Page 6 of Broken

He had seen the ghost six times in total, each occasion quite memorable. The little sprite seemed unshakable, except perhaps once. Giles had shocked her then. The tryst had not been particularly decadent, but her reaction to the presence of two women cuddling up to him had spoken of disappointment and hurt. Her reaction puzzled him.

Giles sipped the strong coffee while he glanced out the window, noticing the wild gardens leading toward the southern boundary for the first time. He drew back. When had the gardens reached such a state?

The terrace doors refused to open to a light touch, so he shoved against them, wincing as they groaned in protest. Stepping outside, he stalked toward flowerbeds grown wild with nature. Weeds twined amongst the roses and delphiniums that had once been the pride of his mother’s gardens. He followed the path to the ornate pond at its center and found it clogged with weeds.

Looking back at the house, he could see the beginning signs of neglect. Vines clung to the walls where they had once feared to go. The spire on the southern turret looked bent. Had it been struck by lightning?

He soaked his boots as he followed the garden path grown thick with long weeds pushing between flagstones. He grimaced. His valet would shriek at their state when he returned, but given Giles’ usual care of his wardrobe, the man could bear the rare inconvenience.

Despite the wild, unkempt state, the grounds were still peaceful, but he should deal with the garden and the house soon. Turning, he saw the manor clearly for the first time in years: a grand old house bowing under the weight of neglect. His.

Giles liked to live his life with no responsibilities, but he did want the luxury of being able to retreat to this place for a long time to come. It may only be for his pleasure, but since he took pleasure very seriously, the house needed repair to restore it to its former glory.

Determined to correct his neglect, he walked around the old house and grounds, inspecting every detail from the disused stables to the twisting creek that flowed through the estate.

The stone bridge was still solid, built by his grandfather years earlier, its stout footings and sides impervious to the rushing water. Giles rested his elbows on the stones, watching the dark water slide beneath.

Lillian Winter had almost died in this very spot. They said she fell. He leaned forward on the high, smooth stones. It might be possible if the girl liked climbing. Despite Lord Winter’s assurances she was an angel, perhaps Lilly had hidden an adventurous nature. He only remembered her vaguely. She’d had an impeccable lineage that met his parent’s requirements for his bride and had been receiving instruction on managing a household for a number of years.

That was all he’d cared about at the time too.

He crossed the bridge and followed the river along the bank until the water flowed smoothly, less agitated by the rocks that she must have struck. Giles winced at the image, glancing back to the bridge and large boulders littering the stream.

What must it have been like for Lilly? The drop from the bridge, the insistent tug of floodwater and fabric as the heavy weight pulled her below the surface. Giles shuddered and looked about him. This was where Atticus had saved her.

He should have guessed Atticus would only respond to someone he felt protective of. When Giles had heard what his dog had attempted to do, pulling at the chit until her head remained above water long enough to be rescued, he’d been so proud. Until the moment they confessed Lilly would likely die anyway, at least. He’d feared the bites Atticus had inflicted pulling her toward the bank had speeded her demise.

But she had not died after all. She was tougher than he’d been led to believe. Yet all he knew of her were the tales told in hushed whispers and private thoughts penned carefully into a small journal he had found years after her supposed death. He still had that journal at the manor somewhere. He should at least unearth it and return it to its rightful owner.

Giles pulled a weed from the ground and twirled the stem between his fingers. From here, he could see the window of Lilly’s bedchamber. What inner devil had prompted his butler to put the woman in a room facing the scene of her accident? Lord Winter, if he ever opened the drapes and looked out, would think them cruel.

Perhaps it would be all right. Lilly would only be here a short time, and then she would go to Wales. The thought saddened him. A life without any form of pleasure—that is what Lillian Winter lived. He did not know how anyone could survive such a boring existence.

He ambled back to the manor, pausing often to consider the extent of work required. Judging by what he saw, he would need some extra hands to bring the estate up to scratch. Perhaps he should have listened to his friends more over the years, but he had never aspired to make Cottingstone a great estate. All he needed was to keep the manor in good order and receive the rents, both here and from his London properties, to live a comfortable bachelor’s existence.

A glance at Lilly’s window reminded him to find the journal, but he wondered where he had put it. In his current rooms? Or perhaps packed with his childhood mementos packed away in the attic?

Attaining the upper floors by way of the servants’ stairs was a moment’s work. At a hall window, he spied a female figure walking about the garden’s perimeter. Her gait was unfamiliar. It must be poor Lilly’s nurse, which meant Lord Winter would be visiting with his daughter now. It was the perfect time to renew his acquaintance with Lilly. Her father could act as chaperone.

Instantly, Giles quashed that idea. He had a vast dislike for conversing with chaperones hovering and dissecting his every word. And there was also the very real worry that Lord Winter might view any request for a meeting as a cause for hope for marriage between them.

When he’d learned of her supposed death, Giles had taken out Lilly’s journal and read it. At fourteen, Lilly hadn’t been completely enamored of marrying. Neither had he been, for that matter. But the arrangement was a long-standing contract from his ninth year. As he grew older, he grew less pleased with the notion of an arranged marriage, but he’d known his duty and fallen silent on his parents’ choice. Aside from the lure of her dowry and lineage, they’d promised Lilly would be no trouble to manage.

Giles pushed on the attic door. The hinges creaked, ending the silence. He shook his head again. That would never do. Another repair to see to.

Boxes of disused toys and oddments littered the walls and he scratched his head. Where might the little book be? Oh, yes. He remembered now. He had left it with the butterfly collection he’d abandoned years go, and the case still resided in the nursery one floor below. He tugged the protesting door closed, turned, and stalked to his former quarters.

He felt immediately out of place, far too large compared to the furniture in the room. His aborted butterfly collection lay on a high shelf, so he lowered it down carefully, and blew dust from the hazy glass. There it was, nestled between the dead forms of a Painted Lady and a Peacock butterfly. He had left her journal among other dead things.

Cringing, Giles opened the case, lifted out the small book, and returned the case to the shelf. He flipped the cover. Pages of childish words, moments of pleasure amidst a lifetime of loneliness. He remembered feeling rather sad by the end of reading it.

He slipped the journal into his inner pocket. Maybe Lilly wouldn’t like her father to know of her lonely musings. She had hidden the journal, after all. Perhaps it would be best if he returned them to her after the baron departed and see if she wanted it back.

“Ah, there you are, lad,” Lord Winter exclaimed, hovering in the doorway. “I thought I heard someone thumping around in here. Not exactly where I imagined I’d find you on such a pleasant day.”

Since the baron’s chamber was on the floor below, the older man had no reason to venture into the nursery either. Unless…

Giles stifled a groan. This was the last room Lillian had stayed in before her accident. Had Winter thought to wallow in memories of his daughter when she’d been in perfect health? Giles edged toward the door. He didn’t want to witness this.