Although the house held many curiosities that Catherine wished to behold, she felt cooped up as she walked its golden halls. She wrung her hands, her eyes searching the walls for something with which to occupy herself.

After her run-in with Mrs. Farnsworth, Catherine neither saw nor heard a soul stirring in the house. The staff was well-run, much to Farnsworth’s credit. The old woman might be comfortingly informal, but her underlings were not. Everyone gave Catherine a wide berth–her due as the new marchioness–and all maids performed their duties behind closed doors.

Of course, this meant that the house was silent as the tomb. Catherine wandered, poking her head into rooms. She studied grand paintings hanging on velvet walls, found little trinkets that hadn’t been touched in years, and tested the firmness of at least a dozen pillows. But still she searched for liveliness and found none. The Edmonson house might have been hectic, but it had always felt alive.

Catherine thought of her mother, and of silly Lydia. Her younger sister had been so frustrating at times, but she always had a hug for Catherine when she required one. The Edmonsons were not so far away, Catherine reminded herself. It was a mere carriage ride to their house. Soon, she would be hugging Lydia again and all would be well.

The quietude of Castle Fen might have been eerie on a chill Winter’s night. Catherine could well imagine herself standing in these same halls, everything dark and ominous, with only a flickering candle to guide her. But today, the house glowed in the Spring sunlight.

Finally, warmth and rosebuds had come to England again. Pausing by a large paned window, Catherine looked out into the gardens. Small flowers were beginning to peep up from the ground after their long hibernation, speckling the earth with bursts of pink. Both hands pressed up against the glass, Catherine gazed as a breeze buffeted the roses. She prayed that they would stay firmly rooted against the wind. After some time, the tumult ceased, all flowers still standing at meek attention.

Wrapping her knuckles against the window agitatedly, Catherine made a decision. It was too lovely a day to stay inside, especially when there was little for her to occupy herself with. She rushed through the halls, finally reaching the grand staircase. She took them two at a time, landing at the bottom with a thud. No matter. No one had seen.

    Bursting through the front doors, Catherine greeted the fresh air with a sigh of relief. The sky was clear, all clouds blown away by the soft breeze rustling through the trees.

Blossoms fell from the heavens, streaking around Catherine's face and decorating her hair–pink against the flame.

She began to stroll, delighting in the fresh greenery. There was nothing like a fine Spring day in the English countryside to lighten one's mood.

The gardens at Castle Fen were not like the one she had cultivated at the Edmonson house. For one, the castle's gardens were much grander. Catherine had already been walking for ten minutes at least, and she surmised that she would have to walk much longer before she reached the end of Lord Glenarvon's land. The gardens here were also more regimented. Where Catherine had designed lovely little wildernesses in the Edmonson's garden, those at Castle Fen were populated with stiff topiary and a well-manicured lawn. Marble statues dotted the premises, blank-eyed Adonises reaching armlessly towards the azure sky.

Still, as Catherine wandered on she found the ground growing rougher. Fewer and fewer topiaries crossed her path, and soon the carefully honed gardens gave way to a true wilderness. She approached a small hill and climbed it, reveling in the exertion. As she huffed, she shed away all the pains of the past few days, focusing solely on the effort.

As she crested the hill, Catherine paused to catch her breath. She was looking out over vast acreage of farmland–no doubt all Lord Glenarvon's. There was not much there for Catherine, and yet there was no turning back, either. Castle Fen's empty halls held no delight for her today and she doubted that they ever would.

Moving forward, Catherine jaunted down the hill. Near the base, her foot met hard stone, the connection resonating up her thigh like a viper. The ground seemed to melt away, and she flapped her arms, searching for a handhold that did not exist. Letting out a cry, she tumbled ungracefully down.

A scrubby bush cushioned her fall, its spiny branches poking through her frock and scratching at her arms. Dust settled around her and she coughed drily. Somehow, in the confusion of the tumble, she had turned around and was now facing towards the hill.

Catherine heard someone clear their throat behind her, the noise more a courtesy than anything else. Knotting her hands through the bush, Catherine struggled to right herself, suddenly aware that her fall had not gone unnoticed. Wincing, she stood and turned around, holding her head up high and bringing herself to her full height.

A small gasp escaped Catherine’s lips as she looked at the man in front of her. He smiled at her, white teeth flashing against his sun-kissed skin. Catherine only gaped as the man grinned. It was Peter, Anne's lover.

