Layla placed a calming hand on her arm. peace, Livia. We are guests here, remember? Let's not give them a reason to frown.
They washed the dust from their hands and faces. Lucia laid out Layla's best dress, a deep forest green that made her eyes seem even brighter. Over it, she draped her mother's shawl, a soft whisper of lace and memory. They twisted her dark hair into a simple but elegant knot at the nape of her neck.
A different maid, younger and less severe, met them at the main house door and led them through silent halls to a sprawling garden terrace. A long table groaned under the weight of silver platters and crystal glasses. The entire Blackthorn family sat assembled under the morning sun- her uncles, their wives, and a flock of cousins she had only heard of in stories.
Their entrance halted all conversation. Every head turned. Every eye fixed on Layla. The air thickened with silent appraisal, with curiosity, with sharp edged judgment.
She felt their gaze like physical touches, measuring her dress, her posture, the simple shawl.
The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. Then, a young voice, clear and unguarded, cut through it.
wow, said Benedict's son, Charles, his mouth hanging open. our cousin is so pretty."
The spell broke. A dozen different reactions flickered across a dozen faces, amusement, annoyance, sharp disapproval. Layla kept her chin level, meeting the General's stern gaze at the table,
Every eye at the table held a verdict. Layla felt their collective gaze like a physical weight. Her right hand rose, fingers finding the cold, familiar crystal of her mother's. her left hand clenched the thick wool of her dress, grounding herself. She forced her chin to stay level, her spine straight.
Lady Jane's smile cut through the tension, a practiced curve of lips that never warmed her eyes. "Layla, dear. Come sit beside me." she gestured to an empty chair, a place of honor that felt more like an executioner's block.
Layla moved forward, the rustle of her simple dress loud in the quiet garden. As she passed General Henry's daughters, Silvia, the eldest, let out a quiet, derisive sniff. "Pretty , Charles?" she muttered , just loud enough for those nearby to hear. I call it plain. Country plain
Lady Jane shot her daughter are looked sharp enough to draw blood. Silvia dropped her gaze to her plate, a sullen flush creeping up her neck.
Layla took her seat. Across the terrace, Lucia and Livia stood attention with the other household maids, their postures rigid. Livia's fingers twisted into the fabric of her apron.
'our lady looks like a lamb surrounded by wolves,' Livia whispered, the words barely leaving her mouth.
She must sit among them,' Lucia replied, her voice a low, worried hum. They need to see her. Let us pray their gangs stay hidden.'
The clatter of silverware resumed, a nervous, staccato rhythm. Then, Benedict's son Charles, leaned forward, his young face alight with genuine curiosity, breaking the frosty silence.
Is it true the countryside holds wild horses that no one can tame?" he asked, ignoring his mother's warning nudge.
Layla turned to him, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. She grasped this lifeline of normalcy. "Not entirely.
The horses are simply… free. They understand kindness better than force. My father taught me that." her voice, clear and melodic, carried across the table.
She answered his next questions about the harvest cycles, the different types of soil, and the patterns of migrating birds. She spoke with a quiet authority, her words painting vivid pictures of a world these city-dwellers could scarcely imagine.
Her grammar proved flawless, her reasoning sharp. A subtle shift moved through the women at the table.
Their condescending smirks faded, replaced by looks of reassessment. This was no uneducated farm girl.
Lord Alistair, the second uncle, sipped his tea, his calculating eyes fixed on her. "and what was your life like out there, in all that… simplicity?
Layla met his gaze, her emerald eyes steady. "we were happy.
The simplicity of her answer, its profound and unassailable truth, seemed to disarm him.he said nothing, merely took another sip.
Charles beamed, impressed by her intelligence. I have books! Many books about geography and natural philosophy. I could send some to you. If you like."
A soft, collective intake of breath circled the table. All eyes flicked to Charles, then to his mother, Lady Eleanor. Her face, usually a mask of cool composure, showed genuine shock. Everyone knew her son guarded his library with a dragon's ferocity. That he would offer a stranger, a country cousin no less, such a privilege… it made no sense. Lady Eleanor's sharp gaze returned to Layla, studying her with new, intense suspicion.
It was Lord Benedict, the third uncle, who shattered the fragile calm. He cleared his throat, a sound like grinding gravel. Speaking of the countryside," he began, his tone jovial yet devoid of warmth. No need to worry your pretty head about the details, my dear. I've already dispatched a man to your father's farm. He will assess its value and find a suitable buyer. A tidy sum for you, I should think.
The words did not register at first. They hung in the air senseless. Then, their meaning crashed down. The air vanished from Layla's lungs. A sharp, silent gasp echoed from where the twins stood; Lucia hand flew to her own throat.
The silver spoon Layla had been holding slipped from her numb fingers it hit the delicate porcelain of her saucer with a loud, ringing clang that silenced the entire garden. All conversation ceased.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Layla lifted her head. Her face lost its color. She looked directly at Lord Benedict, her eyes wide with a horror that stripped away all her practiced grace.
Uncle?" the word was a breath, a fragile thing. You are … selling my father's farm?"
Lord Benedict waved a dismissive hand, a gold ring glinting in the sun. Of course, dear. You're here with us now. This is your life. No reason to cling to that old dirt. We'll handle everything,
The world narrowed to the sight of his bland, smiling face. The home her father built with his own hands. The land her mother had loved. The soil that held their memories, their laughter, their graves. It was not an asset. It was her heart. And they were putting a price on it.