By London's standard, the grounds at the back of the Stanhope House were vast, but even with Lady Catherine's shuffle, they could take a turn of its entirety in a quarter of an hour. The gardens in Lancashire could have easily swallowed five of these and had an ample room for the whimsical swan lake. 

Realizing that, the gardener planted the evergreen shrubs to shelter roses in a maze pattern, to offer twists, turns and daydreams. Was it on Radcliffe's orders? It seemed like something he'd order. But even with this added charm, in December the roses were piled up by straw, so there wasn't much to enjoy yet.

Mabel gave the overcast sky a suspicious look. It promised sleet. "Perhaps we can visit the Orangerie." 

Lady Catherine tittered in response. "Dearest Mabel, the only good thing about the place are the lemon tarts."

"Ah!" She still regretted just how delicious they were, how easy to swallow in two bites, and how many of them was served.

"The Orangerie is full of dripping pipes and God knows what other instruments. The air is so staid, that I'm in danger of swooning every time he lures me inside there."

A week had gone by, a whole week, without a single minute in it for visiting Radcliffe's green charges! "I see..."

"But, of course, Radcliffe won't rest until you draw some leaves, wouldn't he? Some leaves or some seeds, I can't remember which. Perhaps it was the shoots? Or maybe it was both... all three? Oh, bother, he talks too much."

Mabel smiled covertly. "He does indeed." And she knew whom he got it from.

"So, if you don't mind the heat and the damp, I don't see why you shouldn't amuse yourself and visit."

Excitement rose within Mabel like dough on the sunny counter. "I don't mind the heat at all, but Lady Catherine—"

"My dear, are you concerned that I'm in danger of getting lost in my garden after twenty years? Am I so in my dottage?"

"No, but..."

"Or such a hopeless bore that keeping my own council for a time is intolerable to me?"

"No."

"Or that my son is a rake who would press unwanted attention on you?"

"No!" Not her eldest at least.

"Then off with you. See those seeds and leaves or whatever else he cherishes so."

She was reddening, she just knew it. "Thank you, Lady Catherine. I'm very intrigued to learn more about the exotic plant collection."

"Of course, you are. Off with you." Lady Catherine waved her hands to shoo her away so energetically that Fifi and Peppe pushed to their hind legs, yapping lustfully. Their mistress crouched and cooed at them, stroking their silky ears.

Mabel suspected that Lady Catherine might have hidden a smile; that, perhaps, she didn't mean the plants. But far it would be from her to question her generous employer. She ran down the gravel path to Radcliffe's orangerie.

The pavilion shared one wall with the house. Octagonal in its layout, it was framed in a ruinous quantity of glass panels. Against the pricey glass, pushed verdant leaves in every shape. With a thrill of embarking upon a journey, Mabel first squeezed through one set of doors, then another, a clever design to keep in the heat and moisture.

Just like Lady Catherine warned, various pipes wound its way along the walls and under the ceiling. They indeed dripped and were coated in a warm vapour, to keep the air tropical. Glass walls and roof laboured to amplify Britain's scarce sunshine to the greatest degree possible. So empowered, the anemic light reflected from the glossy leaves accustomed to the brightness of the Meditrrenian or other fortunate places.

The lemon trees were immediately identifiable by their tasty fruit, but there were other, stranger, trees of a similar size; a vine carrying heart-shaped leaves scaled the wall with the same spirit of enterprise as ivy.

In between those larger green shapes, crammed the shelves overflowing with smaller boxes and pots. Every container that could be filled with dirt, was. Each strived to push forth so many green twigs, that Lady Catherine would have been proven wrong: Radcliffe was obsessed with his green charges. Also with purple and red ones; and even flowers. They all cheerfully competed for space and Radcliffe's love.

Mabel barely took two steps through this Kingdom of Flora in miniature, when she saw Radcliffe perched on a stool in front of a bench, studying a tray of seedlings. He dropped his magnifying glass flattening a few sprouts.

"Perdition!" he muttered, then added, far louder, "Welcome, Miss Walton."

They circled the room while he pointed out various pot dwellers and recited their pedigree. They were like lords and ladies to him.

"Lord Chesterton, this is marvelous!" Mabel struggled to breathe in the heated damp air, but it only increased her elated mood. "You truly must come to Lancashire and take charge of the garden there. This place only whets your appetite!"

The lines deepend by Radcliffe's mouth, making her miss his smiles. They touched down on his lips like butterflies and fleeted away before she could take a good look. She wanted to arrest them with her fingers, press them down and preserve them long enough to study. His lips were the same as Everett's. His smiles weren't.

"I think of it every year when the Parliament closes, and my duties there are done. But..." his fingers snapped through the air, searching for an explanation and failing to find it.

"You don't love Lancashire then," Mabel guessed. "In this respect, you're like two peas in a pod with your brother."

He shrugged one shoulder—the healthy one. "My memories of the place are less happy than his, I dare say."

"Why?"

Radcliffe stayed silent for so long that she thought he'd ignored her prying.

When she about apologised for being rude, he spoke up. "While Everette amused himself the way the boisterous boys want to do, I endured Father's discontent for not being able to join in and only getting in the good son's way."

His voice was quiet, a rarely shared memory. Maybe never. It wasn't only about the horseplay, it was more: an heir who didn't measure up to the younger son in his father's eyes. The one who stood in the way...

Her heart went out to the boy he once was. "Your father was cruel and unfair."

"He was, for I had never once failed him despite my shortcomings. I was the right son."

She didn't realise until then that his features had a soft glow to them. Now it was gone, hiss face hard as granite.

"Then cast his malicious ghost out!" Mabel fumed. "Do not stonewall yourself in London and in solitude, I beg you. The manor is now yours, so sweep clean all the unhappy past to replace it with the same beauty as you created here."

The argument was carrying her away, but she desired his happiness more acutely than their acquaintance warranted. More than any acquaintance warranted. For a minute, she desired his happiness as instinctively as she desired her own. After a shuddering breath, she looked around. "Wasn't... wasn't this his house also?"

"True, but it was there when he first told me that he wished me dead."

She gasped. It was a true measure of his solitude that he confided in her. They were recent strangers; the gulf of their station separated them; the hurt was too much. But someone, someone, had to be angry on his behalf.

"All the more reason to make merry there!" Belated blush flooded her cheeks under his direct gaze. He even tilted his head a little, as if her reaction was some sprout to be studied.

"Forgive me for swift judgments," she whispered through stiffening lips. "My heart moved before considering if I may claim you as a friend. Please, I beg you, I didn't presume—"

"You have my friendship, Miss Walton," he said gallantly. "You'll always have it, I promise."

The tightness in her chest released, but the conversation left her with dregs of sadness. It sat on the bottom of her soul and wouldn't dissolve. Whenever she glanced at him, she knew it was still there.

They were friends, and it was marvelous. Yes, absolutely marvelous. Certainly not a reason to feel sullen. And yet she did.

It was impossible for her not to feel sad about being a girl in wet shoes who berated his relations every chance she got. She could penetrate no further. She couldn't dance. She couldn't get what she wanted. Worse, she didn't even know what it was that she wanted from him in place of friendship. She wished she was like Hazel. Hazel always knew whom she wanted to kiss, whom she wanted to discourage, whom she wanted to marry... and she didn't.

And so she nursed her sadness, swirling it in the wine glass of her heart.