"You took quite a fall there," he said after some silence. Then his brows crouched low over his eyes. "You haven't hit your head, have you?"

A slow trickle of sweat beaded down Catherine's arm as she considered her options. Dull thuds of pain sliced up her left leg. There was no way she could make it home by herself, but just looking at Peter brought her even more misery. This man represented everything she was hiding, everything that had gone wrong in her life. She took a step, testing her ankle. It was too much. Crying out, she stumbled, reaching into the air to find some purchase before she fell to the ground once more. Peter caught her hand, steadying her.

"Let me take you back to my home," he said, shaking a lock of chestnut hair out of his eyes. He lifted her hand to the light and Catherine realized that she was bleeding. "You're in no shape to go anywhere by yourself just now. You can clean up and then I'll take you wherever you need."

Tendrils of discomfort still twined their way around Catherine's leg. She bit her lip. In the end, there was little she could do. He was right: Catherine wouldn't be able to move without his aid, and she couldn't very well go gallivanting about the countryside all torn and bloodied.

Nodding, she leaned upon his proffered arm, and the two began to walk at an agonizing pace.

"I thank you for your kindness, Mr...?" Catherine trailed off, realizing that she had never learned Peter's family name.

"Mr. Wynn," he said. "This is my farm that we're currently traversing. And just there–" he pointed to a little farmhouse in near distance, "–is my house. As I said, we're quite close."

As her foot hit a loose rock on the ground, Catherine winced and nearly swore, her hand clutching at Mr. Wynn's arm for dear life.

"Here," he said, his eyes crowded with worry. "We can stop for a moment so that you may catch your bearings. It's not every day that one falls down a mountain."

"It was not a mountain," said Catherine.

"No," said Mr. Wynn. "But that makes for ever so much better a story." He caught Catherine's eye and she couldn’t help but smile. "Now, may I inquire as to your name?"

They started walking towards the farmhouse again. This time, Catherine took care to lean on Mr. Wynn more than she had before. Pride was no longer a barrier–not now that she had caused herself quite so much physical agony.

"I am Miss..." Catherine paused for a moment, thinking. "Miss Catherine Winters."

A flat out lie. Somehow, it didn't feel prudent to Catherine to reveal her true name. Mr. Wynn would know immediately that she was the new marchioness, of course. Likely, he would also know that she was Anne's sister. That information was too precious to share just yet. Catherine had played very few card games, but she knew not to show her hand too early.

They reached the door of the farmhouse and Mr. Wynn let go of Catherine's arm, unlocking the door. Smiling, he ushered her inside.

The home was surprisingly large, and comfortingly warm. The door opened straight into some sort of parlor, but Catherine counted at least four other doors leading to other areas of the house.

A fire crackled in the hearth, an older woman resting in a chair beside it. She turned as Catherine and Peter hobbled inside, her mouth opening in an O of surprise.

"Who is this, then?" she asked, coming over to them with some speed.

"Miss Winters," Peter replied. "Miss, this is my mother, Mrs. Wynn. I saw Miss Winters fall down the hill just at the end of the farm and thought it best to bring her here," he added.

Mrs. Wynn pulled Catherine hurriedly into the kitchen, Peter trailing close behind for support. "Fetch some water from the pump please, Peter," she said, sitting Catherine down at the table. "Now let's have a look at you here, dear." She grabbed Catherine's arm and began inspecting her. "Well, it could be worse. More blood than cut. You're lucky."

Peter rushed back in with a bucket of water. Mrs. Wynn picked up a rag and wetted it, wiping away at Catherine's wounds. "Whatever were you doing way out here in the farmland?" she asked.

That was a good question. Catherine sought her words carefully. "I am a scullery maid at the house–at Castle Fen–and I had some time to myself. I've just come on staff, so I haven't yet explored much. Seeing how lovely the day was, I thought it might be the perfect time to walk the grounds."

"A scullery maid?" said Peter, his brow furrowing. His eyes roamed Catherine's face, settling on her dress. Even though it was torn and muddied, there was no denying that her outfit was slightly too fine for a maid.

"Yes," said Catherine too quickly. Before she could make up more excuses, Mrs. Wynn tapped her leg.

"Let's see that ankle of yours," she said.

Catherine complied, lifting her foot. Mrs. Wynn chafed at the ankle, testing it.

"This is no good." She frowned, little lines forming between her brows. "I can't send you back to the big house in this state. I'll just have Peter take you to the parlor and I'll prepare some tea and a cold compress. You'll be right as rain in an hour or so, I'm sure."

