The morning following the disastrous target practice brought a brisk, unpredictable wind to the sprawling gardens of Hamilton House. It was a mischievous, invisible force that rustled the old oak trees, sent loose leaves dancing across the manicured lawns, and made standing perfectly still an entirely impossible task for the ladies in their wide skirts.
Ines absolutely loved this kind of weather. It felt alive. It swept away the stale air of the drawing room and forced everyone to wake up.
"We shall play lawn bowls today," Ines announced to the group gathered on the wide stone terrace after a remarkably quiet breakfast.
She stood near the stone balustrade, wearing a bright green day dress that fluttered wildly in the breeze. She looked like a general commanding her troops, her hazel eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and determination.
"It requires skill, precision, and a very good eye," Ines continued, raising her voice slightly to be heard over a sudden gust of wind. "And since my dear husband, Carcel, is still away in the city on urgent business, I require entertainnt to keep my mind occupied."
The servants had already been dispatched to the short, perfectly even grass of the lower lawn. They were busy setting up the small white target ball, known as the jack, and arranging the heavier, biased wooden bowls in neat pairs.
As the guests began to move slowly down the wide stone steps from the terrace to the lawn, Ines hung back. She let her aunt, Lady Margery, walk ahead, fussing over her poodle, Fifi. She let Lady Farrington sweep past in a cloud of heavy lavender perfu.
Ines waited until Lady Celine approached the steps, and then she fell into a casual, friendly step beside the young girl.
Celine was wearing a lovely, simple dress of pale yellow silk. The color suited her fair complexion beautifully, making her look like a delicate spring daffodil. She had a matching yellow bonnet tied securely beneath her chin with a wide silk ribbon.
Yet, despite her beautiful clothes, Celine did not look well.
She walked with a strange, unnatural stiffness. Her shoulders were hunched forward just a fraction, as if she were trying to make herself smaller. She kept her head tilted slightly downward, her gaze fixed firmly on the stone steps rather than the beautiful gardens spread out before them.
A sudden, sharp gust of wind swept across the grass, catching the brim of Celine’s yellow bonnet.
Ines reacted instantly. She reached up quickly with her gloved hand, holding the edge of Celine’s bonnet to stop the wind from blowing it backward and pulling at the girl’s hair.
As Ines did this, the wind achieved what Celine had been trying to avoid. It blew a few loose strands of Celine’s golden hair away from the side of her face. The bright, unforgiving morning sun hit the young girl’s left cheek perfectly.
Ines had incredibly keen eyes. She was a woman who missed nothing.
She noticed sothing on Celine’s face.
It was hidden beneath a very thick, almost chalky layer of white face powder, far more powder than a girl of her youth and natural beauty ever needed to wear. But the shape beneath the costic was unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for. It was the faint, angry, purple-yellow shadow of a bruise, sitting right on her delicate cheekbone.
Ines stopped walking imdiately. Her hand froze on the brim of the bonnet.
Her usual playful smile faded into a look of sharp, genuine concern. Her mind raced. A lady did not simply acquire a bruise on her face. And if she did, she did not layer powder over it like a thick mask unless she was terrified of soone asking about it. Ines thought of Lady Farrington’s harsh tone at dinner the night before. A cold feeling settled in Ines’s stomach.
"Lady Celine, are you alright?" Ines asked gently.
She kept her hand near the bonnet, her voice low so the others walking ahead would not hear. Her perceptive eyes searched the young girl’s face, looking for the truth.
Celine jumped. It was a violent, whole-body flinch.
Her own hand flew up to her cheek in a fast, defensive gesture, her white-gloved fingers brushing nervously against the powdered skin. Pure, unadulterated panic flashed in her bright blue eyes for a brief second before she desperately forced it away, replacing it with a blank, polite mask.
"Oh," Celine replied. She let out a small, breathless laugh. It did not sound like her usual sweet, musical giggle. It sounded forced and thin. "I fell yesterday. I can be so very clumsy at tis, Your Grace. I tripped over a loose rug in my bedchamber."
Ines nodded slowly.
She knew it was a lie. It was a classic, desperate lie. A lady did not fall on a rug and hit only the highest point of her cheekbone without scraping her hands or her nose. A lady certainly did not apply stage makeup to hide a simple accident.
But Ines also knew the strict, unspoken rules of polite society. You did not press a guest who was clearly trembling with sha and fear. You did not strip away a woman’s dignity in the middle of a garden. If Celine was protecting soone—or protecting herself from soone—Ines needed to tread carefully.
"I see," Ines replied thoughtfully. She let her hand drop from the bonnet, her voice dropping to a soothing, soft register. "But are you hurt or anything? Shall I call for so ice, or perhaps so arnica salve? I have a wonderful apothecary."
Lady Celine quickly lowered her hand from her face. She stood up a little straighter, forcing her spine into a rigid line. She fixed a polite, perfectly practiced smile onto her pale pink lips.
"I’m fine, Your Grace," Celine replied firmly. "Truly. It is nothing but a scratch."
Celine quickly looked around the bustling garden, her eyes darting everywhere, desperate to change the topic before the Duchess could ask another probing question. Her gaze landed on the empty stretch of lawn near the rose bushes.
User Comments
0 comments from readers