Page 17 of Bane Bloom

“Mmm.” Now I’m doing it, too. “Well, if it’s been your habit to spend some of your time in the house—to use the kitchen, or warm yourself by the fire—please don’t let my presence—”

“It hasn’t.”

Flustered, I lifted my goblet. The scrutiny in his gaze was almost feline. Focused, emotionless, taut.

“Why do you always wear black?”

I swallowed the mouthful of cider in a gulp, nearly choking. “I . . .” I set down the goblet. “Well, as I said earlier—”

“It was after your father told you about your mother leaving. But that doesn’t explain why.”

I stared at him, too shocked by his uncomfortably direct probing to formulate any kind of answer.

“You have asked about my family,” he continued, no mercy in those cold blue eyes, “or at least danced around asking about it—which is a skill I’m afraid I lack. Am I expected not to ask about yours?”

My fingers trembled as I lightly gripped the table edge. Whatever else Thomas Bane might’ve been, he wasn’t simple. And despite the fact his face never gave the slightest indication, he clearly paid attention.

Did I owe him an answer? Perhaps not. But if I hoped to continue a dialogue that would help me understand whether he might in some way be a threat—or simply a dialogue that would make my time here easier and more fruitful—I really had no choice.

Then I wondered, Do I know the answer?

I raised my eyes to his face. “I think at first it may have been because it was easier to pretend that she was dead than to try and make sense of her leaving us.” Easier than thinking she’d left because she hadn’t wished to be saddled with me. Because I didn’t matter to her.

The lines around his eyes relaxed slightly. “And now? You continue because you ‘find it freeing’?”

How hollow my words rang as he tossed them back at me.

I studied the pattern of violets on the edge of my plate, steadying myself with a breath. I hadn’t thought of my mother in ages. Not like this. Yet, somehow, it was also true that I thought of her every day.

As the splinter continued working its way out, I said, “I suppose I’m still mourning.” I looked at him. “Which suggests I’m not free at all.”

Finally his gaze lowered, and my thoughts spun. His probing had stirred me up in a way that wasn’t likely to settle anytime soon—if ever. It had shaken the ground under my feet, causing me to revisit beliefs I’d held about myself for years.

For heaven’s sake, he’s only a gardener.

But it was becoming very clear that there was more to Thomas Bane.

His eyes came back to my face, and I flinched slightly, dreading what he might ask next.

“Pine Cottage was in the care of my mother, Miss Gray. Before that, it was in the care of my grandfather. The London apothecaries funded restorations, and they funded the glasshouse. So it never truly belonged to my family. But the apothecaries have allowed me to remain as caretaker of all my family built.”

I took a long breath, relieved to be released from scrutiny. None of what he’d said about his history seemed to carry bitterness, yet I believed he was bitter. “I imagine it’s very difficult to have strangers in the house you grew up in while you are exiled.”

One of his brows lifted. “I have no attachment to the house. The apothecaries are welcome to it.”

Not quite believing this, I countered, “And the glasshouse?”

Frowning, he glanced down at his hands, now folded on the tabletop. They were a laborer’s hands—large, strong, and battered.

“The glasshouse is my responsibility,” he said. “I promised my mother I’d look after it.”

“But why? I mean, I understand it’s a kind of family legacy. But it doesn’t really belong to you. Why would your mother expect you to devote your life to . . .” I drifted off, thinking. Remembering the slip of paper in my shoe. On impulse I said, “What is the Bane Bloom, Thomas?”

Slowly his eyes came to my face, and he blinked. Everything else about him was still. Not even his chest rose. Somewhere nearby, I heard the soft grunts of a mother duck shepherding her ducklings. My heart beat faster as the seconds ticked by.

“I don’t know what that is,” he said at last, in the same flat tone he said almost everything. “Where did you hear of it?”

“It’s . . . it’s something Mr. Harding mentioned. The Society has an interest in it.”