Catherine opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Wynn cut her off. "I'll have no complaints," she said. "If you go back to Castle Fen now, it'll come out that I sent the new maid home without any help. We can't have that. I've spent too many years here and I don't wish to weather a scandal now."

Shaking his head, Peter grinned at his mother's stern words. Catherine's mouth twitched. "I shall stay then," she said.

Peter took her arm and led her to a chair near the fire in the parlor. Taking the seat next to her, he let out a content sigh. "Don't mind Ma," he said. "She just wants what's best."

Catherine nodded silently, her eyes on Peter Wynn. So. This was the man for whom her sister would throw everything away. To Anne, this man was worth all her good reputation and standing in society. He was pleasant looking, to be sure, but looks weren't worth a lifetime of embarrassment.

Catherine thought of all that had happened this hour, and considered. Mr. Wynn had helped a strange, bedraggled girl in the middle of nowhere, even when he could have walked away. A handsome face was one thing, but a good heart was something else entirely.

"How did you come to run this farm, Mr. Wynn?" Catherine asked, the firelight reflecting in her leaf green eyes.

“The men in my family have worked this farm for nearly as long as the marquess’s family has owned it," he said quietly. He had picked up a bit of wood and a knife, and was whittling away, his eyes looking anywhere but up.

Catherine pressed on, not heeding Peter's uncomfortable look. "But surely you are quite young to be the sole proprietor?" she asked.

Peter glanced up at Catherine quickly, then settled back down with his wooden piece. His mouth was a thin line, lips pressed together as if he were trying to hold himself in. Then, he seemed to make a decision, light dawning in his eyes. His arms loosened a bit, and he placed the knife back down on the low table.

"My father raised me well," he said firmly. "I have four siblings–not unusual for a family such as ours, but so many mouths to feed is a strain nonetheless. They’re out at the moment."

Catherine nodded. She thought knew something about hardship, but looking around Peter's house, listening to his story, she realized that she was still very privileged indeed.

He continued. "Every month until I was twelve, my father saved all his extra money and put it in that jar over there," Peter pointed to a glass jar in the corner of the room. "He would say, 'Boy, this is for your education.' As I have said, all the men in my family have been farmers, but my father wanted something more for me. He knew that one educated son could lift us all into a different life. And so, he saved. He saved money even when there wasn't any to spare. And then, on my twelfth birthday, he broke open the jar and sent me to school."

Catherine's eyebrows raised. Why was he telling her this?

"I loved school," Peter said excitedly. "I was to educate myself from a young age, and then when the time came, I was to become a lawyer. I could support my family. But then..." He averted his eyes, looking down at the rough wooden floor of the farmhouse. "Then in my last year of school, father grew ill. Consumption. I came home the day after school finished and took my father’s place on the farm. Never looked back. Now that he’s gone, my siblings and mother need me." He shrugged. "Being a farmer is not so bad. I was raised to it."

Catherine's hand was at her mouth, her eyes glistening. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have pressed."

Peter shook his head. "No. I've been waiting to tell someone that story for a long time. I don't know why, but I trust you. You remind me of someone I hold very dear."

Catherine blinked. Surely he couldn't be talking about Anne? She pulled some wisps of hair in front of her face, trying to obscure her features.

"Anyway," Peter said, his face brightening. "How did someone with manners so fine as yours become a scullery maid?"

"I–" Before she could say much, Catherine stopped herself. Did she really want to lie to Peter after he had told her so much about himself? It would be one thing if he were a total stranger, but he wasn't. He was Anne's beloved. And now, Catherine could see why her sister adored him so much. This was a man who had gone through hardship and come out the other side without complaining. He had taken his lumps and spun them into gold.

"I'm not a–" As Catherine began her confession, a knock came at the door.

Peter stood up, smoothing his shirt. "Sorry, Miss Winters. I'll just be a moment." He walked to the door, opened it, and burst into a sunny smile. The angle prevented Catherine from viewing who it was, but Peter ushered the visitor in. Catherine's stomach sank as honey-colored curls bounced into view. It was Anne.

Crouching down in her seat, Catherine turned around and stared at the fire intently.

"I wasn't expecting you today," Peter said warmly to Anne. He shut the door behind her.

"I just couldn't stay away," said Anne. Catherine heard the sound of an embrace. "Papa thinks I'm just out for a ride."

