Page 23 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
He stepped beside her, glancing up at the vine-choked rafters.
“These have not seen proper maintenance in at least fifteen years,” he said. “Might be less expensive to pull them down altogether.”
She did not flinch at the blunt suggestion.
“Perhaps,” she said. “But they are structurally sound. With thoughtful use of existing resources and a clear plan of priorities, the cost could be kept reasonable. I should prefer to restore rather than demolish.”
His brow rose slightly, but he nodded.
“There is still a working forge in the village,” he said. “Iron reinforcements could be fashioned locally. Glass will be the trickiest part.”
She nodded. It seemed he doubted that the houses were salvageable and perhaps thought her mad for trying. She was undeterred, however.
“I presumed as much,” she said. “Would you happen to know if any of the older suppliers used by your father’s generation remain in operation? The catalogs I have examined suggest a supplier in Bristol who still produces in the older dimensions.”
This time, his surprise was not subtle. He turned fully toward her, his lips parting faintly before recovering his composure.
“Your ladyship has been thorough,” he said with a small smirk.
Genevieve nodded, smiling.
“I dislike half-measures,” she said.
A quiet moment passed between them, but she could see the man’s expression softening. Then Mr. Winters cleared his throat.
“I shall have the laborers clear the interior walkways and remove any rotten wood,” he said, a little less dubiously than when he had originally spoken. “If you will provide your list, I can begin assessing the order of materials.”
Genevieve grinned and nodded.
“Of course,” she said, handing over her notebook without hesitation.
As he flipped through her notations, his mouth tightened in concentration. At last, he handed it back with a small nod.
“This is well organized,” he said, finally giving a respectful, approving smile. “You have a talent for detail, milady.”
She accepted the compliment with a nod.
“I should like to be kept informed of all progress,” she said with another warm smile. “You may speak with me directly, if you wish.”
Mr. Winters bowed respectfully.
“Yes, milady,” he said.
With another bow, Mr. Winters headed off toward the tool shed. Genevieve remained a few minutes longer, examining the floor drains and central planting beds of the smallest greenhouse. Her fingers brushed the rim of a broken terra-cotta pot half-buried in soil gone to dust.
A rustle from the far end of the garden drew her attention. Straightening, she saw Thomas Wilkins bent low amid one of the overgrown flower beds near the perimeter wall. He appeared absorbed in his task, his hands moving with a force that struck her as more destructive than productive. Rather than removing weeds at the root, he hacked at them with swift, sharp jerks, the motion almost punitive.
He did not glance up, though she knew he must be aware of her presence. The proximity was too close for coincidence. Only when she deliberately turned in his direction did he lift his head. Their eyes met for the briefest instant.
There was nothing overtly wrong in his manner, no breach of propriety or clear insubordination. And yet the sensation that gripped her stomach was unmistakable. Something in his expression had not aligned with the dutiful mien of a servant absorbed in honest labor. It lacked warmth and deference. He returned to his work at once, his posture rigid. She watched a moment longer before turning away.
As she stepped from the crumbling threshold of the glass house, her mind returned not to the vines or cracked panels, but to the set of Wilkins’s jaw. Her instincts, trained more in observing people than plants, stirred uneasily. Though she could name no grievance nor point to any transgression, unease lingered, unidentifiable, but present. She resolved to mention nothing to Gabriel yet. Suspicion without evidence could too easily be mistaken for nerves. Nonetheless, she resolved to keep watch.
Genevieve glanced back at the largest glasshouse. The afternoon sunlight filtered weakly through the grime-spattered panes, but the shape of the thing, the fine curve of the dome, the graceful iron ribs, remained. It had been built with intention and care. Beneath years of neglect, the original design endured, waiting for purpose to return. So much had been built here before her. So much had been lost. But there was still something to be made. She would see it restored to the glory it was meant to be.
She had not intended to linger. The sun had already begun its slow arc westward, brushing the tangled hedgerow with a faint haze. But still wearing the same walking dress from her inspection of the glass houses, she stood at the far corner of the gardens, where the last greenhouse nestled against the outer wall. This smaller structure, more conservatory than utility space, had escaped the worst decline. Its paneled sides, though clouded, remained largely intact, and the roofline had sagged far less than the others.
Curious, she pressed inward through the warped door, which creaked and caught before yielding with a sigh. The interior smelled of damp earth and old leaves. A bench of gray stone ran along one side, its surface coated in moss, but beneath the bench, half-concealed behind a dusty oilcloth, stood a low cabinet with iron latches, its edges weathered but unbroken.
