Lady Whitmore glanced between Mary and Thomas with a composed smile. "If you two would like a moment alone, there's a walking path by the roses. It's quite peaceful this time of day."
Mary's stomach tensed. She didn't want to walk with Thomas. But she nodded anyway, out of duty, and let him offer his arm.
They walked side by side, the air growing cooler under the canopy of trees lining the garden path. Birds chirped faintly in the distance. Crickets began their evening hum.
Thomas cleared his throat. "I must say, your estate is lovely. It's rare to see such attention to detail in countryside properties."
"Thank you," Mary murmured, eyes on the gravel.
"I've been to places far more lavish, of course," he continued. "My father took me to Italy last summer. Florence. I studied art—purely for leisure, of course. But one must be well-rounded."
Mary hummed. "Of course."
"I speak some Italian. I could teach you. 'Bella donna'—that means beautiful woman." He chuckled softly, clearly pleased with himself.
She managed a polite smile.
"I've always said women flourish best in structured environments," Thomas added. "When they are protected, guided. Left to their own, things can go rather… messy. Don't you think?"
Mary blinked, unsure what to say.
Protected?
Guided?
She felt like a doll someone had placed on a shelf.
Is this really what the rest of my life will sound like?
Thomas was still talking. "My mother says I'll make an excellent statesman. I'm not easily swayed. I know what's right and how to lead others there. In fact—"
"Are we discussing greatness?" came a voice—smooth as velvet and sharper than champagne.
Both of them turned.
Isabelle Hart stood a few paces away, a playful smile on her lips, holding a glass of red wine. How long had she been standing there?
"Miss Hart," Thomas said flatly, clearly disapproving. "We were having a private conversation."
"Oh, I could tell," Isabelle said with a wink toward Mary. "It looked fascinating. I simply couldn't resist."
Mary looked down quickly, biting her bottom lip to suppress the smile rising.
Thomas narrowed his eyes. "I was just explaining the value of structure and tradition."
"Mmm," Isabelle sipped her wine. "And here I was thinking people flourish when they're allowed to break the mold. Or even, heaven forbid, choose their own path."
"Structure brings discipline," he replied stiffly. "Freedom breeds chaos."
"Freedom breeds life," Isabelle corrected gently. "Real art, real music, real living—it's messy, yes, but honest. I think I'd take a little chaos over a life of tidy rules and empty perfection."
Mary glanced up at Isabelle. Her chest ached with unspoken agreement.
But she said nothing.
She couldn't.
Thomas laughed humorlessly. "I suppose that's why some end up in smoky clubs singing to drunken men."
"I'd rather sing with soul," Isabelle said, her eyes never leaving his, "than speak without one."
The silence that followed was thick.
Mary's heart was racing again—only this time, from admiration.
Thomas turned to her. "Surely you agree, Mary. There's merit in structure, in legacy?"
Mary hesitated. Her lips parted.
But the truth—a wild, beautiful truth—sat on the tip of her tongue like a spark waiting to ignite.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to say I like her words more than yours. She wanted—
"Mary?" he prompted.
She swallowed. "I… I think there's more than one way to live," she said softly.
Isabelle's smile deepened, but she said nothing else.
Thomas exhaled sharply. "Perhaps. But some ways last, and others fade."
He straightened, clearly done with the conversation. "If you'll excuse me, I must greet your father again, Mary."
He turned and walked away, leaving the two women in the glow of the garden lights.
The silence returned—but it was lighter now.
Warmer.
Mary finally looked at Isabelle. "You didn't have to do that."
"I didn't do anything," Isabelle said, swirling her glass. "I just said what I believe."
"You said it very boldly."
"I tend to do that," Isabelle replied. "It scares half the room. But you… you looked like you wanted to say the same."
Mary's breath caught. "Maybe I did."
They stood there alone, yet surrounded by people who would never understand this moment.
"Come," Isabelle said softly, nodding toward the willow path. "Walk with me?"
Mary hesitated.
Then she nodded.
And for the first time that day, she didn't feel like a puppet on strings—but a girl stepping into her own story.