Peter shot Anne a meaningful look. "We have a visitor today, Anne," he said, pointing subtly at the back of Catherine's head.

Eyebrows knit together, Anne squinted at Catherine in the darkened room. For all Catherine tried to hide, her hair was too bright, too distinctive even in this light. Clarity dawned on Anne's face, and she rushed to the hearth, her face a mask of worry.

"Catherine," she cried, clasping her sister's hands. "I can explain. I’m just here because–”

Catherine cut her sister off before she could make any excuses. “I know about you and Mr. Wynn, Anne. I have for some time.”

“Please, please whatever you do, don't tell Papa.” Anne’s words came out rushed, her voice cracking. “He'll be so disappointed. Do what you wish with me, but don't tell him."

A flash of pity crossed Catherine's face as her sister groveled at her feet. Grim lines painted her forehead, transforming her visage. This was too much to bear. She indicated for Anne to stand up, and forced a smile onto her face. It didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I won't tell anyone, Anne. I never will tell, if you don't wish me to."

A single tear rolled down Anne's cheek, relief smoothing her features. "Thank you, Cat. Truly." She sat next to Catherine, worrying the pocket of her dress. "I suppose you'll want to hear about this?"

"I saw you at the assembly hall a few months ago," Catherine said through pursed lips.

Anne blanched. "So you understand the full of it, then."

"As much as I care to."

Letting out a small sob, Anne covered her face with her hands. "Don't look at me like that, Catherine."

Catherine's eyes flashed. She couldn't hold herself in anymore. "You're jeopardizing everything you have, Anne! Your reputation, your future. What's more, you could ruin Lydia's prospects and humiliate our entire family. Even I only married–" She stopped short.

Marrying Glenarvon was Catherine's choice, even if she hadn't many options. Blaming Anne might have felt right, but that was too much to shove onto her sister's heaving shoulders. "Even I could have been ruined, had I not married a marquess," she amended. "Still, my station can only save me so much. What were you thinking?"

Anne was nearly bawling now, thick tears sliding down her face. "I love him, Catherine. That's all I know. Everything you said–you're right. But I can’t stop myself. Every morning I wake up happier knowing that Peter is in this world. I'm so sorry."

Catherine squeezed her eyes together, trying to really hear her sister's words. Everything Anne had done was undeniably rash, but would Catherine have done anything differently had she been in her place? It didn’t seem like a question she could ever answer. Her face softened as she looked at Anne's tearstained cheeks.

Catherine gathered Anne's hands in hers, clasping them delicately. "Has there been any more of... what happened in the gazebo at the assembly hall?" She tried to sound casual, as if she had only seen Anne and Peter discussing the weather.

Anne gazed down at Catherine's hands in hers, her tears slowing. "No. It was a lapse in judgment. I wouldn't–I couldn’t risk the consequences of repeating such an act. That much I know, at least."

Nodding, Catherine felt her shoulders loosen. Although she hadn’t realized it until this moment, she hadn't felt calm in months. Now, her muscles were giving way to long-needed tranquility. "That is good to hear," she said.

"Is there anything to be done?” asked Anne. “I can't part with him. Maybe after Lydia is married, we can wed quietly. No one has to know.”

"Everyone will know," Catherine replied, biting her lips. "For now, we can only hope that something will happen. Maybe after Lydia's marriage..." She trailed off. That was hardly a solution, and they both knew it. It would be an awfully long time until their younger sister tied the knot.

Peter coughed, interrupting the conversation. "I am terribly sorry to intrude, but it's getting quite dark out. Miss–Lady Glenarvon needs to get back to Castle Fen."

Catherine stood and embraced her sister.

"You should be getting home, too," she said. "Papa will wonder where you are. We can discuss this all later. But please, be careful."

"I will," said Anne.

Then, the sisters parted, Anne back to the Edmonson’s house, and Catherine back to Castle Fen. Peter helped Catherine into his cart, urging the horse on with a flick of his reins.

The ride was short and silent. Catherine was too busy contemplating everything that had just transpired to talk to Peter, and even then, she had no idea what to say to him. Finally, they pulled up at one of the back entrances to Castle Fen. Peter took Catherine's arm, and together they hobbled into the house.

Catherine hesitated in the hall, unsure how to say goodbye to Peter. Then, she hugged him.

"Thank you," she whispered. "And take care of her."

Peter only nodded, a sad smile on his face, and walked back to his cart.