Page 3

She’d heard something. Something—no, someone—in distress.

Head cocked, she listened keenly past the sounds of the frothing fountain, humming bees, and chirping birds.

There.

A faint sniffle and a muffled sob.

Rising, Purity perused the square enclosure.

Nothing.

Another pitiful sob cut through the garden’s tranquility.

The thread of sound came from near the entrance.

Did someone hide in one of the nooks created by the zealously tended beeches on either side of the tapered arc? Purity had been so entranced with this oasis that she’d scarcely paid the weathered stone benches nestled there any mind when she’d stumbled upon the secret garden.

Swiftly making her way across the expanse, her shoes and skirts swishing against the short grass as she went, she approached the opening. As she neared the entrance, Purity slowed her pace when she spied a little girl’s tousled red hair.

At the dejected little form huddled there, Purity’s heart wrenched, and she pressed a hand to her bosom.

Dear Lord. The poor darling.

Theran, you and Bernadine must attend our house party in August. I’ve invited several families with young children so she’ll have playmates to occupy her time while you join in the adult activities. Most of the guests with children are bringing their governesses as well, and with the extra maids I’ve retained for the month, there is no need for you to concern yourself with Bernadine’s care.

I shan’t take no for an answer, Nephew. Imogene has been gone for almost three years. It’s time you started living again, my dear. I’d prefer you didn’t bring that creature with you, even if Athena has been acting as a quasi-nurse and governess for the dear child these past months. I suppose I can make an allowance if you cannot discourage Athena’s attendance, but do endeavor to put her off. She’ll cast a pall over the festivities.

How very different Imogene was from Athena, but then again, they were stepsisters.

~Melvelia Hawtrey, Countess of Mumford,

in an invitation to her nephew, Mister Theran Rutland

Mottford Hall’s Secret Garden

A few heartbeats later

The child had pulled her feet onto the bench, her petite white shoes peeking from the hem of her gown. Knees tucked to her chest, the girl had buried her head in her thin arms atop her knees and wept as if her heart were broken. She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old.

“Where are you, Bernadine?” a woman asked in the distance, her tone harsh but refined. “Answer me this minute, or I shall punish you most severely.”

Bernadine?

Purity’s attention rested on the miserable waif for a moment before returning to the opening. Given the toddler’s fashionable yellow gown and white stockings and shoes, she was likely quality.

“Rotten little bratling,” the woman snapped with enough venom to raise Purity’s nape hair. “I ought to let you stay out here and get good and lost. It’s no more than an ugly, miserable, motherless urchin like you deserves.”

God above, what a nasty termagant.

Unfamiliar outrage, instant and searing, burgeoned behind Purity’s breast bone.

Who was this vindictive woman?

How dare she speak to a child so cruelly?

Purity crouched before the child and tenderly touched her shoulder.

“Bernadine?”