Chapter Thirteen: The Lie

The morning sun cut through the tall windows of Elmridge Manor, splashing light across the marble floor in sharp, golden shards. Jenny stood at the top of the staircase, her fingers tightening around the bannister. Below, laughter rose, Evelyne's, high and tinkling, too loud for this early hour. Ramon's voice followed, lower, unreadable, like a shadow behind her brightness.

The drawing room again. Jenny rolled her eyes.

Jenny's feet stayed planted. She could have turned back, but Lady Grace's voice rang in her head like a tolling bell: You mustn't let her drive you out of your own home.

So she descended.

Her chin lifted, spine straight, each step deliberate. When she entered, Evelyne swivelled toward her, a hand to her chest as if shocked. "Oh! Lady Jenny. What a charming surprise. You're up early for someone who adores the town life."

Jenny smiled, thin and measured. Her gaze flicked to Ramon. He looked away, too quickly.

"I find the day less wasteful when met early," she said. "Especially one that promises... clarity."

Evelyne's smile curled at the corners, then vanished as she turned to the window.

Ramon cleared his throat, a dry sound that didn't reach his eyes. "There's a letter from Viscount Bennington. He's invited you for a walk in his gardens this afternoon."

A pause. His jaw moved like he was grinding back something else. "You're... free to accept."

Jenny caught something in his face, resentment? Regret? She couldn't tell. It was always too much or not enough with him.

She nodded. "I'll go. It'll be nice to breathe air untouched by artifice."

Ramon's mouth twitched, but whatever words he wanted to say, he swallowed instead.

***

Bennington's garden was quiet, tucked behind tall hedges and humming with bees. Roses and peonies nodded in the breeze, and somewhere nearby, a fountain murmured.

Jenny walked beside him, the space between them deliberate and oddly comfortable. He wasn't crowding her. That was rare.

"You don't smile much," he said softly.

"Smiles here are masks," she replied. "I've had little cause for joy. And less room for safety."

He paused near a camellia, fingers grazing a pale blossom. "You're not what they say."

She turned to him, wary. "And what do they say?"

"That you're a farm girl who married too high. That Lord Ramon drinks because of you. That you've turned Elmridge into a mausoleum of pride."

Jenny exhaled, almost a laugh. Almost.

He met her eyes. "But I've seen you. The way you move. The way you watch. You're like a queen in exile, dignified, distant. But not broken."

The words lodged somewhere behind her ribs. No one had ever spoken to her like that. Certainly not Ramon, who had once touched her like she mattered and then vanished into silence.

Ben kept his voice low. "I don't claim to understand everything. But I see you, Jenny. And if you ever need help... I'd offer it freely."

She looked down at her gloved hands. "Maybe I do need it. More than I wanted to admit."

***

When she returned to Elmridge, the house was in disarray.

A footman hurried to meet her, his face pale. "My lady, there's been a... something's happened."

Her chest tightened. "What?"

"It's Lady Evelyne. She collapsed. In Lord Ramon's study. She says... she was poisoned."

Jenny blinked. "Poisoned?"

He nodded, eyes flicking nervously to the corridor. "She said you made her tea."

The drawing room was deathly still when she entered. Evelyne lay stretched across the chaise, pale as porcelain, eyes fluttering, but behind the flutter was steel. Calculation.

"She made the tea," Evelyne breathed, voice just above a whisper. "Right before I fell ill…"

Ramon was pacing. He turned when he saw Jenny, fury tightening his face. "What did you do?"

"I wasn't even here," Jenny said. Her voice shook, barely. "I didn't touch her tea."

"She's lying," Evelyne gasped. "She said I'd regret it. That she'd make me disappear."

Jenny stared at Ramon. "You know I wouldn't after everything. You know me."

Ramon didn't answer.

He looked at her like a man caught in a riptide, unsure whether to swim or drown.

It was answer enough.

That night, alone in her room, Jenny sat at her vanity, the glass reflecting a face she barely recognised. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Still.

She pressed her fingers to her temples. Her pulse beat hard beneath the skin, but her breath came calmly.

They wanted her to be afraid.

They didn't know what they'd started.

She would uncover whatever game Evelyne was playing. She would survive this house, this marriage, this war.

And when it was over, they wouldn't just regret underestimating her.

They'd remember her like fire remembers the match that started it.