The Guest | F. Darcy

Chapter 15: A Reckoning in the Garden

The night of the letter was unkind to Adele.

Sleep eluded her, slipping away each time she closed her eyes, her mind unable to loosen its grip on the morning to come. Fitzwilliam Darcy—her past, her folly, her heartbreak—would soon cross the threshold of Marshall Manor.

When at last she opened her eyes to the soft grey of dawn, she felt no more rested than she had hours before. Her limbs were heavy, her thoughts sluggish, but she did not allow herself the luxury of lingering in bed. A quiet, cowardly part of her urged her to feign illness, to take refuge behind closed doors, but she would not yield to it.

If she would be troubled by this meeting, then she would meet it with her chin high and her composure unbroken.

Not that Lady Marshall was making that any easier.

"—that addle-pated, insufferable man!"

For the past hour, Adele had sat quietly, enduring a litany of inventive insults, most of which, to her own mortification, she found rather amusing. Her aunt, after all, had a particular gift for sharp words, and this morning, she wielded them with the force of a general leading an army to battle.

"...how dare he be so inconsiderate to my ward? Even the damned would curse him!"

"Aunt Ellen!" Adele gasped, though her lips twitched in amusement.

"What? I cannot curse in my own house now?"

Adele sighed, shaking her head. "He did nothing to deserve such condemnation," she said, though she was not entirely certain she believed it.

Lady Marshall scoffed, nostrils flaring, the very picture of offended nobility. "You are far too forgiving, my dear. Mark me—he will ruin your peace the moment he steps foot inside this house."

The words had hardly left her lips when the sound of measured footsteps approached. Lawrence, their ever-faithful butler, entered the room with a bow.

"The guests have arrived, milady."

Adele's amusement vanished.

Lady Marshall's expression wavered for the first time, her fire dimming into something softer—concern, perhaps, or regret.

Adele exhaled, steadying herself. "I will be in the gardens. Call for me once they leave."

Lady Marshall, ever unhelpful, sniffed. "Why should I entertain them? They should be entertaining me."

Adele chose not to dignify that with a response. Instead, she slipped from the room, her steps swift and measured, carrying her toward the only refuge she had left.

The small garden near the parlour became her sanctuary. She wandered its paths, hands trailing along the leaves of a rosebush, willing time to pass more swiftly. It was foolish to remain in one place for so long, but she could not bring herself to leave—not yet.

A sharp voice in the back of her mind reminded her that curiosity had always been her downfall.

Sighing, she turned, meaning to retreat deeper into the orchard, but she misjudged her step and collided—firmly, suddenly—into an unyielding figure.

The scent of fine linen, the faintest trace of sandalwood and rain.

Her breath caught.

She knew who it was before she even looked up.

Adele stepped back hurriedly, dipping into a stiff curtsy, her gaze fixed upon the ground rather than the man before her. "My apologies."

She did not wait for a response.