Ever since that first morning, Geneva spent the next succeeding ones in the garden with her Aunt Deborah, much to the bafflement of Prudence and Barbara. They did try to dissuade their sister, claiming it might not be good for her health, but Deborah was insistent. She wanted the early morning warmth of the sunlight and the quiet sounds in the garden. Even when it rained, she would impatiently wait until the sky cleared and ask Geneva to take her outside.

They did not do much. Sometimes they talked, but most often they would just sit in silence and watch everything else. The trees entertained Geneva, while the clouds were her aunt's particular favorite. She would slump in her seat, which she never did, and rest her head back to watch the clouds move.

Rarely would they talk of anything Geneva was interested in. It was always about the bible if they did, but there were some moments when her aunt would let her ask questions. She could not bring herself to ask about the Vernons, but she would ask some questions that her aunt would take some time to answer. One in particular, took her days to address.

"Have you any regrets in your life, Aunt Deborah?"

She asked because she was genuinely curious. Even if her aunt answered at that moment, she did not know what to do with it.

Her aunt looked at her for a long time, and for a moment she thought the woman would say, "You," but she didn't. She just stared and looked away to close her eyes against the gentle blow of the wind.

And like the many questions she asked before since their mornings in the garden began, Geneva did not press for an answer. Her questions were just thoughts that she gave voice. She did not expect them to be answered. Perhaps because it was always on her mind whenever she was with older people. She wanted to know not just the regrets of her aunts', but that of others as well who had passed the prime of their youths.

Ten days later, since that first morning, however, Aunt Deborah got weaker.

It was time to go to Birth.

Suddenly, the garden mornings were gone, replaced by days of preparations and packing, of instructions both written and verbal; prayers and church' reminders of things to do once they were gone.

Of course, she tried asking again to come along. And like before, the answer was still the same. The household needed her. She could come and join them later.

The night before her aunts were due to leave for Birth, Geneva and Damon walked back to the Stratford Road, taking the opposite sides.

"I don't know what you see in me," she told him, stopping to face him from across the road. "I'm boring and the worst person there is to talk about things. I barely know what I want. Barely know anything, to be honest."

"You know, I ask myself the same question every night," he said, grinning at her from where he stood, spots of moonlight on his face and chest.

"Could it be just pity? You're confusing it with adoration."

"Woman," he said, resting his hands on his hips, "You dare insult my ability to discern my own thoughts and feelings?"

She laughed, and it echoed down the tunnel of trees. Turning to walk again, she said, "Sometimes I wonder how I should be."

"How you should be for what?"

"For you."

He crossed the road with a frown, his head tilted to the right. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I don't know. Sometimes—and only sometimes—I imagine myself free to do what I wish. That my aunts are different. And when I think of that, I wonder what I might be for you. Would I be like the fun ladies you meet in balls? Or the ones you dance with? Or mayhap someone like your cousins who could—"

"Just as you are," he interjected.

"And what is that?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed at her. "Are you asking because you want to know? Or because you don't know?"

"Of course, I know myself."

"No, you don't," he said, walking backward ahead of her. "If you do, you wouldn't be asking me why I like you so."

She pursed her lips. "You always make me think."

"I make you search, Geneva."

With a scoff, she laughed. "Search for myself?" He just smiled and turned. She ran until she was walking beside him. "I think I want to be an actress."

This time, he stopped. She turned and walked backwards with a laugh. "You look stunned."

"Because I am."

"Well, I meant what I said."

He blinked at her and hastened his steps to catch up. She was still walking backwards, enjoying the look on his face. "Supposing it is really what you want," he carefully said, "How do you plan to go about it?"

"I don't know. At the moment, it's just a thought." She chuckled. "You still don't believe me."

"An actress," he said, shaking his head.

"Why?"

"Daniel was an actor."

"Ah, yes," she said, nodding. "Ah, yes," she repeated, finally realizing what he meant. "Well, I'm no duke, am I?"

She caught the frown on his face when she turned to walk forward. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing," she said, walking faster with a laugh.

"Are you saying I would not have the same ending as my sister?"

She scoffed, saying nothing.

"It's frustrating when I can't read you."

