The House Guest (Unedited)

Chapter 6: The Garden

I cannot sleep.

A dreadful wave of emotions washes over me, followed by a pang of nausea. The moon casts an ominous light upon dreadfully pale skin -- making me look almost ethereal, like a wild woodland woman in a fairytale. But my thoughts are far from my appearance.

Why do I continue thinking about Henry? How many times I have conjured up images in the back of my mind - of what I would say when I met him again, how I would act? I hadn't the courage to confront him for his wrong doings, how he had stormed off -- valuing Lady Dorothea's account of my feelings over my own. I slide onto my stomach, burying my tear-streaked face in my thread-bare pillow. I forcibly close my eyes -- my body asleep -- but my mind wide awake.

The next morning, as the chambermaid pulls the drapes open and alerts me that I've overslept, I guiltily tell her that I'm coming down with a fever and I'd rather remain in bed for the time being.

When the house is blanketed in quiet, and the shrieks of servants and clucking of maids has dissipated, I force myself to wander about the grounds. Before departing, I slip into one of my few gowns, a grey muslin, and gather a shawl about my shoulders. I find a stairwell that leads outdoors and slip through the doorway, immersing myself in the bitter cold as it bites my cheeks and stings my nose red.

The garden is a salve for my weary soul. I wander through a long passageway that leads to the edge of the property, winding past Romanesque marble statues, fountains and shrubbery, until I find a wilder terrain more to my taste father along. A calming, whispering brook hums beneath weeping willows, and a colourful assortment of flowers strains, grabbing at the sky -- desperate for a beam of pure sunlight.

Vines and tree trunks create shadows that dart across my arms and face and I sit, pulling my legs up on a little sheltered bench in the middle.

Finally, I can indulge in my reading: Beowulf, a book I have been studying for some time. I open the clasp and enjoy the feel of the worn pages against my flesh, beginning to escape into the words.

"I hope I am not disturbing you, Miss."

The sudden voice urges me to consciousness. Through lowered lashes, I glance up and observe a man with brown eyes, brown hair, and a solemn expression.

"I am quite alright." I sense warm colour rise to my cheeks, and bow my head, leaping up to return to my bed chamber.

"Forgive me, but is that novel you were reading Beowulf?" the man asks.

"Yes, I do enjoy studying Old English," I reply candidly.

"I only ask because my pupil has teased me that my lessons are far too repetitive. So, for the past week, I've been searching for new material to include in my curriculum." He rakes his hand through his hair, his eyes intently focussed on the horizon behind me, "So perhaps a young lady such as yourself might adhere to similar tastes in the arts as my student."

"Do you believe that all young ladies adopt the same tastes?" I accuse.

"Perhaps not privately, but publicly they are expected to, because their parents desire for them to secure the best match possible." The man says, turning his dark eyes to linger on mine for longer than necessary. "I suppose you are reading the novel for that same purpose."

"And, pray tell me -- how do you know that I'm the same way?" I demand.

"I apologize for jumping to any conclusions. I suppose I don't," he admits, striding over to the riverbank to peer at the brook, "my name is James Aldridge. I'm employed as Kitty Caldwell's tutor."

"Oh," I blanch, staring at him furtively, recalling what Lady Caroline had schemed only last night. Despite our brief introduction, Mr. Aldridge seems to perceive my immediate discomfort.