippa’s much anticipated musical afternoon had begun.

Worse, most likely, as Cornelia wasn’t quite the musical prodigy Phillippa imagined her to be, but that was a worry for another time. For now, all that mattered was the pathway stretched out before her, dappled with sunlight.

She couldn’t help but give an excited little skip at this perfect, fleeting slice of freedom.

Goodness knew it was rare enough. Phillippa had made certain of that. Her stepmother had done a thorough job of snatching away everything that had once brought her joy, and she’d delighted in doing so.

Oh, she’d taken pains to hide her distaste, at first. She’d simpered and cooed over Stella for the first two years of the marriage, and proclaimed herself the most affectionate of mothers, but her mask had fallen away after Stella’s father had died from a tragic fall from his horse.

That was two years ago, and since then, Phillippa had made no secret of her dislike. Why she’d become such an object of disgust to her stepmother was a mystery, but she’d always imagined it was because she was the daughter of an earl, and her stepsisters … well, they weren’t, and goodness knew there was no one in all of England more obsessed with rank than Phillippa. Indeed, she made herself so unpleasant about it Stella had taken to using her mother’s maiden name, Harley, to avoid inflaming Phillippa’s temper.

But she wouldn’t waste the few precious moments she had ruminating on her stepmother’s whims and cruelties. It was too lovely a day for that, with birdsong echoing in the cold air and the ice gilding the bare tree branches glittering in the winter sun.

When she did have a rare moment to herself, she always came here. One would never guess to look at it, but this had once been a thriving garden. The beds were dormant now, but in her mind’s eye it was the same as it had been when her father was alive, a wild profusion of colorful flowers.

He’d loved this garden, and he’d taught her to love it just as he did. They’d used to wander here together for hours, and he’d tell her stories about her mother, Caroline. She didn’t remember her mother—she’d died of a fever shortly after Stella was born—but her father had brought her mother to life for her during those long walks together.

She reached for the locket hidden inside her pocket, stroking her fingertips over the smooth case. Her father had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, and since then she’d opened it hundreds— no, thousands—of times to gaze at the portraits inside.

One of her, and the other of her father.

She carried it with her always still, but she rarely looked inside it anymore. She couldn’t bear to see his handsome, smiling face, the warm smile that had been extinguished far too early.

But she didn’t need to see his portrait to remember him. He was gone, but she’d always have her memories of him. No one could take those away from her.

And such sweet memories they were!

She’d come here with him every day as a child, her hand tucked into his as they strolled from one flowering bed to another, and she’d steal the plump, dark-skinned blueberries from the bushes as they passed.

How could it feel as if it were only yesterday that she’d strolled through these grounds with him, yet at the same time feel like a lifetime ago?

Gravel crunched under her feet as she made her way down the winding path, her head full of memories. There’d been a lovely cluster of hydrangeas to the left, just there, their flowers a vibrant shade of bluish purple, and there, in the center of the garden, her father’s prize peonies had once held pride of place, a dazzling array of bright pink.

It wasn’t the same now. How could it be?

But he was gone, and nothing would ever be the same again. The garden blurred before her, but she pressed her lips together and dashed away the tear in her eye before it could drop.