"You're not perfect after all. I'm disappointed."

He reached for her, but she started running. Catching up, he grabbed her hand and held her back to a walking pace. "Don't run too fast, Miss Withers. We'll reach your home faster if you do that."

"Sometimes you say the right words that could make a lady swoon. But sometimes you say something that makes me want to feign a faint just so I can shut off the embarrassment. I never took you to be someone who is romantic."

He laughed ruffled her hair before planting a kiss on her cheek. "Let's take you home, Miss Withers. So you can go back to bed and pretend this was all just a nightmare."

***

The next morning, Geneva was surprised when Deborah asked her to take her to the garden. "Just one more time," the old lady said.

Both Prudence and Barbara sighed and turned away to take care of whatever they had to do before their departure. In the garden, her Aunt Deborah was staring at the distant Stratford woods. "I've always wondered what they have in those woods," she said with a hint of a smile. "I heard they have traps there."

"They do—" Geneva pressed her lips together. "Or so I heard."

Deborah scoffed. "They're all the same, them Stratfords. Always dipping their toes into danger."

Geneva just smiled, choosing to remain quiet. She had heard this before.

"I suppose they take after their old man."

"The earl?"

"He was always like them when we were younger. His children were the same." Then, Deborah looked away to stare up at the clouds. "They were taken too early. It was so unexpected."

"A tragedy."

"God's simple way of showing us how insignificant we are." When Geneva offered no reply, Deborah turned to her. "You take care of yourself while we're away."

"I will. Please send for me soon. I would want to be there with you."

Deborah just smiled. "Always be strong, Geneva."

Her eyes welled with tears. "I'll try."

This time, the silence stretched too long that Geneva was afraid they would run out of time. Her aunt studied the vast field beyond the garden, the one that led to the small road up to Windsong. "Having so much fear," Deborah said, breaking the silence. Her eyes met Geneva's curious gaze. "That's what I regret most. Fear of dying. Of hell. Of trying anything, truly."

Geneva did not know what to do, nor could she stop the tears when they ran down her face.

Deborah saw it and the woman just smiled. "Fear is the most powerful prison. I'm afraid I was always it's prisoner."

"We all have fears."

Her aunt looked at her for a long time. "And I'm afraid we also deliberately impose them on others. No prisoner wishes to be alone. Fear makes us selfish."

"You're not selfish."

"Don't patronize me. I am, Geneva. You are the proof of that."

Geneva shook her head, unable to utter a sound.

"While we're gone, try to find your way out. Do what you wish. You are the mistress of this house and of your own soul."

Geneva blinked in surprise and her heart hammered against her chest when she saw the knowing look in her aunt's eyes.

"Go beyond that hill," her aunt said. "Be brave."

She opened her mouth to ask how. How did she know? But Deborah simply sighed and said, "I think my time here is over. It's time to leave for Birth."

Long after her aunts were gone, Geneva remained standing outside in the driveway staring at the road. Then she had luncheon with Gwen and the other servants because she could not yet stand dining alone.

By afternoon, she dressed for a walk and made her way up to Windsong alone, enjoying the colors of the sky along the way, wondering if her Aunt Deborah could see it through the carriage window as well.

Go beyond that hill. Be brave.

Her aunt's words echoed in her head moments later when she stood in the middle of the path that led down to the other side of the hill. Maybe her aunt was simply speaking metaphorically.

Be brave.

She took one step, but stopped. Mayhap tomorrow, she thought as she turned to walk toward the ruins of the manor. With nothing to do, she explored the dilapidated structures inside, seeing more details than she did during her last visit with Damon. And just as the sky changed into a darker shade of blue and orange, she walked to the tree where she first spotted Damon resting. It felt too long ago now as she sat on the ground and leaned her back against the tree to stare blankly at the ruins before her.

"Good afternoon!" a cheerful voice greeted from yards away.

Geneva scrambled to her feet, unsure of what to do as the young man approached her. She restlessly waited as he led his cow to richer ground and finally faced her with a bright smile.

"I hope I'm not intruding, Miss," he said as he approached. "Only here to feed the cow."

She could not take her eyes off the young man. "No... I was... I was also intruding."

