Page 38 of Ladies in Hating
Georgiana looked up, blinking, but there was nothing there—the sky was wide and blue and clear. There was no meteorological explanation for her sudden chill.
She ran her hands up her arms and tried to shake off the sensation. The weather was cool, that was all. Perfectly natural for December.
Unlike the roses.
She bit her lip and stepped closer to the plaque, which had gone a little green with age. She brushed her fingers over the words engraved there:Sarah Sophia Penhollow. Georgiana did not recognize the name, and the years listed predated the construction of Renwick House. Could the garden have been here first, somehow? The house built around it?
It was baffling—there had been no Sarah Sophia Penhollow in all of Cat’s chatter about the history of the female occupants of Renwick House. The name was utterly unfamiliar to Georgiana, and—
Blast it all. Cat was going to want to know about this garden. Georgiana could not keep it from her.
She retrieved Bacon, who smelled of nothing but crushed roses, and made her way back toward the house. As she did, she felt it again—the warm spot between her shoulder blades. As though someone were watching.
She whirled.
The garden was still—completely still. Even the faint suggestion of wind had died away. As she watched, a single dark red petal broke free from the vine just above the plaque and floated, strange and slow, all the way to the ground.
Of course, Cat wanted to see the rose garden immediately.
Georgiana had struggled to find her at first, and then Cat had emerged from the kitchens looking pink-cheeked and flour-dusted. She’d smelled, when she’d approached, faintly of butter.
“I can’t always be writing,” she’d said by way of explanation, and waved a hand at the kitchens. Her mouth was a grin again. “Moreover, I’ve always felt that the brain requires sustenance just as much as the body.”
Georgiana did not precisely know what Cat meant, but she nodded as though she did and told her about the garden.
Cat’s eyes went wide, and she put her fingers to Georgiana’s forearm for the barest of moments before pulling away. They both glanced down at Georgiana’s sleeve, which was now lightly dusted with floury fingerprints.
Georgiana swallowed. She could feel that feather-light brush as clearly as if it had been a brand.
This was excruciating. This washell.Why had she thought it was a good idea to invite further intercourse between them?
But then Cat put her fingers back on Georgiana’s arm, slowly and deliberately. Her lips tipped up—just on one side, a hint of that impudent challenge. As though she meant to say,Stop me, then, if you like.
But all she said was, “Will you show me the garden? I want to see it.”
And helplessly, Georgiana did. She led Cat back down the east wing and through the small gap in the timbers where the sun still shone, the place where Bacon had wriggled through. He followed them with his usual tongue-dangling glee, as though he had not just encountered this exact same path—Bacon, at least, was not troubled by unseasonal flora.
Cat squeezed through the opening after Georgiana and emerged on a laugh and a small explosion of plaster dust. “God,” she said, “I thought for a moment you meant to entrap me in—”
Her voice dropped and fell away as she took in her surroundings, and Georgiana followed her gaze. Though she’d just seen the garden, the strangeness of it struck her anew: the thousands of blooming roses, the black-and-white tiles, the crumbling wall—the space in the vines where she knew, if she stepped closer, she would see the worn brass plaque.
“Sweet sainted Margaret,” Cat breathed, and then leapt forward with an enthusiasm that Georgiana found vaguely alarming. “This is extraordinary. Wonderful.” She shoved her nose into one of the flowers and drew a deep breath. “I’ve never encountered a rose that smelled sopotent.I wonder if they were cultivated specifically for their scent somehow? And why…”
Her fingers—now streaked with pastry flour and plaster dust together—were busily fondling everything within reach. She stroked the heavy curves of one of the larger blossoms—the bloodred ones—and then ran her fingers along the gap between the bricks wherethe mortar had crumbled away. “It’s remarkable that the walls are still standing, with how thoroughly the vines have encroached.” She turned a delighted gaze to Georgiana. “Do you think someone is tending them? Surely not Graves. Perhaps the mysterious Mort?” Her expression went mildly electrified. “Perhaps there is a secret gardener in residence?”
“Perhaps,” Georgiana said, “though there is quite a bit of vegetable matter on the ground for that to be the case.” For emphasis, she pushed the tip of her boot through a pile of decaying leaves that Bacon had cheerfully flattened.
Cat pursed her lips, looking vaguely disappointed at the improbability of a gardener hidden in the walls. “I suppose that’s so.”
Ludicrous, to regret that look of disappointment on her face. And still Georgiana found herself saying, “Come. Let me show you the plaque.”
She led Cat closer to the low wall, to the space where the vines parted.
Cat reached out to touch the raised letters, her fingers coasting over the name, the dates. It was how she learned the world, Georgiana thought. With her fingers. The slow brush of her hand.
Georgiana felt her skin prickle again. Not from cold.
“Sarah Sophia Penhollow.” Cat’s voice was low and throaty. “Who are you? Was this your garden?”
