Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Genevieve sat by the window in her guest room at Clowefields, staring out at the sprawling countryside bathed in the soft golden light of morning.

The past days had blurred together, the ache in her chest unrelenting. Wilhelm’s words, his betrayal, and his calculated indifference replayed in her mind.

The sharp sting of it all had dulled slightly in Marianne and Owen’s comforting presence, but it still lurked in the quiet moments, like now, when her thoughts had nowhere else to go.

“Genevieve?” Marianne’s soft voice broke the silence, pulling her from her reverie.

Genevieve turned to see her friend standing in the doorway, her warm hazel eyes full of concern. Marianne’s hands were clasped together, her knuckles faintly white, betraying her worry.

“Marianne,” Genevieve said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You have been up here all morning,” Marianne said gently, stepping into the room. “Owen and I were worried. We thought you might like to join us at a tea party this afternoon. It is a small gathering—a few friends of mine from the village.”

Genevieve hesitated. “I do not know if I would be the best company at the moment.”

Marianne crossed the room and took her friend’s hand, her expression resolute yet kind.

“I know you are hurting, Genevieve, and I know it feels impossible to face the world right now. But a little fresh air, some pleasant conversation, and a distraction might do you good. You cannot let the Duke’s choices steal your spirit.”

Genevieve’s throat tightened, and she nodded reluctantly, “All right.”

Marianne squeezed her hand in approval, “Wonderful. We leave in an hour,” she said, her tone cheerful but firm.

“Wear something blue—it really is your color. And you always feel better when you look your best.”

When they arrived at Whitaker House, the sound of lively conversation and occasional laughter greeted them even before they stepped out of the carriage.

The estate was picturesque, with its ivy-covered stone facade and sweeping gardens filled with blooming roses and lilacs.

Guests strolled among the flower beds or sat at small tables draped with fine white linens, sipping tea and nibbling on pastries.

Lady Whitaker herself met them near the entrance to the garden, her plump frame draped in a gown of bright lavender that clashed boldly with the emerald ribbons in her hat. Her sparkling blue eyes danced with mischief as she spread her arms in greeting.

“Lord Clowefield! Lady Clowefield! And who is this lovely creature you have brought to my garden?” she exclaimed, seizing Genevieve’s hands in her own before Marianne could even make the introductions.

“This is my dear friend, the Duchess of Ravenshire,” Marianne said with a smile. “Genevieve, may I introduce Lady Whitaker?”

“My, my! A duchess, in my garden?” the woman said, her voice warm and brimming with energy.

She looked Genevieve up and down appraisingly.

“What a beauty you are, Your Grace! Though I see a hint of melancholy in those eyes. We cannot have that. Not in my garden.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Nothing a good cup of tea—and perhaps a slide of cake—will not fix.”

Owen chuckled. “You have a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, Lady Whitaker.”

“Years of practice, My Lord,” she said with a wink. “Now, off you go! Find a table before all the best biscuits are gone. And if anyone offers you the rosewater macaroons, decline politely. My cook has been experimenting with recipes again, and, well, the results are somewhat divisive.”

Marianne guided Genevieve further into the garden, her husband trailing behind.

The gentle murmur of conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, filled the air. The scent of blooming roses mixed with freshly cut grass, and the warmth of the sun was softened by a light breeze.

It was idyllic, and yet Genevieve felt like an outsider looking in.

Genevieve also realized that for the first time, none of the guests were staring at her. No one was whispering, either behind fans or right in front of her face.

Not a single soul uttered the word ‘curse.’

It was a breath of fresh air. And yet, it did little to ease the hollow in Genevieve’s chest.

As they approached a table, Genevieve’s attention was drawn to the lawn, where a group of children played.

A little girl in a blue dress dashed across the grass, her curls bouncing as she shrieked with delight.

Two boys chased after her, one of them tumbling to the ground in a heap of giggles.

A woman—presumably his mother—hurried over, scooping him up and twirling him around, her laughter mingling with his.

An image flashed before Genevieve’s eyes; a boy and a girl running towards her with bright, emerald green eyes and brown hair.

Her children. The children that she and Wilhelm would sire one day.

And it wasn’t the first time that image had emerged in her head. No, it was a budding flower, and it had bloomed in her mind for some time now.

She had yearned for a family. A family with Wilhelm.

But now…

That was all gone.

Her throat went dry and she turned away, blinking rapidly.

Marianne noticed immediately.

“Genevieve?” she asked softly, her brow furrowing. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” Genevieve said quickly, though her voice wavered. “I just need a moment.”

Marianne hesitated, then nodded. “Take your time. We will be right over there,” she said, gesturing toward an empty table near the edge of the garden.

Genevieve offered a faint smile of gratitude before stepping away.

She wandered toward a shaded corner of the garden, seeking solace beneath the canopy of a flowering magnolia tree.

The laughter of the children echoed in her ears, a cruel reminder of the future she had once dreamed of. That dream now felt impossibly distant, shattered, swept away like dust in the wind.

“Escaping the chaos, are we?”

Genevieve turned, startled, to find Lady Whitaker standing nearby, holding a teacup in one hand and a plate piled high with pastries in the other. Her hat was slightly askew, and there was a streak of icing on her sleeve, but her expression was kind.

“Forgive me, Lady Whitaker,” Genevieve said, forcing a smile. “I did not mean to be a rude guest.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Whitaker said briskly, plopping down onto a nearby bench and balancing her plate on her lap. “The chaos can be overwhelming, even for the best of us. That is why I always keep a stash of lemon tarts. Nothing soothes the soul like a good tart.” She held out the plate. “Care for one?”

Genevieve hesitated, then took one, if only to avoid seeming rude. She bit into it, the tangy sweetness a brief distraction from her swirling thoughts.

Lady Whitaker studied her for a moment, then said, “You know, my late husband used to say that gardens like this one were made for healing. I thought he was being poetic, but now I think he might have been onto something. There is something about being surrounded by life and beauty that makes the troubles of the world seem a little less daunting.”

Genevieve looked down at the half-eaten tart in her hand. “That is beautiful, My Lady.”

Lady Whitaker nodded solemnly.

“You agree, and yet that melancholy has not left your eyes, Your Grace,” she said, her voice tinged with understanding. “Heartache is a cruel mistress, that one. But I have found that it is like a storm—it passes, even if it leaves a bit of wreckage in its wake.”

A bit of wreckage? Her mind echoed.

She wanted to tell Lady Whitaker that storms did not simply pass; they were deadly. They took away entire families in a matter of moments, and left one utterly alone in the world, left with nothing but the burden of a curse.

But a familiar voice stopped her from exposing her thoughts.

“Your Grace!”