He laughed. "We're all trespassers here, I guess. I'm Matthew, Miss. Matthew Vernon."

"Geneva," she said. "I work for the Stratfords," she lied.

His face brightened even more. "You do?"

"I'm Freda and Roxie's governess."

"Ah, the little devils," Matthew said with a chuckle. "You're new? I think I've seen you before."

"The market, I believe. Sometimes I come with the maid to the butcher."

"The Bowmans, yes!" His smile slowly died, replaced by a frown as he studied the look on her face. "Are you alright, Miss Geneva?"

"Y-Yes," she said, blinking away her tears. She looked around, hoping Damon would show up. "How many cows do you have?"

"Five," he said. "We have goats, too. I just bought this one here because she's pregnant. Needs more food, I guess."

She smiled and nodded. "Well, I should get going," she awkwardly said, stepping back. "They must be looking for me now—" The rest of her words were left unspoken as she stepped on an uneven ground and fell back, hitting her head against the tree trunk.

"Miss Geneva!" Matthew's face was above her, filled with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm..." She winced when the pain hit her once again and she closed her eyes because everything seemed to spin around her. "I need a moment," she murmured.

"Let me take you back to the Abberton House," he said, panic in his voice.

"N-No, I'm fine—"

"No, you cannot be. You need to see a doctor soon." He helped her to her feet. "I'll carry you."

"N-No!"

"I will. Please, don't object. I've had a friend who died after he hit his head on a rock. Well, he was not really my friend. He was a cousin of a friend. But I hope you know what I mean."

Geneva felt the blood drain down her face. "He died?"

"Yes. He got up after hitting his head. Had supper, even. Never woke up the next morning." He got down on his feet, tapping his shoulder. "Come on now. I'll carry you home."

Geneva swallowed. "I feel fine."

"Well, the cousin of my friend felt fine as well."

"You're scaring me," she said.

"I will stop if you get on my back and let me take you home. Please, I insist."

Of course, she gave in. She was too young to die. And if his story about the cousin of his friend was true, then Geneva would also gladly see Doctor Peters.

"But your cow—"

"She'll be fine."

"I'm quite heavy—"

"And I'd rather you stop talking. It makes you seem heavier," he said, grunting as he adjusted her weight on his back. "I've carried heavier meat, you know."

Geneva chuckled.

"And please, no laughing."

"The meats never laughed, did they?"

"No, they didn't, Miss." He carried her toward the woods without a word for a while. When he spoke again, he said, "You share the same name as my sister."

Geneva bit her lips. "I do?"

"Yes. She's not living with us. She's older, and I never got to know her. I only heard stories about her."

"You must want to meet her."

"I have no intentions. My Ma and Pa, do. I think they're wasting their time hoping to be with her again." His words wrenched at her heart. "I don't want to see her."

"Why?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Because she's old enough to go to us if she wants to and she never did, did she?"

"You hate her."

"Don't know her, so I can't hate her."

"Maybe she just couldn't go to you."

He scoffed. "Maybe. Or maybe she simply doesn't want us."

"Surely not. Maybe she has her reasons."

"Pay it no mind, Miss. I don't think about her that often. There are far better things to think about than someone you haven't even met, see?"

Geneva wiped her tears on her shoulder. Did her other brothers think the same? Did they hate her, too?

When they reached the woods, Geneva insisted he put her down. But he was very adamant, so she let him, wondering how she would explain her sudden presence to the Stratfords when they reached the manor. She had to find a way to tell them that Matthew could not know who she was. But how?

And as she tried to think of a way, they encountered her worst nightmares.

Freda and Roxie were just exiting a cabin when their eyes landed on Matthew and Geneva.

"Matthew!" Freda said in surprise.

"Miss Withers—" Roxie started, but Geneva cried out, saying, "Oh, my head is spinning!"

Matthew immediately put her down and held her arm as she pressed her fingers to her temple.

"What's going on? What happened?" Freda asked, rushing toward them.

"Nothing," Geneva said, opening her eyes to see Matthew looking at her with a frown.

"Withers?" he asked, his face unreadable. "Your name is Geneva Withers?"